Fight Part I

As Rashan crossed the sand, training sword in hand, his eyes scanned the scene with a soldier's instinct.

He looked at the way they stood. How they held themselves.

No one here was a warrior.

Not the two estate guards pinning Jalil upright—arms yanked behind him, knees trembling in the wet sand.

Not the peacock, standing with whip in hand, mid-motion, playing executioner like it was sport.

Not the two noble boys beside him, smirking behind their polished hilts like they'd ever earned a scar.

Not the two guards near the crates—half-armored, weapons untouched, posture lazy.

They played at power. That was all.

The whip snapped.

Crack.

Jalil's body jolted. A long welt bloomed across his back, the skin split raw. Blood ran in rivulets down his ribs.

He didn't scream. His head dipped, teeth clenched, arms trembling in the guards' grip—but he didn't cry out.

Peacock's face twitched. Calm on the outside, but the shine in his eyes told the truth. He didn't know if this was power or something uglier. He didn't care enough to ask.

The noble boys behind him laughed—quiet, pleased, as if Jalil were an animal in a ring.

The two guards by the crates?

They didn't see Cassia coming.

She struck first.

She came low and fast, knife reversed in her grip. A narrow training dagger—iron-edged, slightly flexible, small in her hand but familiar.

She spun to build force, sharp and precise.

The hilt slammed into the first guard's groin.

A dull thunk, solid and final. He exhaled hard and dropped instantly, hands snapping between his legs, face already draining of color.

Down. Out before the fight even started.

The second guard turned, hand halfway to his sword—

Cassia moved to intercept, low and tight.

Meanwhile—

Rashan moved.

He veered toward the two noble boys—the same smirking cowards from last night.

The first—heavier, with a round gut tucked into his armor—turned too late.

Rashan's shoulder slammed into his chest, and his training sword hooked the back of the knees.

Crash.

The boy hit the sand with a jolt that shook the breath from his lungs. Before he could gasp, Rashan dropped his knee into his ribs.

Crack.

The sound was loud and sickening. Several ribs broke. The noble shrieked, legs kicking, hands scrabbling uselessly across the sand.

Every breath from now on would feel like drowning in fire.

Rashan rose and turned.

The second noble fumbled with his sword, eyes wide. He got it half-drawn.

Too slow.

Rashan drove his training blade into the diaphragm—just under the sternum. The strike folded him in half with a wet wheeze.

Rashan grabbed a handful of collar, twisted his shoulders, and snapped the blade across his face with a violent crack.

Teeth and blood flew into the sand.

He dropped like meat on butcher tile.

Rashan turned, breathing steady, sword still in hand.

The nobles lay broken, clutching ribs and mouths, groaning into the dirt.

Then—

Jalil moved.

Bleeding and bruised, he suddenly twisted, jerking one arm free and slamming his head backward into a guard's nose. The man stumbled.

Jalil surged forward, yanking free of the other, and threw himself into a wild grapple, dragging one down into the shallows. Sand and water sprayed. Fists flew. Arms locked.

He didn't yell. He didn't waste motion. He just fought.

Rashan saw it instantly.

He's buying time. Not trying to win. Just holding the line. Giving Rashan the space he needs.

The whip dangled in Peacock's hand, limp now. His mouth hung open. His eyes met Rashan's—wide, frightened, frozen.

He looked like a boy seeing his own death and realizing it wasn't going to be quick.

Rashan's head turned toward the crates.

Cassia.

She fought alone, locked in tight with the second guard. Her blade moved fast—tight arcs, short jabs—but she wasn't built for this kind of fight.

She wasn't a head-on brawler.

She hadn't trained as long as Jalil, and nowhere near as long as Rashan. The man pressing in on her was taller, stronger, and armored.

She twisted and slipped, blade flicking, but he kept pressing forward. Step by step, he forced her back.

She was giving it everything she had—but it wasn't enough.

She needed help.

