Bail of an Old Knight (2)

We stood in a crooked circle around Isack—twenty-six of us. The last to join the ring was Damian, on my right. Unlike the rest of us, the other twenty-five, he'd never been through the Commander's pressure test. Not because of favoritism… but because, in Isack's own words, "it wasn't necessary."

"It's technically the fourth day already... When are you going to teach me more magic?" I whispered discreetly, wiping the sweat from my neck.

"It was supposed to call you today," Damian replied with a sigh. "But even I didn't expect Isack to use this as an excuse to dodge punishment."

He shook his head. "Can't believe I went through the trouble of hiding him inside the Order's headquarters..."

'Ah. So that was it.' The pieces clicked into place. Now everything made sense. Sir Isack didn't avoid punishment. He slipped through the cracks of the fortress. After more than thirty years as a commander, he knew every inch of the structure—every secret passage, every hidden basement, every door that should've been locked but wasn't. Trying to corner him was like trying to trap a fish with a net full of holes.

"Takes you all an eternity to form a line, but the moment there's a skirt involved, you scatter like rats in a cornfield!" Isack mocked, arms crossed.

"But I'm a girl..." one of the young women in the group pointed out, a hint of indignation in her voice.

Isack just raised an eyebrow.

"Silence. I didn't give you permission to speak. But since I'm in a good mood... I'll spare your tongue."

He flashed a smile—the kind that made it very clear: this wasn't good humor. It was restrained sadism.

"And who said girls don't chase after girls?" he added with a wink that no one trusted. "But that's beside the point. Follow me."

We marched across the field toward the farthest section of the Southern Training Grounds, near one of the secondary walls. A place where the shadow of the towers fell like a coarse blanket.

The ground was packed dirt, scattered with stones and the scars of long-past battles still etched into the soil.

Isack stopped at the center. We took our places around him.

"Alright. As you know, I've been tasked not only with pushing you to your physical limits..." his voice dropped into something deeper, steadier, "...but also with teaching you the basics of close combat—with and without weapons."

Some members of the group, especially those whose eyes lit up at the thought of hurling fireballs, exchanged puzzled looks. They were the aspiring mages.

Isack noticed.

"If you think this has nothing to do with you..." he paused, his gaze drifting from one face to the next, "then you're even dumber than you look."

He took a deep breath, clasped his hands behind his back, and started walking slowly in circles, each step firm and deliberate.

"A true hunter must always be ready. We don't get to choose the conditions of a fight. Sometimes, we go hours without food, without water, without rest. And when the time comes, there's no mana. No staff. Only fists. Only teeth."

He stopped in front of a scrawny boy—clearly one of the magic enthusiasts, judging by the wrinkled robe and the wide eyes that didn't fit his frame—and tapped him lightly on the chest, like knocking on a brittle door.

"If you're lucky, you'll have a weapon." He stepped forward twice, his boots hitting the ground hard. "If you're unlucky, you'll have your arms."

He spun around suddenly, pinning the group with a piercing stare. "And if luck's truly abandoned you..." he raised a finger, pointing like he was delivering a sentence, "...you'll have nothing but your fear."

Silence dropped like a stone. The kind of silence that's not just heard but felt—on your shoulders, in your spine. The dust danced in lazy spirals, as if unsure whether it should stay or scatter. 

He was right. The enemy won't wait for you to stretch. They won't offer you a sandwich before they slide a blade into your throat.

In the distance, the moon had begun its retreat, dimming slowly like a candle being gently blown out. The light turned amber, and the wall cast long shadows across the field.

Isack returned to the center, rolling his neck with an audible crack and smoothing his shoulders like a man preparing for a long, brutal performance.

"First things first—unarmed combat," he said with the ease of someone offering thin soup to a crowd that had hoped for roast beef.

He assumed a solid stance: feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, arms raised in front of him—low center of gravity, but mobile.

"This here…" he gestured to himself with a short nod of the chin, "…is the base form I'll be teaching. It's not graceful. It's not the most efficient. But it's enough to keep you from dying like idiots."

He cracked half a smile—the kind someone wears when they've seen that kind of death up close.

Then he began the demonstration: straight strikes, circular palm blows, wrist twists, elbow jabs, kicks, forearm blocks, and leg-based dodges and feints. No frills, no flair—just what worked. It was direct, practical… ugly, if it had to be.

Now and then, he pulled one of us forward to serve as a demo partner. Bart tripped over a combo and landed flat on his backside.

