Chapter 419: Spar (3)
Mana rippled across the clearing, faint green threads winding outward from Thalan’s frame. The staff glowed along its etched grooves, the patterns that had seemed decorative moments ago now alive, ancient elven script whispering with each pulse. Leaves trembled on the trees above though no wind passed, their veins catching the glow like veins of emerald.
The children gasped.
"He’s using the Verdant Flow!" Teren whispered, voice shaking with both awe and fear.
Even Nysha, standing in the shadows nearby, straightened. Her crimson eyes narrowed, shadows twitching faintly at her fingertips. She knew the weight of elven magic, the sheer discipline behind it.
Lindarion tilted his head slightly. His golden irises reflected the green glow like mirrors.
Thalan spoke, his voice steady but carrying the resonance of mana. "Prince of Eldorath... allow me to fight you as I would a true equal."
He lunged.
The staff struck the ground as he moved, and roots burst upward like living whips, lashing toward Lindarion’s legs. In the same breath, his staff spun high, trailing afterimages of green light, descending toward Lindarion’s shoulder in a punishing arc.
The crowd gasped again.
But Lindarion... only stepped.
His body shifted with a grace that mocked the roots’ speed. His foot slid between two snapping tendrils, his frame leaning a fraction, letting them carve the air where he had been. The staff came down, and his blade rose lazily, almost gently, intercepting it.
Steel and wood kissed, not clashed. The staff’s momentum should have cracked stone, but Lindarion absorbed it with the faintest pivot of his wrist, redirecting it past his frame.
The roots whipped back toward him, faster this time, aiming to coil around his waist.
Shadows slipped from his blade. They slithered outward, curling like serpents, intercepting the roots. For a moment, wood and void wrestled, the green light sputtering against the black tendrils.
But Lindarion didn’t push. He merely guided. The shadows didn’t crush, they shifted the roots’ angles just slightly... enough for them to snap harmlessly against the ground.
The children’s jaws dropped.
Caleth shook his head furiously. "That— that’s not possible, he— Teacher never—"
Nysha’s voice cut low and sharp beside him, silencing the boy. "Your teacher’s roots struck with the weight of an army. He turned them aside with a flick."
The boy swallowed hard, lips pressing tight.
Thalan exhaled through his nose, expression still calm though sweat beaded faintly at his brow. He adjusted his grip, mana thrumming harder through the staff. His movements shifted, faster now, sharper, strikes flowing like water turned to rapids.
Each swing came not with raw force but with layered angles, feints within feints, the kind of technique only a master with decades of drilling could weave.
The children couldn’t even follow it.
To them, Thalan blurred, staff splitting the air in streaks of green light. Roots lashed with each strike, trees answering his call, the very glade becoming his ally.
It was no longer sparring, it was a display of true combat arts, the kind Lorienya had preserved since the dawn.
And Lindarion?
He moved less.
That was what unsettled them most.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t rush, didn’t stumble. Every strike was met with a tiny shift, a minimal parry, a step that carried him exactly where he needed to be. His blade cut no wide arcs, but tapped the staff at angles that redirected its force without contest.
When roots snapped toward him, his shadows stirred just enough to bend them away.
It was maddening. It was terrifying.
Because it wasn’t even a contest.
Ashwing’s laughter rang bright in his head. ’He’s throwing the whole forest at you and you look like you’re strolling through a garden! Hah! His face—look at his face—’
Lindarion didn’t need to. He felt it.
Thalan’s calm mask had cracked slightly. Not in anger, but in something rarer. Unease.
Because he knew. He knew he was showing a fraction of his true strength, a strength most elves would never dare to summon in spar. And still, the young prince moved as if swatting flies.
Another strike, the staff arced down.
This time, Lindarion stepped forward, inside the arc, his blade sliding along the wood. Their weapons locked for a breath, green and black energy sparking.
And Lindarion leaned just slightly closer, his voice low enough only Thalan could hear.
"If this is what you call an equal, then your world is smaller than you think."
Then he shoved.
The staff tore free of Thalan’s hands, spinning across the glade and striking the ground with a thud.
Gasps erupted from every throat.
The children cried out, some half-standing in shock. Nysha’s crimson gaze sharpened, unreadable. The human commanders exchanged glances, their jaws tight, reverence and fear mingling.
Thalan staggered back a single step, only one, then caught himself. His hands hung loose at his sides, chest rising and falling, his expression unreadable.
Lindarion lowered his blade. His golden eyes never wavered.
Silence ruled again.
Even the forest stilled.
Then, softly, Thalan spoke. "You carry storms in your veins... and yet you wield them with a surgeon’s hand. Truly, you are no ordinary prince."
He bent, retrieved his staff, and straightened. His lips curved faintly, not with mockery but respect. "Shall we continue?"
The children gasped anew.
Caleth shouted before he could stop himself. "But— you lost! He beat you—"
Thalan silenced him with a single sharp glance. "A duel is not won in a single moment. It is a river that flows until one cannot stand. And I will stand."
His staff hummed as mana surged through it again.
Lindarion’s gaze softened just slightly. There was something admirable in the man’s resolve, the refusal to bow even when the gulf was clear. But admiration did not change truth.
He raised his blade once more. Shadows coiled along the steel like snakes awakening.
"Then stand," he said quietly. "And learn."
The air shimmered with mana, thick enough that the children at the edge of the clearing squirmed as if the weight pressed on their lungs.
Even the older elves among the crowd shifted uneasily, their ears twitching with each surge of energy radiating from Thalan’s staff.
The teacher’s chest rose and fell steadily. His hands tightened on the carved wood, its grooves pulsing with life as though the forest itself fed strength into him.
His earlier calm mask had cracked only slightly, but his eyes... his eyes burned now with the fire of a man who would not yield, no matter how wide the gulf.