Will of the Battlefield

The applause for Master Oren had scarcely faded before another figure stepped into the circle.

Unlike the silver-haired elder, this man carried the vigor of a seasoned warrior still in his prime.

Broad shoulders strained against the sleeves of his dark training robes, and old scars crossed both forearms like faded rivers carved by steel.

His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair tied high behind his head, and three black blessed lines rested proudly upon his weathered face.

He could not have seen more than forty-five years of life.

His eyes, however, belonged to a hunter.

He bowed first to Principal Athenok, then to Hawk. "My name is Master Baelor Fenris."

His voice carried easily through the silent courtyard. "I instruct the academy in the Nine Beast Scriptures."

A murmur rippled among the students.

Even those unfamiliar with martial arts had heard whispers of that school.

It was one of Bentram’s oldest hand-to-hand traditions, infamous for demanding decades of discipline before its disciples could imitate even a single beast properly.

Many entered, few endured, and fewer mastered it.

Hawk’s expression softened. "The Nine Beast Scriptures..."

He inclined his head respectfully. "I’ve heard of your school."

Baelor raised an eyebrow. "You have?"

"It is said only those with exceptional body control may practice it. It demands more than strength; it demands instinct."

The master’s lips curled into a faint smile. "Not many outsiders know that; they usually remember only the claws."

Hawk chuckled quietly. "The claws are merely the teeth everyone notices; the real weapon is movement."

Baelor’s smile widened. "A rare answer."

Around them, the instructors exchanged approving glances.

Garret folded his arms. "Now this will be interesting."

Principal Athenok stepped forward once again.

"The same conditions remain. No blessings. No weapons. No killing intent.

The duel shall end the moment one fighter surrenders."

Both men acknowledged him.

Baelor inhaled deeply. His posture changed; his knees bent as he lowered his spine.

Both hands slowly rose before him. The fingers curled into claws.

His shoulders loosened; his feet shifted with uncanny silence.

Every movement became lighter, quicker, and more predatory.

"The first form," Baelor announced. "Snow Cougar."

The atmosphere shifted.

Several first-years instinctively took a step backward.

Sky whispered, "He doesn’t even look human anymore."

Garret nodded. "That’s the point. A practitioner doesn’t imitate a beast; he convinces his body it is one."

Across the ring, Hawk remained relaxed, hands hanging naturally. Feet shoulder-width apart.

In the next moment, Baelor vanished in front of everyone’s eyes.

Gasps erupted.

He hadn’t disappeared.

He had simply crossed the distance faster than most students could follow.

His claw swept toward Hawk’s throat.

Hawk leaned away; the nails missed flesh...

But not cloth.

RRIIP

His collar split open. Before Hawk could reset his footing, another claw slashed from below.

He barely twisted; three fresh tears opened across his sleeve.

The fabric fluttered to the ground; thin crimson lines appeared beneath.

The students gasped.

"So fast!"

"He couldn’t block!"

Baelor never allowed Hawk a moment. Left, right, high, and low.

Every strike resembled the frantic violence of a hunting cat.

It was a relentless pressure, a continued chase of predator.

Hawk raised his palms.

PAK

A claw glanced aside, and another immediately replaced it.

TAK

He redirected again.

Baelor spun.

His rear foot carried his body around Hawk’s flank.

A claw carved across Hawk’s back before he could fully turn.

Blood dotted the wooden floor.

Garret’s expression hardened. "Hawk is losing ground."

"No." Master Oren shook his head. "He is learning."

The old master’s eyes never left Hawk’s feet. "He hasn’t repeated the same mistake."

Indeed, each exchange lasted slightly longer than the last.

The first assault had forced Hawk backward immediately.

The second, only two steps.

The third, merely one.

By the fourth, Hawk finally interrupted Baelor’s rhythm with a shoulder check.

Not enough to stop him, but enough to breathe.

Baelor grinned. "Excellent! You adapt quickly."

Hawk answered with a tense smile.

Then the attacks resumed. Baelor dropped lower; his claws hunted joints now.

Wrists, elbows, and knees.

Every slash forced Hawk to abandon conventional defense.

He twisted and rolled his shoulders.

He accepted shallow cuts along muscle instead of allowing deeper strikes near tendons.

Blood steadily soaked into his sleeves.

Conor swallowed. "How many times has he been hit?"

Sky answered softly, "I stopped counting."

Even Max’s calm expression had tightened.

He alone recognized something. Hawk had not thrown a single meaningful attack.

Not one till now; he only defended. Perhaps he was observing. Max prayed his assumption was correct.

Baelor noticed it too. "Still studying?"

Hawk smiled despite the blood running down one arm. "I’ve nearly understood."

The master laughed. "Then understand this!"

His claws suddenly withdrew; his body leaped backward.

Students frowned. "Why did he retreat?"

Garret narrowed his eyes. "No... he changed forms."

Baelor’s posture transformed. The graceful feline movements disappeared.

His weight shifted lower; one hand opened, and the other closed.

Four fingers folded inward; only the index finger remained extended.

Its knuckle protruded like the sharpened sting of a scorpion. "The Third Scripture. Death Scorpion."

Even the air felt colder.

Master Oren quietly muttered, "Now the real duel begins."

Baelor exploded forward; gone were the sweeping claws.

Every strike now became direct, violent, needle-like thrusts.

The extended finger darted toward Hawk’s throat.

Hawk slapped it aside; another immediately sought his ribs.

Then his shoulder, his neck, and his eyes.

Every attack hunted vital points; one clean hit could cripple.

Hawk abandoned elegant defense altogether. He ducked beneath one thrust, allowed another to scrape across his ribs.

He turned his shoulder so a strike pierced cloth instead of flesh.

Blood darkened his tunic; his breathing grew heavier. Yet... the smile returned.

Baelor frowned. "What amuses you?"

Hawk answered while narrowly avoiding another strike.

"I’ve fought men, I’ve fought beasts, I’ve fought a monster too."

He caught the master’s wrist.

Only for an instant; Baelor twisted free immediately.

"...You’re all different."

Another barrage followed by Baelor; this time Hawk stepped into it.

The watching instructors widened their eyes.

Instead of retreating, he invaded the master’s space.

Baelor’s deadly thrusts suddenly lacked room.

His own elbow became trapped against his ribs.

Hawk seized the opportunity; his left hand caught Baelor’s forearm.

His right gripped the shoulder, then he twisted.

Baelor felt his balance vanish. The world turned upside down as the stone courtyard rushed toward him.

BOOM

He struck the ground hard enough to crack a paving stone.

Yet before applause could erupt, Baelor planted one palm; his body coiled.

Both legs whipped upward like a striking serpent.

Hawk barely saw it. The heel crashed into his chest.

THUD

The impact hurled him backward several paces.

Fresh blood escaped the corner of Hawk’s mouth.

The students erupted.

"They’re both bleeding!"

"Neither one’s backing down!"

Baelor rolled smoothly back onto his feet.

His breathing had become noticeably heavier.

He flexed his shoulder where Hawk’s throw had twisted the joint.

"Good," he smiled. "Very good."

Across the courtyard, Hawk wiped blood from his lips.

His white hair had begun sticking to his forehead with sweat.

His clothing hung in ribbons.

Thin crimson trails marked his arms, chest, and back.

He looked more battered than at any point since arriving at the academy.

Yet his eyes remained calm.

He rolled one shoulder experimentally. "It seems... I finally have to attack."

Around the arena, every instructor unconsciously straightened.

Garret slowly uncrossed his arms.

Master Oren’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Even Principal Athenok leaned slightly forward.

The underground wolf had decided to bare its fangs.