Beatriz blocked a strike so cleanly that Isack muttered, "not bad"—which, coming from him, was practically a bard's ballad of praise.

Oswin scowled furiously as Isack flipped him to the ground twice in a row.

"See that?" he said, yanking the trainees to their feet with one hand. "If your hit fails, you fall. If your hit lands, they fall. If neither falls… someone screwed up."

After nearly half an hour of dusty, sweaty practice, he snapped his fingers.

"Now let's see if you've actually been paying attention."

He began pairing us off at random. Lewis got António, who muttered unhappily about fighting someone taller.

I was matched with Beatriz—which made me sweat more, though not because of the blows, but because of her cold stare and the strange conversation we'd had a few days back.

"We'll begin with basic sparring."

"No trying to kill each other—yet. Just the techniques I showed. Switch partners every five minutes."

He moved through the pairs, eyes sharp.

"Slow. Precise. This isn't hero time. It's time to understand how your body moves... and how the other person's tries to ruin your movement."

With the toe of his boot, he drew circles on the dirt for each pair—makeshift arenas.

"Remember: the secret to a fight isn't just strength. Or speed. It's attention. Eyes never leave the opponent. Ever. Distraction kills."

I took a deep breath. Got into position. Beatriz stepped into her circle. The tension in the air was like static before a storm.

Then… Isack's aura descended upon us.

Not like a thunderclap—more like a sudden drop in air pressure. Invisible, but heavy. It settled on our backs, ankles, necks. It didn't crush—it resisted. Lifting your arms became harder. Twisting your hips, slower. Even breathing took more concentration.

My knees felt like they'd been dipped in lead. I saw Lewis move as if wading through syrup.

'Doubt the man all you want, but not his methods…' I thought, trying to maintain my stance with dignity. 'This pressure... it slows us down just enough to feel every part of the body clearly.' Every joint. Every muscle. Every flaw.

It was brilliant. His aura pushed our body awareness to the edge.

Isack crossed his arms, a satisfied smile slowly spreading, as if this—this right here—was the moment he'd been waiting for. 

"Now… begin."

And we did.

I settled into one of the forms he had shown us: firm, guarded, built for tight counters at close range. Beatriz, on the other hand, chose a looser stance—more open, more dynamic. The kind favored by someone who liked controlling the space around them.

She moved first. 

We were already close—just two steps and she was within striking distance, within the reach of my eyes… and of my mistakes.

'Even under this pressure?' I thought, watching how fluidly she moved, as if Isack's aura had no hold on her at all.

But I corrected myself.

'No... he must've calibrated the weight of the aura to match each person's build. To sharpen body awareness, not just to crush us.'

I drew a deep breath and focused. The pressure slowed everything down—but not in a dull way. It was like moving through dense water, where every action had to carry more intention than speed.

'Never take your eyes off your opponent.' Isack's words echoed in my skull like a chisel tapping bone.

Beatriz moved—and I followed. I watched her closely, picking up the little tells: the tension gathering in her shoulders, the subtle shift in her hips, the rise of a clenched fist. She was going to strike.

But I knew her. I'd seen her in enough fights to understand her rhythm. She always tested first. 

Simple, direct attacks—not to wound, but to gauge reaction. And under Isack's restrictions, she wasn't about to change.

I stepped forward, grounded my stance, and dropped my forearm in time to deflect her hit. The impact was dull, like two tree trunks colliding underwater.

Using that same movement, I pulled back and threw a counter—a straight punch aimed at her face, which looked briefly exposed.

Briefly. 

A breath later, she twisted her body with surprising grace. She dipped low, folding her spine like she was breaking herself in half—and my fist brushed so close past her that I could feel her hair graze my fingers.

That's when I saw the real strike. Her other arm, the one held back until now, darted out like a viper and crashed into the side of my head with a clean, dry hook.

The world didn't spin. But it shuddered.

I stumbled sideways, just barely keeping myself from tumbling out of the ring Isack had scratched into the dirt. 

Beatriz had already backed off, ready for the next move. Something was off—but I understood. She knew this was training. She wasn't trying to win.

Her face stayed neutral, but her eyes sparked with that familiar fire: "Try again."

I touched the side of my head. No damage. But my pride felt like it had been pelted with rocks. I felt like a child. Which, to be fair, I sort of was—but still.

'First hit, first mistake... fair enough.'

