Chapter 95: Free Style
The practice courtyard of Blue Leaf Academy had never been so crowded.
Classes had long since been forgotten.
Students leaned over stone balconies. Senior disciples abandoned their own training grounds.
Professors stood shoulder to shoulder beneath carved archways, speaking in hushed voices as they watched the stranger in the center of the arena.
Even servants had quietly stopped sweeping the marble paths.
The man called Hawk had gathered every eye without uttering more than a handful of words.
The wind drifted lazily through the courtyard, stirring the banners overhead.
Principal Athenok stood upon the elevated gallery with his hands folded behind his back, watching in silence.
Across from Hawk stood one of Blue Leaf Academy’s oldest martial instructors.
Master Oren Veyr.
His beard had long since turned silver, though age had stolen none of the sharpness from his eyes.
Deep wrinkles marked his weathered face, and three black blessed lines rested proudly upon his cheek.
His body was lean rather than powerful, built by decades of discipline instead of brute strength.
He studied Hawk carefully.
Unlike Garret, who carried himself like a soldier, Oren moved like flowing water.
Every breath seemed measured, and every movement purposeful.
The old master folded both palms together respectfully. "What martial school do you belong to?"
His voice carried clearly across the silent courtyard.
Hawk returned the courtesy with a slight bow. "I belong to none."
A murmur swept through the students.
Master Oren narrowed his eyes. "No school?"
"The street was my school."
"No clan?"
"I’m sorry, but there is none."
"No monastery?"
Hawk shook his head. "I learned to fight, nothing more."
The old master’s brows rose. "Then what martial art do you practice?"
A faint smile appeared upon Hawk’s scarred face. "I suppose... free style."
The answer puzzled nearly everyone.
Several instructors exchanged confused glances.
One whispered, "Free style? What kind of answer is that?"
Garret scratched his scar. "It means he learned from experience."
Another instructor scoffed. "Everyone says that until they meet real martial artists."
Master Oren himself smiled politely. "There is no shame in admitting one’s origins."
"There truly aren’t any." Hawk’s tone remained calm. "I learned wherever someone stronger than me happened to stand."
Silence answered him.
The old master slowly nodded. "I see."
He straightened. "Then allow this old fool to introduce himself properly."
He struck his chest lightly with his fist. "I am Oren Veyr, Master of the Lightning Palm Strike."
A ripple of recognition spread among the students.
Even first-years who knew little of martial traditions had heard that name.
Lightning Palm Strike.
One of the oldest battlefield martial arts still practiced within Bentram Kingdom.
Fast, precise, and explosive.
Its practitioners specialized in ending fights before they truly began.
A single palm in a single opening, and one decisive strike.
Oren smiled faintly. "It has served me faithfully for forty-two years."
Hawk inclined his head. "I look forward to learning from it."
The answer earned another approving nod.
Above them, Athenok stepped toward the stone railing overlooking the arena.
His calm voice echoed across the courtyard. "This duel shall test only martial skill. No blessings. No weapons. No killing intent, and no hidden arts beyond hand-to-hand combat."
His gaze settled upon both men. "You are both Three-Lined Blessed.
"Your physical strength shall therefore remain comparable. Victory shall belong solely to skill."
Both men nodded. "I understand."
The old principal raised one hand. "Begin."
Neither man moved. The courtyard became unnaturally quiet.
Master Oren inhaled slowly.
His right foot slid backward, and his knees bent slightly.
One palm extended toward Hawk. The other guarded his ribs.
A textbook stance. Balanced and elegant.
The stance of someone who had practiced the same movement ten thousand times.
Across from him, Hawk simply stood.
His shoulders loose, hands hanging lazily before him.
One foot slightly ahead of the other.
No stance or visible guard. No tension whatsoever.
Several instructors frowned immediately.
Garret muttered beneath his breath, "Either incredibly confident... or incredibly stupid."
Conor whispered to Sky, "Does he always stand like that?"
Sky retorted, "How do I know? I’ve never seen him before."
Thane grinned proudly. "Hawk always fights like that."
Max remained silent; his eyes never left Hawk.
He knew something most people here did not.
That relaxed posture wasn’t laziness. It was comfort.
Hawk had stood that way before fighting Vidu, before fighting assassins.
Before facing men who could crush stone with bare hands.
He simply never looked threatened.
Master Oren made the first adjustment.
A tiny shift, testing and waiting. Watching Hawk’s eyes. Nothing, not even a blink.
Then suddenly, Hawk stepped forward.
No shout or burst of speed. Without any dramatic charge. Just one ordinary step.
Master Oren reacted instantly.
His body exploded into motion like lightning. His rear foot drove against the ground.
His body rotated as his left palm shot forward.
Not toward Hawk’s face or his throat. Toward the center of his chest.
Lightning Palm Strike. The movement was flawless.
Years of repetition compressed into a single heartbeat.
The palm struck.
BOOM
A dull explosion echoed across the arena.
The impact reverberated through Hawk’s body.
Students gasped.
Hawk’s feet actually left the ground.
His body slid backward several meters before stopping near the edge of the fighting circle.
Dust scattered beneath his boots.
After a brief silence, laughter erupted.
"He actually got blown away!"
"So much for the famous Hawk!"
"I thought he’d dodge!"
"He didn’t even block!"
Several younger instructors laughed openly.
One crossed his arms smugly. "So that’s the man who defeated the Cursed Beast?"
Garret rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hm."
Master Oren slowly lowered his palm. His breathing remained perfectly steady.
"I apologize. I struck harder than intended."
Across the arena, Hawk remained standing, his head lowered.
One hand rested lightly upon the place where the palm had landed.
He exhaled once. A long and quiet breath.
The smile upon his face slowly disappeared.
Not from pain or anger. It was simply gone as he became serious.
His eyes lifted; the change was subtle. So subtle that most students never noticed. But every veteran in the courtyard did.
Garret stopped smiling.
Master Oren’s relaxed shoulders tightened.
Athenok’s expression sharpened.
Thane blinked. "...Uh-oh."
Sky looked toward him. "What?"
The giant scratched his cheek. "Hawk stopped smiling."
"So?"
Thane answered with complete sincerity. "I’ve only seen that happen once."
Max quietly finished the sentence for him. "...Against Vidu."
Neither boy spoke afterward.
Master Oren suddenly realized something unsettling.
The first exchange had told him almost nothing.
Hawk had not defended nor attacked. He had merely accepted the strike.
As though measuring it.
The old master’s instincts, refined across four decades, whispered a warning.
The man standing before him was no longer the same one who had entered the ring.
Hawk slowly rolled one shoulder. Then the other; the casual ease remained...
Yet something invisible had changed. Something impossible to describe.
His scarred face showed neither irritation nor excitement.
He looked directly into Oren Veyr’s eyes.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than before. "...I understand now."
No one knew what he meant. Not Garret, not the students, and not even Principal Athenok.
Only Master Oren felt an inexplicable chill crawl slowly down his spine.
For the first time in many years, the old master wondered if accepting this friendly duel had been a mistake.