Aira was, without question, a formidable mage. That much, Flester had known from the moment he first saw her spar during the morning trials. Her movements were clean, measured, and frighteningly precise—each spell, each motion executed with the kind of discipline that could only come from years of intense training. And it wasn't just any training. She had been tutored by none other than Night of the Ruby Pillar—the strongest mage in the Ruby Kingdom—since she was three years old.
Flester could still hardly believe that detail. Three years old. At that age, most children could barely form a proper spell circle, let alone wield magic with such control.
Still, something about that story didn't sit right with him. Night had claimed that he saw "potential" in the small girl and decided to take her under his wing. But Flester didn't buy it. Not one bit. It sounded too simple—too clean—to be true. The Ruby Pillar was not a man who acted on whims. He was meticulous, deliberate, and his reasons were rarely what they appeared to be.
"There's more to this than just potential," Flester thought, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded Aira. "There's something else he saw in her. Something I'm not seeing yet."
He was certain that, in time, the truth would surface—whether in a few days or a few weeks—and he was patient enough to wait.
Now, standing before him under the amber light of the setting sun, Aira looked every bit like the mage prodigy her reputation claimed her to be. The fading sunlight bathed her in a warm glow, highlighting the curve of her jaw and the faint shimmer of magic that surrounded her. Her black hair, tied neatly into a high ponytail, caught the wind and danced behind her like a dark flame.
Gone was the lively, charismatic girl he had spoken to that morning—the one who laughed easily and spoke with the bright confidence of youth. In her place stood a warrior: calm, calculating, and utterly unreadable. Her expression betrayed nothing; her stance carried no hesitation.
She was ready.
Flester's gaze hardened as their eyes met across the few dozen meters separating them. He could feel the tension in the air—the way it thickened with each heartbeat. The world around them seemed to fade, until only she remained in his focus. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, tracked his every subtle movement.
A quiet shiver of anticipation crept down his spine.
Slowly, Aira moved. The sound of metal rang out as she unsheathed her sword—a slender, silver-edged weapon etched with faint runes that pulsed softly with magic. She raised it into a defensive stance, her breathing steady, her posture perfectly balanced. Every inch of her movement spoke of training and purpose.
Flester drew in a quiet breath and began channeling light magic through his body, spreading it evenly through every fiber of his being. The glow was faint, almost invisible, but the energy it carried was immense—his reflexes sharpened, his perception heightened.
He had to be careful. He couldn't let his instincts—the instincts inherited from the countless warriors who once bore his mysterious Symbol—take over. He needed to fight as himself, not as a reflection of those long-forgotten souls.
"Stay calm," he told himself. "Stay grounded. This is your battle, not theirs."
He didn't summon his weapon—not yet. The materialization of his sword would reveal too much, and he wasn't ready to show all his cards. He didn't know how much Night had told Aira about him, but keeping his true abilities hidden was a tactical choice. At least for now.
"Start."
The word came from Night, his voice carrying the quiet authority that silenced the crowd gathered around the arena.
The moment the signal was given, Aira moved—no, vanished. One blink, and she was already a blur of motion, rushing toward him with speed that most eyes couldn't even follow.
Flester's instincts screamed, and he reacted just in time—jumping backward and launching a concentrated flame bullet toward where she had been. The orb of fire streaked through the air, glowing with fierce heat, but Aira was already gone.
A flicker of light, a ripple of magic—and she reappeared right in front of him, her figure materializing with stunning precision.
Flester barely had time to register her movement before she struck.
A magic-infused punch cut through the air, aimed directly for his head. He ducked low, feeling the rush of enchanted wind graze his hair as he rolled to the side. The ground hissed where her attack had landed—small arcs of energy crackling along the stone floor.
Before he could regain his footing, her sword came down in a downward arc, gleaming with both fire and wind enchantments. The speed of the attack left little room to breathe, and Flester's eyes widened.
"She's faster than before…"
He pushed himself off the ground and swung his arm, summoning a barrier of pure light magic just in time. The sword struck, sparks flying as Aira's enchanted blade met the radiant wall with a sharp clang. The impact sent waves of energy rippling outward, scattering dust and light across the arena.
Aira leapt back, her expression still calm, almost emotionless—but in her eyes, he caught the faintest glint of excitement.
