High above the Stillwater tribe, beyond prayer posts and wind-warped pines, the cliffs opened into a vast stone basin carved by forgotten tides.
The Sparring Hollow.
No homes were built here.
No fires were lit.
Only power was allowed to speak.
Chief Momon stood barefoot upon the pale rock, his presence impossible to ignore.
His body was massive — broad shoulders, corded arms, and a chest carved with ritual scars that glinted like polished ivory in the sunlight.
Golden tattoos snaked across his skin in intricate, flame-like patterns, hinting at the spirits fused within him.
His eyes were a stormy gray, piercing, as if he could see not only the body but the spirit of anyone who dared face him.
His long hair, dark with streaks of bronze, was pulled into a warrior's knot, yet strands whipped in the wind like banners of battle.
Across from him stood Turak.
Across from him, Turak waited.
Taller and leaner, his body seemed almost impossibly sharp — every muscle coiled and defined like tempered steel.
His silver spiral markings glimmered along his neck, ribs, and spine, faintly glowing in rhythm with the pressure rolling between them like an invisible tide.
Turak's eyes were a bright green, almost unnervingly vivid against his sun-bronzed skin.
His hair fell in loose, wild strands, catching the light with a metallic sheen.
A faint scar curved from temple to jaw, a remnant of some past duel.
They regarded one another quietly.
Then Turak exhaled.
The air bent.
Stone groaned beneath his feet as his body entered full spiritual circulation.
The markings along his ribs ignited pale blue.
Momon smiled slowly.
"So," he said. "You're serious today."
"You asked for it," Turak replied.
They moved at the same time.
BOOM
Their first collision split the air — forearm to forearm — shockwaves tearing dust, gravel, and loose stone into the air.
Both staggered, boots carving trenches in the basin floor.
Turak spun, elbow driven into Momon's ribs.
CRUNCH! Momon twisted, absorbing most of the blow, but the force hurled him sideways; a boot scraped stone, sparks leaping.
Momon countered — wide hook — THUD! Turak spun back, leaping onto a jagged rock, flipping midair.
CRACK! CRASH! The stone beneath fractured, splintered.
Turak landed, drove both heels downward — BOOM! Momon crossed arms, absorbing the impact; shards of stone exploded outward.
Momon surged, hurling Turak into a wall of jagged rock.
Turak flipped, countered with a spinning palm strike.
THWACK! Stone shivered beneath the force.
Both now fully in special-grade circulation. Tattoos ignited — golden and silver veins blazed across their bodies.
The air thickened, crushing, alive.
Loose stones vibrated violently.
BAM! CRACK! WHAM!
They traded blows so fast it was impossible to follow — fists clashing, knees smashing, elbows spiraling, shoulders colliding.
Each impact shattered rock, threw dust clouds, sent pebbles flying like hail.
Turak vaulted onto a cliff edge, kicked off, somersaulted — both fists smashing into Momon simultaneously.
BOOM! Momon caught the strikes, spun him over his shoulder — they slammed into the basin floor.
CRASH!
Rising instantly, Turak darted forward, spinning low — knees striking ribs, CRUNCH! Momon's stagger was barely perceptible.
Momon countered with a shoulder charge, flipping Turak onto the jagged stones.
BAM! The shockwave radiated across the basin.
They leaped, rolled, collided midair — spinning, twisting, colliding.
BOOM! THUD! CRACK! BOOM!
The hollow trembled.
Rocks fractured, dust plumes rising.
Birds screeched overhead, fleeing the chaos.
They locked foreheads — chest-to-chest, arms taut, breathing ragged.
Slowly, a grin broke across Turak's face.
"You're still impossible."
"And you refuse to fall." Momon replied, mirroring the grin.
A runner appeared, pale, frantic.
"Chief! Brenner found someone on the shore!"
Momon's laughter vanished. "…From the sea?"
"Yes."
The wind shifted.
Golden tattoos dimmed to a steady glow, silver spirals flickering.
Momon's eyes narrowed.