Chapter 22: Victories

With a blur of motion, his opponent struck. A sudden flurry of precise, blisteringly fast attacks forced Ivaar into a full defensive stance. The speed and fluidity of the strikes caught him off guard. For a moment, he struggled to regain control, pushed to his limits by the sheer intensity of the assault.

Ivaar barely dodged a spinning back kick aimed at his ribs and retaliated with a short elbow jab, which the opponent blocked expertly. The two exchanged a rapid series of blows—fists, knees, and parries—each testing the other's limits. The match was no longer a formality. It was a real battle.

From the sideline, Mickael leaned forward, eyes locked on every movement. He clenched his fists in growing tension. He had studied aura theory endlessly, but watching it unfold in such a pure, visceral form made something click. A nuance in aura flow — how Ivaar briefly centered energy in his calves before dodging — sparked an idea Mickael hadn't understood in training.

Inside the ring, the opponent suddenly broke the rhythm and slipped past Ivaar's guard, landing a punishing elbow to his shoulder. Pain exploded down Ivaar's arm, and his vision blurred. His knees wavered for a second. But he gritted his teeth, steadied his stance, and drew from that pain, channeling it into focus. The training, the cold water, the burns — it had all led to this.

He stepped forward, aura tightening inside his core, and resumed the fight. 

With each step, Ivaar's movements became more fluid, more precise. He stopped overthinking and let instinct take over, flowing naturally from one motion to the next. His strikes were sharper, his footwork lighter. What had begun as a reaction became rhythm — an expression of every lesson ingrained in his body.

His opponent, caught off guard, struggled to keep up. The tide had shifted. Ivaar slipped past his defenses with ease, delivering blows that came from unexpected angles, ducking under counters, sidestepping grabs. The boy who had seemed on the verge of collapse was now in complete control.

His opponent faltered, momentarily overwhelmed. He had thought Ivaar was spent — running on fumes, barely able to stand. But he had misjudged him. Ivaar wasn't just holding on — he was evolving, improving right before his eyes.

And so the match ended. Too exhausted to continue, Ivaar's opponent collapsed under a final barrage of strikes. The crowd erupted as the referee declared Ivaar the winner.

Mickael's match was scheduled just minutes later. He stood quietly as he read the board — his opponent was nineteen years old. It was the man's first fight, and yet, something about it felt off.

"He must be prepared," Mickael muttered. "He's older than most in this category, and yet he hasn't had a single match."

Nargomedov, watching from a distance, narrowed his eyes. "Be careful."

Twenty minutes later, the result was clear: Mickael had lost. The fight was swift and decisive. As he had feared, his opponent possessed both superior technique and years of refined experience. Mickael's aura control, while solid, lacked the composure and adaptability of a seasoned fighter. He never found an opening. Every move he tried was anticipated, countered, or punished.

Back on the bench, drenched in sweat and frustration, Mickael stared at the arena floor.

"I couldn't even push him," he murmured.

"You're not supposed to win every fight," Nargomedov said, appearing behind him. "You're supposed to learn from each one. And now, you've got plenty to learn. Don't waste it."

He let the words settle before continuing, his tone more reflective.

"I expect you both picked up more than bruises in these fights. Don't chase the flashiest techniques — focus on the most lethal ones. No... wait, that's not quite right. Focus on the fundamentals — yes, the fundamentals! Mastery of the basics will take you further than any shiny gimmick or fancy flair. And as for you, Ivaar... if you were even half-awake in there, you might've sensed it — the pull of your talents. The path ahead will open naturally when the time is right. Until then... keep walking. Preferably forward."

Later that evening, the two boys sat outside the inn, the sounds of the city fading behind them as the sky deepened into dusk. A gentle breeze stirred the dust at their feet, and the scent of grilled food drifted from nearby stalls.

Ivaar leaned back against the wall, arms crossed behind his head, a proud grin stuck to his face. "Still can't believe I won. That last combo I pulled off? I didn't even know I had that in me."

Mickael nodded, his expression calm but thoughtful. "You were sharp. Efficient. Your control was more refined than in any of our sparring matches."

Ivaar tilted his head. "Thanks. But... if I'd been the one to face your opponent... I honestly don't know what I could've done. That guy read every one of your moves like he'd seen the script."

Mickael gave a soft chuckle. "Yeah, he was experienced — more than he let on. But that's the point of all this, isn't it? Losing like that teaches you where your gaps are. I didn't feel frustrated. Just... clear."

"Clear?" Ivaar asked, raising a brow.

"Yeah. Like now I know what I don't know. That's valuable. And next time, I won't be surprised like today."

Ivaar nodded slowly. "You always were better at staying cool."

Mickael glanced at him. "And you always rise in the middle of the storm. We've both got something. Let's make sure we keep sharpening it."

They sat in silence a while longer, two silhouettes under the growing stars, the fire of competition still burning — quietly, but steadily — in both their chests.

Suddenly, Nargomedov's voice rang out from behind them, half-amused, half-scolding. "Hey! Don't forget to pay for the meal, young'un!"

Ivaar groaned and stood up, digging into his pocket. "He's gonna make us train twice as hard tomorrow for this, isn't he?"

"Without a doubt," Mickael replied with a tired grin.