Chapter Thirty-Five: The Call to Duel

The midday sun beat down on Verdant Crest Academy, its heat shimmering off the stone paths and training fields, where Roderic Vane stood with Barnaby Quill and Theobald Finch—his red novice robe swaying faintly as he shifted his weight, boots scuffing the worn stone, The Ember Codex tucked snug under his arm. The academy buzzed with tension—students still reeling from Roderic's bold defiance of Kael Draven, their voices a low murmur threading through the air. Novices in patched red robes shuffled nervously through basic forms, staffs clacking awkwardly; adepts in green tunics honed blades with half-hearted swipes, their movements sluggish from exhaustion; seniors in silver-blue robes barked orders, voices hoarse but sharp, their authority frayed after the masked attack's toll. Roderic's grin lingered—nonchalant but edged—his stance relaxed despite the whispers swirling around him, Kael's retreat a crack in the senior's reign that fueled every tongue.

A horn blared—shrill and piercing—cutting through the chatter like a blade through cloth, its echo bouncing off the stone arches and rolling across the fields with a force that jolted every student upright. Novices dropped staffs mid-swing, wood clattering on stone; adepts froze, blades half-raised; seniors spun, orders dying mid-shout as the sound reverberated, a summons that yanked every head toward the central dais—a broad slab of polished white jade thrust up from the ground, its edges carved with intricate lotus runes, flanked by towering banners snapping in the breeze, crimson silk emblazoned with the academy's crescent moon sigil fluttering like war flags. Roderic's grin faded—his boots scuffing as he turned, Barnaby and Theobald shifting beside him, sandals scraping stone in unison.

"Gather—NOW!" a voice roared—deep, resonant, booming like a landslide crashing through a canyon—Elder Torin stepping onto the dais, his iron-gray robe stretched taut over his broad, towering frame, its hem brushing the jade with a faint rustle. His grizzled beard fluttered as he planted his feet wide, hands clasped behind his back, his presence a thunderclap that stilled the air—every student feeling the weight of his authority, a Core Formation peak elder whose earth-shaking prowess had anchored the academy's defense against the masked intruders. The crowd surged—novices tripping over robes in their haste, adepts jogging with sheathed blades thumping thighs, seniors striding with measured steps—hundreds converging on the dais, boots and sandals thudding a chaotic rhythm, dust swirling in thick clouds as they pressed close, a sea of red, green, and silver-blue swelling around Roderic, Barnaby, and Theobald near the front.

Torin raised a fist—the air snapped taut—silence falling like a hammer as students stilled, breaths held, eyes locked on him. "Students of Verdant Crest!" he bellowed—voice rolling over the throng, gravelly and commanding—each word a boulder crashing stone. "Hear me—times have turned dark! The attack—those masked cowards—spilled our blood, took our kin! We stand, unbroken—but stronger we must rise! The Five Peaks Tournament approaches—every two years, the five great academies clash—Verdant Crest, Iron Fang, Jade Serpent, Crimson Tide, Frost Hollow! It's a proving ground—honor, might, glory—ours to seize or squander!"

The crowd stirred—whispers rippling—novices clutching robes with trembling fingers, adepts shifting weight with eager grunts, seniors standing taller, chins lifting with pride—Torin's words a spark igniting their weary spirits, the tournament a legend carved into the academy's bones, a clash that forged names into banners and tales into stone. Roderic straightened—The Ember Codex pressing into his side—his relic humming faintly, a secret pulse as Torin's voice thundered on.

"Two months from now—two years since our last disgrace!" Torin barked—fist slamming his chest with a thud that echoed—voice a growl shaking the dais. "Iron Fang stole the crest—Frost Hollow mocked our frost—Crimson Tide laughed at our fire! We faltered—weak, unprepared, shamed! No more—never again! We duel—here, starting in three days—to forge our steel! The best in each element—fire, wind, water, earth, ice—the best in each stage—Initiate, Middle, Core, beyond! You'll fight—prove your mettle—stand tall for Verdant Crest against the realm's fiercest bastards!"

