Chapter 420: Spar (4)
Opposite him, Lindarion stood with blade in hand, golden eyes fixed yet strangely tranquil. His posture was not of a warrior locked in mortal struggle, but of one walking along a riverbank, watching currents flow beneath his feet.
The silence stretched.
Ashwing broke it in Lindarion’s mind, his tone half-amused, half-impatient. ’He’s going to break his arms if he pushes that much mana through them. Why don’t you stop him?’
’Because,’ Lindarion answered silently, ’he deserves to finish what he began. Even if it costs him.’
’That’s stupid.’
’It’s respect.’
Ashwing huffed. ’Still stupid.’
The staff moved.
Thalan struck with speed no ordinary elf could have mustered. His body blurred, staff whistling through the air with arcs that bent and curved, splitting into afterimages of green. Roots lashed upward again, sharper now, thinner, weaving like serpents, striking from every angle at once.
The clearing lit with emerald fire.
The children gasped as one. Their teacher had never shown them this. This was not a lesson, not a drill. This was his heart unleashed.
Lindarion stepped forward.
Just one step.
His sword rose, shadows curling faintly, not wild but disciplined, tethered to his calm. His wrist turned, steel brushing against staff, not colliding but guiding. He flowed inside each strike, blade gliding along wood as though tracing its path rather than resisting it.
Root tendrils whipped toward his legs, he lowered his shoulder and cut one in half, not with raw force but with timing so precise it dissolved into smoke-like motes before reaching him.
Another snapped toward his throat, he twisted, shadows unfurling to push it aside, his blade already intercepting the next strike.
He moved like a river finding its bed.
Thalan’s strikes grew more desperate, staff spinning faster, green arcs shattering the air. But every blow that should have landed with crushing weight was turned aside, not just parried but redirected.
Each thrust was transformed into harmless movement, stolen of its purpose before it touched flesh.
It was a dance, and Lindarion led every step.
The children’s awe began to shift into silence. Caleth, who had cried out earlier, now clutched his tunic, jaw slack. A little girl whispered under her breath, "He’s... he’s not even fighting. He’s just... showing him the way."
Nysha’s crimson eyes burned from the shadows. She said nothing, but her fingers curled against her arm, her gaze unreadable.
The human commanders leaned toward one another, muttering low.
"He’s... not even serious," one whispered.
"He’s dismantling a master like a child," another replied.
The third only shook his head, eyes wide. "And he does it with silence."
Thalan’s staff struck down once more, heavier than before, a final blow that cracked the air.
Lindarion raised his blade and caught it.
For an instant, the world froze: green against black, teacher against prince.
Then Lindarion shifted his wrist. Just slightly. ’Enough.’
The staff slid off, its momentum redirected, and in the same breath, Lindarion spun his blade and pressed the flat side against Thalan’s chest. Not sharp, not cruel. Gentle. Firm. Irrefutable.
Thalan staggered back, breath catching. His staff lowered slowly, the glow dimming until the wood looked like wood again. Sweat glistened on his brow, his chest heaving.
Lindarion lowered his blade, shadows receding like water draining away. He exhaled, calm, steady, no triumph in his stance.
The clearing was silent.
Then Lindarion spoke, his voice carrying across the stunned crowd.
"Strength is not in how much force you summon, nor in how loud your strikes ring. It is in control. In knowing when to wield, and when to release. Thalan of Lorienya has shown you the will to stand, no matter the gulf. That is no weakness. That is honor."
He turned his gaze to the children, his golden irises gleaming. "Do not see only who stands above. See who refuses to bow. That is the lesson."
The children blinked, their wide eyes shifting to their teacher. Thalan stood tall despite his exhaustion, shoulders squared, head lifted. He bowed slightly to Lindarion, then turned to his students.
"Your prince speaks truth," Thalan said, voice steady despite his fatigue. "I gave everything, and he guided it away like water around stone. But I did not kneel. Remember this: defeat is not dishonor. Refusal to learn is."
The children bowed their heads, some with tears in their eyes, others with awe trembling in their limbs.
Nysha exhaled softly, her crimson gaze flicking toward Lindarion with something unreadable, not disdain, not reverence, but a quiet acknowledgment. She turned away before anyone could notice.
Ashwing purred in Lindarion’s head. ’You could’ve flattened him in three seconds, you know. But I guess that was nice. You made the kids feel proud of him, too.’
’That was the point,’ Lindarion replied.
’Hmph. You’re boring sometimes, Master Prince.’
Lindarion didn’t answer. He only sheathed his blade, the faint hiss of steel slipping into scabbard carrying across the clearing.
The commanders approached, their faces still taut with unease. One bowed stiffly. "Prince Lindarion... I cannot deny, your strength is beyond our reckoning." His voice wavered, caught between fear and admiration.
Another murmured, "If such power stands with us, then perhaps..." But he trailed off, unable to finish.
Lindarion did not correct them, did not encourage. He simply nodded once.
Thalan stepped forward, staff now held more like a walking stick than a weapon. He inclined his head deeply. "Prince of Eldorath. You humbled me with grace, not cruelty. For that, I thank you. And if you would permit, I would gladly train alongside you in the weeks to come, that my students may see there is no shame in striving higher."
Lindarion studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he inclined his head in return. "You have my respect, Thalan. And my gratitude. Few would stand as you did, knowing the gap."
The teacher’s lips curved faintly, and for the first time since the match began, his eyes softened.
The glade slowly filled with sound again: whispers, awe, children chattering nervously, unsure if they should cheer or remain silent. The match had ended without spectacle, but with something heavier, something lasting.
The respect of two warriors.
And the knowledge, in every heart present, that the young prince of Eldorath carried storms not as fury, but as restraint.