The ultimate one of Gaia

"Shall we?" Martin asked, rolling his shoulders with casual indifference as he raised his rapier in a loose one-handed guard. Its slender black blade gleamed under the training hall's sterile lights.

Roen nodded silently, exhaling once to steady his trembling hands. His grip tightened around Ironshade's massive hilt, the artifact's unnatural weight biting into his wrists and shoulders. Despite his exhaustion, his stance settled into the orthodox City Guard form—feet apart, knees bent, blade forward at a forty-five degree angle.

Martin grinned. "This will be fun."

Then he charged.

There was no finesse to it. No technique. Just raw, unfiltered brute force as Martin lunged forward with the grace of a falling boulder. His rapier stabbed in a direct, almost childish thrust aimed at Roen's chest.

Roen's instincts screamed at him. Exploit the openings. Martin's footwork was sloppy, his shoulder twisted wrong, his grip off-balance. Roen twisted his wrists, deflecting the thrust aside and bringing Ironshade up in a brutal diagonal slash.

But Martin's blade flicked back impossibly fast, knocking the greatsword off-line with a sharp clang. Sparks scattered across the rune-reinforced floor.

"Stop moving like a barbarian!" Roen snapped between breaths, his frustration boiling over. He stepped sideways, pivoting his hips into a horizontal cut, using the sword's sheer mass to force an opening.

"Why?" Martin's voice was calm, almost bored, despite the vicious parry. His movements blurred as he ducked low, rapped the flat of his rapier against Roen's knee, and rose in a sweeping arc that forced Roen to stumble back. "You're not using your artifact's properties. You're treating it like a normal sword."

"Because it is a sword!" Roen growled, readjusting his grip and stance. This time he surged forward with a textbook-perfect thrust, aiming directly for Martin's sternum.

Martin's body twisted unnaturally fast, pivoting sideways to avoid the tip before flicking his wrist to bat Ironshade's blade upward. The force of his parry sent a reverberating shock through Roen's shoulders, nearly dislocating them from the sheer momentum redirected.

"Bastard, you're using magic," Roen spat, sliding back, his boots grinding against the mana-etched floor.

"Looks like your training wasn't for show," Belisarius rumbled from the sidelines, arms folded across his broad chest. "Now then, elaborate."

Roen didn't take his eyes off Martin as he answered between ragged breaths. "Martin's stance and attacks are immature… worse than a beginner's. But his attacks keep connecting as if he has decades of sparring experience."

"Meaning?" Belisarius prompted.

"Reaction time," Roen said flatly. "He's enhancing his neural responses. I'd say… by a factor of two or three."

Martin tilted his head, smirking slightly. "So what? That doesn't mean you can defeat me."

Bellarine, who stood near Belisarius with Diemo perched calmly beside her, tilted her head slightly. "Neural acceleration techniques are banned in standard dueling protocols."

Martin shrugged lightly. "Why follow rules that only exist to limit potential?"

Roen grit his teeth. "Then prepare yourself."

"Bold words," Martin said with quiet amusement. He stepped forward, his movements blurring even faster.

"He's attacking from two points at once," Diemo observed, her golden-red eyes tracking each micro-motion with eerie clarity.

"You can tell," Belisarius noted, almost impressed.

"Courtesy of Martin," Diemo replied softly. "He taught me how to read layered movement."

"The heart is more powerful than I thought," Bellarine murmured, eyes flicking to Diemo's chest. "She's getting stronger day by day."

"Don't worry," Martin called out between strikes, his rapier flashing in an eight-point sequence that forced Roen into full retreat. "I will collect payment."

"Focus here!" Roen shouted, barely intercepting a downward stab with Ironshade's broad flat.

"I will—four times more," Martin said, his grin widening. His aura darkened with high-frequency mana flux, and the air around him crackled with violent static.

"From eight points now… to sixteen?" Diemo whispered.

Martin blurred forward. In the half-second it took Roen to blink, Martin unleashed a sixteen-point assault, each strike aimed with surgical precision at Roen's shoulders, elbows, thighs, and throat. The rapier's blade moved like liquid shadow, cutting through the air with whistling silence.

Roen stumbled back, parrying desperately. Ironshade felt impossibly heavy in his arms now, each blocked strike sending a punishing recoil down to his bones. His breathing became ragged, chest heaving, vision tunnelling from strain.

"This… is insane," he gasped, sweat dripping to the ruined floor beneath their feet.

"You are the one who is insane," Martin replied calmly, though his shoulders rose and fell with fatigue now, his shirt damp with sweat. "Most would have been rendered to bits by now."

Roen smirked despite himself. "So you aren't invincible after all."

"Shut up," Martin snapped, though there was a faint note of grudging respect in his voice.

"All right then." Roen took a deep breath and shifted into a high stance, Ironshade's massive blade extending forward. His aura stabilised, grounding itself into the floor. Then he moved.

Martin's eyes widened. He's faster. Roen closed the distance with unexpected agility, using Ironshade's artifact pulse to drag his weight forward in a controlled burst. Martin tried to retaliate with a sixteen-point strike, but Roen twisted his hips, deflecting the rapier just enough to break Martin's centreline before slamming his pommel directly into Martin's stomach.

The impact knocked the air from Martin's lungs, sending him skidding back across the floor, his rapier clattering from his hand.

In a single exchange, it was decided.

"I win," Roen said, his voice shaking but firm as he lowered Ironshade.

Martin sat up slowly, clutching his abdomen, glaring with indignation. "Maybe… I should have just blasted you from a distance."

"I'd run off if you did that," Roen replied, his lips twitching into a tired smile.

From the sidelines, Belisarius nodded once, a faint note of approval in his eyes. Bellarine said nothing, simply folding her arms as Diemo's lips curled into a small, quiet grin.

For the first time, the room felt a little warmer.