Chapter 12: Fight

The evening air was crisp and quiet as Sylas walked back to his modest apartment. The streets of the city, illuminated by the soft glow of mana-powered lanterns, seemed peaceful. Yet, Sylas had long learned that tranquility often masked malice. He felt it before he saw it—the distinct, almost suffocating presence of white mana cores in the vicinity.

Ill intent.

He stopped mid-step, his hand casually brushing the hilt of his sword hidden beneath his brown coat. From the shadows, five figures emerged, their faces obscured by sleek, featureless white masks. Their movements were precise, practiced, and without hesitation. Three women, two men. Sylas's sharp gaze scanned their postures, noting the subtle shifts in weight, the twitch of fingers readying for action. They were trained fighters—assassins, perhaps.

One of the women lunged without warning, her blade slicing through the air toward his throat. Sylas sidestepped with ease, his movements as fluid as water. He countered with a swift kick to her gut, the impact sending her skidding across the pavement. She crumpled to the ground but quickly rose, her stance faltering for only a moment before she steadied herself.

"Tough one," Sylas muttered under his breath, his expression unreadable.

One of the men stepped forward, a low hum filling the air as he activated something. The ground trembled beneath Sylas's feet as a massive robotic armor began to materialize around the man. The suit was gargantuan, towering over nearby buildings, its metallic frame gleaming under the streetlights. The sheer size and power radiating from it made the air feel heavy.

Sylas sighed, his face as stoic as ever, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his mind. "This is… excessive."

The robot's arm cannon whirred to life, the barrel glowing ominously as it charged. Sylas didn't wait. He raised his hand, his fingers crackling with fiery energy. A blazing inferno erupted from his palm, surging forward with destructive force. The firestorm roared like an unchained beast, the heat distorting the air around it.

The blast collided with the robotic armor, engulfing it entirely. But as the flames dissipated, the behemoth stood unscathed, its surface barely scorched. Sylas's eyes narrowed as he calculated its durability. Even something as catastrophic as this world's nuclear weaponry—devices he had learned about but never seen—would likely fail to destroy it. The armor was a fortress, impervious to raw strength.

"Durability's absurd," Sylas muttered, flexing his fingers as he shifted his strategy. "But size like that has its drawbacks."

The robot moved, its massive limbs sluggish and deliberate. Its power was immense, but speed was its weakness. Sylas darted forward, his movements blurring as he closed the distance between him and one of the women. She barely had time to react before he struck, a precise blow to her side that left her staggering.

From her vantage point, she caught a glimpse of his speed, her mind reeling. To her, Sylas wasn't merely fast—he was approaching speeds that seemed almost impossible. Is he nearing the speed of light? she wondered, her fear growing as he moved faster than her eyes could follow.

Sylas kept moving, weaving through the battlefield with a calculated grace. He didn't bother wasting more mana on the robot; it wasn't worth the effort. The remaining four opponents scrambled to corner him, their attacks coordinated but ultimately futile.

"Too slow," Sylas muttered as he evaded another strike, his focus shifting to the rapidly narrowing paths of escape.

The robotic armor's massive arm slammed into the ground, the impact shaking the entire street and shattering nearby windows. Sylas used the chaos to his advantage, slipping past the group before they could react. As he sprinted away, he couldn't resist one final act of defiance.

He spat—a quick, disdainful gesture that landed on one of the masked figures as he vanished into the shadows.

"Coward!" one of them shouted after him, but Sylas was already gone, his footsteps fading into the distance.

For all their strength, they were predictable. Predictability was their greatest weakness, and Sylas had exploited it perfectly. He didn't stay to fight for pride or honor—only fools did that. No, this was a battle he didn't need to win. Survival was a victory in itself, and Sylas was nothing if not pragmatic.

As he disappeared into the city, his mind raced, already analyzing the encounter. He didn't know who had sent them or why, but he would find out. He always did.

The quiet hum of the early morning campus greeted me as I stepped into the classroom, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Class 3-A was already gathered, their chatter low and tired. They were slowly adjusting to my grueling routines, but the fatigue still showed in their eyes. I leaned against the desk, taking a long sip of coffee before I finally addressed them.

"Fifty laps today," I said simply, my tone firm but calm. A ripple of groans spread through the room, though none dared outright complain anymore. My methods were unconventional, maybe even cruel by some standards, but this was the only way to ensure their progress. They wouldn't see it now, but they would one day.

"And after you're done running," I continued, my eyes scanning the room, "you'll be fighting me. All of you, one by one."