Flester straightened, his barrier fading. "So that's how it's going to be," he thought with a faint smirk. "Good. She's better than I thought."
She was flexible—fluid in motion in a way that defied the limits of ordinary human combat. Every movement flowed seamlessly into the next, each strike linking with impossible precision. Her body twisted and shifted with the grace of wind and the precision of steel, as though every limb obeyed a rhythm only she could hear.
Flester barely had time to think before her next attack came. Aira pivoted on her heel after the missed punch, her momentum turning into a downward slash so swift that the air itself seemed to split. The transition was flawless—unnatural even—and it told him everything he needed to know.
"She's trained for this a thousand times over," Flester thought grimly, his heart thundering in his chest.
There were no blind spots in her form, no hesitation in her rhythm. She fought like someone who had dissected every weakness her body could ever have—and erased them all.
Her sword was blue—dark blue, like the deepest of oceans—just like her eyes. The blade shimmered faintly under the light, its surface smooth and polished to a mirror sheen. It wasn't a long weapon, only about the length from her elbow to her fingertip, but that shortness gave it a precision and speed that suited her perfectly.
The edges were so finely honed that it almost seemed capable of slicing through air itself. Even from where he stood, Flester could sense the sharpness of it, the silent threat it carried with every subtle movement of her wrist. When she turned it slightly, the blade caught the setting sun and reflected a thin, gleaming line of light that looked almost alive.
The hilt was pitch black, wrapped in dark leather that looked worn but well cared for, and fitted perfectly into her hand. The balance between blade and handle was near perfect—lightweight enough for speed, but heavy enough to carry force. Every detail of the weapon spoke of mastery and precision, crafted for someone who knew how to wield it, not just swing it.
It wasn't a showpiece. It was a weapon built for battle—silent, elegant, and lethally beautiful.
"Where did she get that? It does not look normal." Flester gritted his teeth, his eyes fixed on the deep-blue sword glinting in Aira's hand. The weapon shimmered faintly under the sunlight, each reflection like a shifting wave. It wasn't the kind of blade one would find in a merchant's stall or a knight's armory—it looked crafted for someone far above ordinary.
He couldn't even tell what kind of sword it was. Too short to be a broadsword, too long to be a dagger. Was it meant for one hand or two? He didn't know. He had never studied weapons the way others did; his life had been buried in spell theory, not swordplay. Ever since childhood, his world had revolved around circles of light, runes of flame, and the endless discipline of channeling magic—not steel and edge.
But that blade… it drew his attention like a living thing.
Before he could think further, Aira moved.
The moment her foot touched the ground, she was already gone—a blur of motion too swift to track. The air split around her as she dashed forward, her dark blue sword cutting through the fading light like a line drawn across reality itself.
Flester's instincts screamed, and for an instant, he almost gave in to them—to the ancient battle reflexes buried deep within the memories of the Symbol's past wielders. But he bit back the urge.
"No," he thought sharply. "Not this time. I'll fight with my own strength, not theirs."
He gathered light magic around his legs, channeling it through his veins until it sparked faintly beneath his skin. Then, with a burst of energy, he propelled himself backward, narrowly dodging a horizontal slash aimed straight for his ribs.
The sword cut through the air so fast it whistled—a clean, deadly sound.
Landing several meters away, Flester steadied himself. A genuine smile crossed his face—small, but real. This time, the movement he'd made wasn't triggered by the instincts of fallen warriors but by his own judgment.
"It worked," he realized. "That was me—not the memories."
For the first time since inheriting the Symbol, he felt like he was regaining control. His mind, though strained, had separated itself—if only a little—from the flood of ancient memories. It was his two eyes that tracked her every motion, his own brain that processed it, and his own will guiding his body. But that clarity came at a price; every second demanded focus beyond normal limits.
He had to think about himself more than the battle—every movement, every breath had to be deliberate.
Aira was relentless. Her feet barely touched the ground as she rushed in again, her sword glinting blue fire beneath the sun. She swung upward, then twisted, slashing from the opposite angle before her boots even landed. Her movements were clean, impossible, almost inhuman—fluid like wind, yet fierce like a storm.
Flester blocked one strike with a flash of light magic, the pressure pushing him back a step. Before he could recover, she was already gone again—her speed too sharp to follow.