Rashan shifted toward her, eyes narrowing.

Rashan moved fast, boots digging into the sand, body low, sword steady.

Cassia was still holding her ground, blade flicking in tight arcs, eyes locked on the guard's movements. She was fast—fast enough to keep him cautious—and her footwork had improved. But Rashan saw it with a glance: her pivot was too shallow, her off-hand out of position, and her strikes leaned too much on speed instead of leverage.

She's compensating. Still sharp. Still learning. But if he rushes her, she won't hold.

The guard lunged.

Cassia stepped inside the arc instead of away—a bold move—and slashed low. The strike was clean, biting against the man's greaves, but lacked force. The man snarled, swatted at her dagger, and went to grab her.

Rashan arrived before he could.

He closed the final gap in a burst—no wasted movement—and slammed the flat of his training sword down onto the guard's shoulder with bone-rattling force.

Crack.

The man staggered sideways, arm going limp, shoulder dislocated. He turned—

Too late.

Cassia darted under his reach, spun, and slammed her dagger hilt into the side of his knee with full momentum.

Pop.

The leg buckled. He screamed and dropped hard.

Rashan stepped behind him, wrapped an arm around the man's neck, and pulled him backward into a choke—not to crush, just to hold.

"Now," Rashan snapped.

Cassia moved without hesitation.

She reversed her grip and drove the hilt of her dagger into the base of the man's skull, just above the collar—the sweet spot. It wouldn't kill, but it would drop anyone not wearing a full helm.

The people of this world were far more resilient than that of earth.

Rashan let him fall.

The sand swallowed the body with a soft thud, limbs splayed, groaning faintly.

The man twitched once, then went still.

Rashan turned—and froze.

The guards were kicking Jalil.

One had his boot pressed to his ribs. The other was driving his heel into the side of Jalil's back, over and over, trying to break something that hadn't yet snapped.

Jalil writhed in the sand, trying to protect his head, arms folded tight. But there was only so much flesh could endure.

Rashan saw red.

Every breath caught fire behind his ribs.

Motherfuckers.

He didn't hear what he said. Didn't feel the shift in his body. He just started forward, training sword gripped tight enough to blanch the knuckles.

Peacock panicked.

His eyes snapped wide as he took in the scene. He took a sharp step forward, stammering like he'd forgotten how his own voice worked.

"Stop—! Stop kicking him! Face them! Face them!"

He pointed toward Rashan and Cassia like a child trying to sic a dog on something he feared himself.

The guards turned—hesitating.

That was a mistake.

Meanwhile….

Adrien stood at the edge of the stone path, staff resting against his shoulder, one hand tapping his chin.

He watched and made no move to assist like Rashand had asked him too, and watching the events play out he clearly didn't need any help.

Rashan moved through the fight like a drawn blade—precise, brutal, efficient. Each step hit with balance. Each strike carried weight. His body adjusted with practiced economy, his blows delivered with absolute intent.

There was always a flavor to the way Rashan fought. Sharp. Composed. Final. Adrien had noticed it early, even during sparring.

A certain rhythm. A pressure behind each strike that mirrored something he'd only seen in men shaped by war.

At first, he'd told himself it was discipline. An obsessive drive. A hunger to improve. That much still held true.

But the longer he trained the boy, the more that feeling grew—a quiet thought, coiled somewhere in the back of his mind, refusing to leave.

Now, watching Rashan beat guards and noble sons into the dirt—shattering ribs, breaking teeth, moving with cold focus—Adrien understood what had been bothering him.

If you placed two fighters side by side with the same talent, same strength, same instincts—

but one had fought where death waited in the dirt— you'd feel the difference when they moved.

Rashan carried that difference.

Always had.

Just another item on the list of things he found peculiar, odd, or interesting about his genius protégé, as he watched the fight about to reach its climax.

He was very interested in seeing what Rashan would do to the young man who'd been whipping Jalil.