The murmurs turned into louder protests. Callan, seated in the back as always, raised a hand lazily. "Wait, Professor Corvus," he started, his voice carrying that distinct mix of confidence and irritation. "You're seriously going to fight all of us? Isn't that overkill?"

I looked at him, expressionless. "Overkill for you, maybe," I replied. "But for me, it's practice."

That shut him up.

The sun was high in the sky by the time they finished their laps, sweat dripping from every face. Their exhaustion was palpable, but I offered no reprieve. "Callan," I said, pointing to him. "You're up first."

He stood, still catching his breath but eager nonetheless. Callan had always been the strongest of the bunch, physically at least. A walking tank, as I sometimes thought of him—strong enough to lift unimaginable weights, durable enough to take punishment most couldn't dream of enduring. But strength alone wasn't enough. Not in my class.

We stepped into the training grounds, the rest of the students forming a loose circle around us. Callan rolled his shoulders, his confidence evident in the slight smirk on his face. I pulled my sword from its scabbard, the familiar weight in my hand both comforting and sharp.

"You ready, Professor?" Callan asked, cracking his knuckles.

I nodded. "Whenever you are."

He charged immediately, his movements less refined but overwhelmingly powerful. Callan relied on brute force, and it showed. I dodged to the side as his fist came crashing down, leaving a small crater in the ground where I had just been standing.

"You're strong," I said, stepping back and twirling my blade. "But you're slow. Predictable."

Callan growled, launching himself at me again. This time, I let him get closer, waiting until the last possible moment before stepping aside and slashing downward. The flat of my blade struck his shoulder, and though he barely flinched, the precision of the blow threw off his balance.

"Strength without control is wasted potential," I said, circling him.

Callan gritted his teeth and threw a wild punch. I caught his wrist, twisting it slightly before releasing and kicking him back. He stumbled but didn't fall, his durability on full display.

"You think you can win just by being stronger than everyone else?" I asked, my voice calm but cutting. "Strength is fleeting. It means nothing if you can't outthink your opponent."

Callan lunged again, this time aiming low, attempting to grab my legs and throw me. I leapt into the air, landing gracefully behind him and striking the back of his knee with the hilt of my sword. He dropped to one knee, momentarily stunned.

"Your problem isn't that you're weak, Callan," I continued, my tone now almost lecturing. "It's that you refuse to use your head. You fight like a bull, charging blindly, hoping sheer force will be enough. Against someone smarter, someone faster—someone like me—that's a death sentence."

Callan roared in frustration, standing and charging again. This time, I didn't evade. I met his fist with my palm, the impact reverberating through my arm. For a moment, his eyes widened in disbelief. He didn't expect me to match his strength head-on.

"See?" I said, pushing him back effortlessly. "Even in your strongest category, you're not the best. Not yet."

The fight continued for a few more minutes, but the outcome was inevitable. Callan threw everything he had at me, but it wasn't enough. His attacks were powerful but sloppy, his movements predictable. I dodged, countered, and struck at will, each blow a calculated lesson.

Finally, I disarmed him—figuratively, as he wasn't using a weapon—and knocked him to the ground. He stayed down, breathing heavily, his pride clearly bruised but not broken.

"Not bad," I said, offering him a hand. He took it reluctantly, and I pulled him to his feet. "You have potential, Callan. But you need to start using your brain if you want to survive in the real world."

He nodded, though his usual bravado was gone.

I turned to the rest of the class, who had watched the fight in silence. "Strength isn't everything," I said, addressing them all. "Neither is speed, or skill, or even intelligence. It's how you use what you have that matters. You need to think, adapt, and overcome. That's the only way to truly win."

I paused, my eyes narrowing slightly as I scanned their faces. "Now," I said, my voice sharp. "Who's next?"

The classroom had fallen into an odd silence after my spar with Callan, his pride bruised but his spirit unbroken. They were all just standing there, waiting, unsure if they should challenge me next. The truth was, none of them were really ready. They'd learned something from Callan's defeat, whether they'd admit it or not. But it was clear none of them wanted to step up right away.

I leaned back against the wall, sipping the last of my coffee, letting the seconds stretch out in silence until the bell rang, signaling the end of our training session. It was lunch break, and the students began filing out of the classroom, the chatter picking up as they scattered toward the cafeteria. I stood there for a moment longer, watching them go, thinking about the lessons they needed to absorb, the things they didn't yet realize they were lacking. Strength was nothing if you didn't understand how to wield it. But before I could finish my thought, I felt her presence.