Gasps broke—murmurs swelling—novices stammering in awe, adepts muttering bets under their breath, seniors eyeing each other with sharpened glances—Torin's hand slashed through the air, silencing them, his voice booming like a war drum. "Listen sharp—details matter! Duels kick off in three days—fields cleared by dawn, rings marked by dusk—five elements, five stages! Initiates—Early, Middle, Late—Core Formation—Early, Middle—each a bracket! Elders judge—me, Maris Veyle, Gavric Dorn, the full council—winners rise, losers crawl! No deaths—maiming's your own damn fault—but expect blood, bruises, broken bones—glory's not cheap!"

Roderic's grin twitched—Chance—big damn chance, he thought—relic's hum a steady thrum, his Middle Initiate strength a spark he'd stoke, dual cultivation rites (Joining Flame, Void Embrace) flashing in his mind—secret techniques to leap ranks if he dared. Barnaby leaned in—voice a jokey hiss cutting through the crowd's buzz. "You're in—fire's your game! Middle Initiate—gonna burn 'em!"

Theobald snorted—voice dry as cracked stone—leaning closer. "Burn 'em? Kael's Core—you're nuts to step up! He'll shred you for fun!"

"Nuts wins," Roderic shot back—voice low, steady—his relic's pulse a whisper, Soul Weave a vivid lure—full union, power to rival Core—his path a gamble he'd play.

Torin's voice rolled on—booming, relentless—fists clenching as dust fell from his robe. "Elements—five pillars! Fire—blaze through, leave ash! Wind—slash fast, cut deep! Water—bend, drown, overwhelm! Earth—stand firm, break bones! Ice—pierce, freeze, shatter! Prove yours—best in each! Stages—five tiers! Initiates—Early, Middle, Late—spar your peers, climb your rank! Core Formation—Early, Middle—fight your equals, prove your steel! Beyond—elders watch, rare few rise! Victors—five elements, five stages—carry our banners to the Peaks!"

The crowd buzzed louder—novices whispering tactics, adepts flexing fists—Torin's voice sharpened, a forge hammer striking hot iron. "Tournament's a beast—five academies, five days—rings of stone, steel, void—elements clash, stages war! Day one—elements face off—fire burns wind, water douses earth—winners climb! Day two—stages duel—Initiates scrap, Core crushes—losers fall! Day three—mixed bouts—elements and stages tangle—chaos reigns! Day four—champions rise—best of each face all! Day five—grand clash—five academies, one crest! Win—glory's yours, etched in jade—lose, we're dust, forgotten!"

Roderic's fingers tightened on The Ember Codex—Two months—stronger, faster, he thought—relic humming, Kael's threat a spark to outburn, other shards a whisper he'd chase. A novice beside him—red robe patched—stammered, voice trembling. "Five Peaks? Iron Fang's brutes—Jade Serpent's tricks—terrifying!"

An adept—green tunic frayed—grunted nearby, voice low. "Frost Hollow's ice—snapped us last time. Gotta win—pride's on it!"

Torin's voice thundered—fists pounding air—dust swirling as he leaned forward. "Rules—straight and hard! Duels—rings, one-on-one—fists, blades, techniques—elders call it! No poisons, no hidden shit—pure skill, pure guts! Winners rise—best fire Initiate, best wind Core—twenty-five banners fly! Three days—train now, bleed here, or break there! Iron Fang's got brutes—big, dumb, smashers—Jade Serpent's sly—sneaky bastards—Frost Hollow's ice—cold killers—Crimson Tide's fire—wild as hell! We crush them—or they crush us!"

Barnaby laughed—voice cutting through—jokey but sharp. "Kael's in—Core wind—you're Middle fire—gonna dodge him?"

"No dodging," Roderic said—voice steady—grinning faint. "He comes—I'll meet him. Tournament's mine—watch."

Theobald snorted—voice dry—leaning in. "Yours? Kael's got rank—crowd—gang! You're bold—bold gets smashed!"