I kept my guard up. The dull throb served as a useful reminder: 'Don't fixate on one point. See the whole body.'

And right now, Beatriz was the whole body.

 ✦ ✦ ✦

The hand-to-hand training went on for about two hours, with five-minute breaks between each opponent switch.

The field echoed with the sharp thuds of impacts, muffled grunts, and the endless shuffling of tired feet against dry earth. Dust rose in scattered spirals, mingling with sweat and the heavy air of collective effort. It was organized chaos. And at the center of it, like a war-conductor, stood Isack.

The old man watched it all with the eyes of a hawk. How he managed to track so many duels at once was beyond comprehension—but he did.

And when mistakes happened, he was there:

"Elbow's too high."

"You turned your hips before your base."

 "Good dodge—wasted the opening."

When he wasn't critiquing aloud, he'd fling dried twigs with uncanny accuracy. They hurt more in the ego than on the skin. The man had cursed aim.

As for my first match with Beatriz—if I can even call it a match—it was a complete loss.

I didn't land a single strike. But at least… I defended myself.

I read most of her moves, tried to counter with what I'd just learned, and kept my form intact. It wasn't a win—but I wasn't just a punching bag either. It was… the bare minimum.

The fights that followed fell into a familiar pattern: Against those on my level—or slightly below—I could hold my own. Sometimes, I even controlled the pace.

But against the stronger ones—fighters like Beatriz or, Damian surprinsingly—it felt like swimming upstream. Every move demanded twice the effort, and every mistake was punished with surgical precision. Sometimes, my strikes came close, just grazing flesh… but in a real fight, you don't bet on luck.

There were twelve matches in total. Some opponents reappeared—the pairings were random, and familiar faces returned with either sly grins or weary eyes. But none of those fights compared to the last.

In the final round, while most of us could barely stay upright, limbs limp and trembling like soaked cloth, I was paired with a boy who had stood tall through the full weight of the Commander's pressure.

He had naturally reddish skin—like sun-dried clay. Not the kind that came from sunburns or bronzing, but something innate. His face was sprinkled with freckles, but they didn't soften his appearance—instead, they sharpened the contrast against his eyes. Deep, dark eyes. Watchful. Predatory.

He wasn't tall or broad. His limbs were slim, but not weak—taut, like drawn bowstrings. He moved with ease, the kind that comes from long practice. No stumbles. No hesitation. No tremors of fatigue. No gasping breaths. He looked… fresh. As if training had only just begun for him.

But there was something else.

He wasn't Dracknum. That much was obvious.

To others, maybe it would've seemed like just a matter of looks. But for us—for those born into Dracknum—it went deeper. Instinct, almost. Even the faintest descendant, someone whose blood had thinned over generations, still bore subtle marks. A flicker in the eyes. A temperamental quirk. Something ancestral, impossible to name but unmistakable. A thread that tied us together.

And he had none of it.

No spark.

No connection.

Nothing.

Yet there he stood—among us.

While others dragged their heels, planting steps like they were trudging through mud, he floated. Not fast, not flashy—just weightless. Natural.

And now… he was my opponent.

'Perfect. Just the opponent I wanted for the final match,' I sighed inwardly. My stamina was decent, and my body recovered from fatigue faster than most, but that didn't mean I didn't get tired. I was under sustained tension—mind and muscle worn thin. Fatigue had crept in, and every movement came slower, heavier… already dulled by the Commander's pressure.

He stepped in front of me with disquieting calm, eyes studying me like he was gauging the depth of a still lake before diving in.

"Drent." His voice was dry. Direct. The tone was flat, but carried weight—not from his throat, but from something deeper. It wasn't arrogance, or challenge. Just… indifference.

His stance was flawless. Feet spaced just right. Arms loose but alert. Shoulders squared, free of stiffness.

"Alexander," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. But the way he looked at me—it made me feel… transparent.

It wasn't uncommon for commoners or the offspring of lesser nobility to present themselves for the Hunter's Judgment. It was often their one shot at truly becoming part of Dracknum—being recognized, maybe even adopted into a noble branch, or accepted into elite corps, into the internal orders.

Dracknum was fiercely protective of its own—but above all, it was fair. And fairness, to us, meant one thing: if you could rise above, you earned your place. 

No matter your origin—so long as you could prove where you were meant to go. Blood answers to blood. And if someone was willing to spill blood for us… why turn them away?

Isack's voice tore through the air like a whip:

"Begin!"