Livia.

She approached me with her usual air of confidence, her smile sharp and mischievous, as if she already knew what she was about to ask. It wasn't a question, really, more of a request disguised as one.

"Professor Corvus," she began, her voice teasing but carrying an edge. "I think it's time for our fight."

I looked at her, raising an eyebrow. She wanted to spar? I didn't question it. If she wanted to prove something, she'd have to fight for it. I didn't mind.

"Very well," I replied, setting my coffee cup down on the nearby desk. I grabbed a wooden sword from the rack, letting the weight of it settle into my grip. It was light, too light compared to the real thing, but it would do for a demonstration. She would have to rely on more than just raw strength to win.

Livia, ever the showman, summoned her magic with a flourish. In an instant, a thick fog began to form around her, creeping up from the ground in dense layers that obscured the area. I didn't flinch. I didn't need to see her to know where she was. Clairvoyance was something I'd long mastered, and it gave me a view of the battlefield that others couldn't even imagine.

I could feel her presence in the fog, her energy radiating with a sharp intensity. I knew she was preparing an attack, but this wouldn't be the first time I had fought blind. She lunged from the mist, and I could feel her every movement, the direction of her body, the tension in her muscles. I blocked her strike with the wooden sword just in time, hearing the sharp crack of the blow before I countered with a quick throw, sending her flying backward into the nearby stone wall.

She hit hard, but it didn't stop her. She was up on her feet in an instant, shaking off the impact, her eyes blazing with renewed determination. She wasn't just going to back down. Good. She would need that tenacity.

"Impressive," I said, though my voice remained calm. "But that won't be enough."

Livia wasn't the type to take things lightly, and she knew I was stronger. But she didn't hesitate. She adjusted her stance and attacked again, this time more cautiously, her movements sharper and more calculated. She was trying to read me now, trying to find a weak point. I allowed her to get closer, letting her think she was gaining ground. But the truth was, I could read her every move just as easily.

She struck again, and this time, I couldn't avoid it entirely. Her sword connected with mine, and the force pushed me back slightly. But she was quick, relentless. I blocked again, but this time, she used a spell—an illusion, or perhaps a diversion—causing my perception to warp just long enough for her to land a solid blow to my side.

I grunted, surprised by the speed of her maneuver, and for a brief moment, I could feel her triumph. She had me on the ropes. But then I felt it: the unmistakable sting of a blade cutting into my skin.

She had cut me—my finger, to be precise.

It wasn't much, but it was enough for me to respect her more. My regeneration magic kicked in immediately, the wound closing in an instant. But it was a clear reminder that I wasn't invincible. Livia was skilled.

"You're not bad at all," I said, glancing at my regrown finger, watching it pulse back into place. "You've got good instincts."

She smiled, but it wasn't just satisfaction—it was the kind of smile that said she had something more in mind. She wasn't done yet.

The fog thickened again, and she disappeared into it. I felt her again, always just a step behind. She was fast, but I was faster. I moved with precision, every step calculated as I closed the distance between us. She came at me with another spell—this one more forceful, the ground beneath my feet cracking with the energy she unleashed. But it wasn't enough. I sidestepped, using my enhanced speed to avoid the worst of it, though I still felt the heat of the blast.

In the chaos of the battle, the fog swirling around us, it almost felt like a dance. A complex game of cat and mouse. I pushed her harder, knowing she was starting to tire, but she refused to give up. Her determination was something I hadn't seen from many others.

Finally, I saw it—the opening. Just a split second, just enough for me to strike. I darted forward, bringing the wooden sword down with precision. She tried to dodge, but I was already on top of her, and with a swift, controlled motion, I knocked her weapon from her hand.

She fell back, breathless but smiling. She wasn't angry or frustrated; if anything, she looked more alive than before.

"You really are something else," she said, still catching her breath.

I nodded, lowering my sword. "You fought well. But remember, magic and skill are nothing if you can't manage them in the heat of the moment. Your control, your focus—it's all about knowing when to strike and when to retreat."

She smirked at me, rising to her feet. "I'll take that as a lesson, Professor. But next time, I won't hold back so easily."

I raised an eyebrow. "Good. Because neither will I."

With that, the fog began to dissipate, and we both stood in the aftermath of the fight, the tension still hanging in the air. It wasn't a win, but it wasn't a loss either. It was a reminder that strength came in many forms—and sometimes, it wasn't just about physical power. It was about understanding the situation, being one step ahead, and knowing when to adapt.

She was learning. So was I.