He ducked instinctively as she reappeared beside him, her blade cutting downward. The air hissed as the sword passed inches above his head. He retaliated with a burst of flame magic aimed at her chest. She dodged effortlessly, pivoting out of the blast's path with graceful precision.
"She's reading my rhythm," Flester thought, his jaw tightening. "And she's faster than before."
He shifted his stance, pretending to stagger, then threw his fist forward in a feint—aiming for her gut. Aira dodged just as he expected, gliding sideways with practiced ease. But Flester wasn't done. He spun with the motion, letting his heel dig into the ground as he prepared a second attack.
Unfortunately, she disappeared before he could finish.
Aira reappeared right in front of him, her sword already drawn back, a strike aimed directly at his neck.
Flester's eyes widened.
He slammed his palms together, summoning a wall of flames between them just in time. The sword struck it, the air sizzling as blue steel met crimson fire. The impact echoed, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
From within the flame wall, glowing chains burst out—pure flame solidified into form—and whipped toward her, aiming to wrap around her body. For a brief instant, he thought he had her.
But the chains struck only empty air.
She had vanished again, reappearing several meters away, standing calm and unshaken, the blue sword held casually at her side as if she hadn't just evaded death.
"Curse it," Flester muttered, frustration lacing his voice. His breathing had quickened, his body humming with restrained energy. He could have ended this—he knew that. His second stage, though incomplete, would easily overpower her. But he resisted the temptation.
"No," he thought firmly. "Not here. Not in front of them. Too many eyes… too many questions."
He glanced briefly toward the edge of the arena, where he could sense the presence of several powerful figures watching from the shadows. Any display beyond control could expose him—and whatever secrets his Symbol carried.
Across from him, Aira stood still, her calm unbroken. The wind tugged gently at her black ponytail, the setting sun painting gold highlights across her hair. Her face was expressionless, her breathing steady, her grip on the sword unwavering.
Not a flicker of fear. Not even the faintest sign of strain.
If she felt anything—excitement, irritation, exhaustion—she hid it perfectly. Her composure was absolute, almost unnatural.
Flester frowned slightly. "She's… unreadable," he thought. "Perfectly calm. Either she's a master at hiding her emotions, or she doesn't have any to hide."
Flester's eyes flickered toward Night, who stood a few paces away at the edge of the clearing. The man's expression was as calm and indifferent as ever—unreadable, emotionless, a reflection of Aira's own composure. The evening light slipped through the trees, painting shifting golden patterns across his crimson cloak, yet nothing seemed to move him.
"I guess I have an idea where she learned that at least," Flester thought, a small, wry smile touching his lips.
The clearing around them was quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. The smell of earth and pine hung in the air, and a faint breeze tugged at the ends of Aira's black ponytail. The world felt still, but tension rippled between them like unseen electricity.
The battle wasn't over—or so he thought.
Aira suddenly clapped her hands together. The sharp sound echoed through the trees, startling a few birds into flight. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the earth beneath Flester's boots began to darken. Moisture gathered between the blades of grass, soaking into the soil until it glistened with a faint sheen.
He frowned, instantly lowering his gaze. "The ground's… wet?" he thought, narrowing his eyes. He could feel the magic coursing below, subtle and fluid, but before he could react—she was already gone.
A faint sound followed—the delicate plink of a single drop of water falling onto stone.
Flester's instincts flared. He spun around, his pulse quickening—but it was too late.
Aira stood behind him, her dark blue sword raised, its razor-sharp edge just an inch from the back of his neck. The blade caught the sunlight filtering through the leaves, glowing like a strip of oceanic fire. The air between them went still—heavy, silent, and final.
Flester froze. His eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat. He could feel the faint chill radiating from the sword's surface.
He had lost.
Aira lowered her weapon slowly, her face as calm as ever. No pride, no arrogance—only quiet precision.
Night let out a faint sigh from the sidelines. The old man's expression didn't change much, but there was something subtle in his eyes—understanding, perhaps even faint amusement. He knew how much Flester had held back, how many of his abilities had gone unused. But when his gaze drifted to Aira, he saw the same truth reflected in her.
Both of them were holding back. Both of them had fought with only fragments of what they truly were.
The clearing fell silent once more, broken only by the wind brushing through the trees.
The duel was over.