"Bold gets banners," Roderic shot back—voice low—relic humming, Veil of Shadows burning: rites, power, vengeance. "I'll climb—higher than him."

Students muttered—fear threading awe—Torin's voice roared final, fists slamming stone, cracks spidering under his knuckles. "Prepare—duel's your forge! Three days—rings ready, elders watching! Best stand tall—best fight smart—or crawl back bleeding! Tournament's two months—train like hell—bleed now, win there! Iron Fang's waiting—Frost Hollow's sneering—we take the crest—or we're nothing! Dismissed!"

Roderic waved his friends off—boots thudding steady—his path winding back to his dorm through the academy's stone corridors, the air thick with dust and the faint clang of blades from distant fields.

 Two months—stronger, faster, he thought—his Middle Initiate strength a spark he'd stoke, Kael's threats a spur to outburn, the tournament. He shrugged off his robe—its crimson fabric pooling on the floor—stretching his lean frame, muscles taut from days of strain, sweat and dust clinging to his skin from the fields and Maris's session. He grabbed a damp cloth from a basin—water sloshing faintly—scrubbing his chest and arms, cool droplets trickling down as he cleaned off the grime.

He dropped to the pallet—straw rustling under his weight—leaning back against the wall, legs stretching out, boots still on, the cool stone a relief against his bare back. The air hung still—academy murmurs muffled beyond the door—but a stir rippled through him, a heat coiling low in his gut, a pulsing urge that tightened his breath. Again—damn it, he thought—his fingers flexing—the relic's hum flaring sharper, a whisper threading his core, its dual cultivation call a siren's lure he knew too well. Breakthrough—next level, he realized—Middle Initiate peak teetering—Lira's spark had pushed him here, but its edge dulled, the rites demanding fresh fuel.

He sat up—boots scuffing—hands rubbing his thighs as he contemplated, the relic's history vivid: Joining Flame—hands locked, qi blazing through flesh; Void Embrace—breath and touch igniting chaos; Soul Weave—full union surging to Nascent Soul. Slow—too slow, he thought—Maris's drills, The Ember Codex—academy paths lagged, his qi craving more, the tournament looming, Kael's gang a blade at his throat. New beauty—new surge, he mused—his grin twitching—cultivation no jest, the relic's hum a chant urging him to act, its taboo power a flame he'd wield in secret.

"Who, though?" he muttered—voice low, rough—leaning forward, elbows on knees, fingers threading as he weighed options, the academy a garden of faces flashing through his mind. Cressida—silver-blue robe swaying, her icy edge a challenge—tempted him, her strength a match, her frost a counterpoint to his fire, but Kael's sniffing—too messy, he dismissed—her rank and his clash with Kael a tangle he'd sidestep for now. Lira—tan skin flushed, chestnut curls wild—had sparked his rise, her warmth a memory that stirred him still, but Plateaued—need fresh, he reasoned—her qi surged, his stalled, the relic demanding new flesh.

He paced—boots thudding soft—straw crunching as he circled, walls pressing close, his mind racing. A novice—red-robed, petite, wide-eyed—blushed at his wink today, her scroll fumbling; an adept—green-tunic, tall, auburn braid—flushed mid-drill, blade dipping; a senior—silver-blue, curvy—turned away, cheeks pink. Any—damn near any, he thought—his grin flaring—lust a pulse he'd channel, the relic's rites a map to Late Initiate, Core looming if he dared. Tomorrow—hit on who I like, he decided—boots halting—cultivation a blaze he'd stoke, beauty his fuel, Kael's threats a spark he'd outshine.

He dropped back—straw rustling—stretching out, boots dangling off the edge, hands behind his head, the relic's hum a steady thrum as dusk crept in, shadows lengthening through the slit window. Late—need it, he thought—his urges a fire, vengeance and power burning—Girls aplenty—pick one, break through. Sleep tugged—his body sinking—but his mind blazed, the tournament a crucible, his path a secret flame to forge.