Cyrn's eyes slowly opened, his head pounding, stomach churning, and an overwhelming desire to eat something. Blood preferably.
Against every urge in his body, he rolled out of bed and fell to the floor. He eventually dragged himself up and started walking to his bathroom.
Cyrn swung his door open and was met with an interesting sight.
Guess El wasn't able to make it to his room last night.
There, on his couch, sprawled out and in the same shirt from last night, just incredibly stained, was this generation's greatest prodigy. The future is the strongest. Drooling with what seemed to be a throw-up bucket right next to him.
Cyrn walked over and nudged him awake.
"El, El, you gotta get up, it's time for class. I'm gonna take a shower, and clean up that bucket, it fucking stinks."
Elyon mumbled, then waved his hand. Golden flames burst from the inside of the bucket, incinerating the vomit till there was nothing left. Not even ash.
Huh, I really wonder what his affinity is?
Cyrn pondered the question as he walked to his shower, running it as hot as possible, then standing under it, letting the sins of yesterday wash away in a baptismal cleansing.
Ahhhh, this hits the spot.
Cyrn got out of the shower, renewed but still craving something to eat. As he left the bathroom, he saw Elyon sitting upright on the couch, eyes hollow, and golden flames surrounding his body. The longer the flame lasted, the more life seemed to return to his body.
After a few more seconds, he seemed to be working at full capacity once again, turning to Cyrn and smiling, "Thanks for letting me crash the night, and I've got good news."
Cyrn grew interested, "Oh, and what may that be?"
"Remember that Fight Club I talked about. Underground, illegal, and full of prospects for us to fight?"
"Yeah, that was the original purpose of us going out, 'information gathering,'" Cyrn said with air quotes, pointing out how their version of info gathering was drunkenly saying 'I love you bro' till one of them collapsed.
"Hehehe, well, I did actually accomplish some information gathering. Inside a run-down inn in the slums of Aureth Veil, there sits a building with a password needed to enter."
Cyrn nodded, "Ok, what's the password?"
Elyon paused, "I didn't get that far, but I know what the building looks like, so we can figure it out from there."
Cyrn dragged his hand across his face. "How do you expect to get in without a password, genius?"
Elyon laughed, "Ahh, naive Cyrn, have you forgotten my massive wealth? The beauty about this fight club's illegal nature is that bribery is common and effective."
Cyrn nodded, agreeing with the logic, "Alright, what's the plan?"
"You have classes late today, right? That's perfect. After your classes finish, we wander off into Aureth Veil's slums, bribe our way in, and you can fight while I bet on you. You get needed fighting experience outside of school, and I get to gamble."
Cyrn looked at Elyon, confused. "Since when do you like gambling?"
Elyon shrugged, "Never done it before, but who knows, if people can get addicted to it, it must be kinda fun. Plus, I'm never able to spend all my money, so this'll be a good spot to dump it, and maybe get something back."
Cyrn shook his head, This is a slippery slope if I've ever seen one.
"Just watch yourself, dude, you don't want to become one of those addicts."
Elyon waved his hand in dismiss "Bahh I'll be fine dont even worry. Go to class, I'll catch you sometime tonight."
Cyrn happily obliged, starting his stride down to the practice field for his practical combat class.
What even is practical combat anyways? I don't see how this will differ from Sword Sparring.
Minutes later, Cyrn arrived at the practice field, a group of students surrounding an elevated platform.
Soon, a grizzled man stepped up to the platform. A scar running down from the top left of his forehead to the edge of his jaw. One eye was grayed out, and his hair and beard were peppered lightly the same color.
He surveyed the students around him and then asked, "What makes someone the strongest?"
After a few moments to process the question, a few students raised their hands.
A boy closer to the front of the collection was called on, "Someone with the strongest SoulCurrent spells and Sword Techniques."
The haggard professor responded quickly, "Classic, and incredibly wrong. Next."
A girl closer to the back answered, "Someone who wins all their duels."
The professor answered, "Closer, but not there yet."
Soon, students were running out of ideas. "If someone always wins their duels, then wouldn't they be the strongest?" Chimed in a boy next to Cyrn.
The professor then answered, "Say the two strongest people on the planet were fighting in a duel, and then partway through, they are interrupted and killed by a third person. Which of those three people is the strongest?"
Most students said that the stronger person from the original duel is the strongest, but the professor corrected them.
"It is the third person. The strongest is not someone who always wins their duels, or has the strongest spells or techniques. It is the person who wins. Who comes out on top, no matter the situation? Regardless of the reasons they used to win the battle."
Many students of noble blood did not like this answer, with one speaking up, saying, "Is the third not dishonorable, and should be disqualified from consideration as the strongest?"
The professor responded quickly, "Honor and pride are worthless when determining the strongest. All that matters is your own victory and survival. We can measure how honorable you were after you lost. But it doesn't change that you lost."
"That is what this class is here to teach you. How to win. Not how to swing a sword, how to channel your SoulCurrent the best, but how to win, to survive. If you internalize anything I say in these upcoming months, let it be what I just told you."
Cyrn listened to the man's words, thinking Damn, this guy has seen his fair share of shit. I wonder if El thinks the same.
Before Cyrn could ponder the question any longer, his professor spoke up "I'm Professor Malen Orde. And for today's class, I want everyone to look around, assess the students that are all around you right now."
Cyrn and everybody else began to turn their heads, assessing who they were standing next to.
"Now…fight."
Every student stood there, staring at the professor like a deer in headlights.
"What do you mean, fight professor? Who do we fight?"
"Eachother, in whatever manner you so please. I need to see who's going to pass this class or not. So fight. And the last one standing gets a reward."
Everyone stood there in shock. Most of them had never battled outside a sparring ring. Controlled, supervised, non-lethal. But this was the opposite. Professor Orde gave no rules; he wasn't even looking at everybody else.
He'd pulled out a chair from nowhere along with a book that looked suspiciously risque.
No one had moved yet, and Professor Orde quickly chimed in "If you guys don't finish before this class ends, you all fail, and I'll have you expelled from the academy. We here at Faraam have no use for weaklings and losers. So fight."
I've fought, sure. But not like this. Not without rules. What does 'practical' even mean in a world like this?
Finally, the tension snapped, and the first person to move was Cyrn.
Let's see how far I can take this
The air was thick with fear. No one moved. No one even breathed. Orde turned the page in his book. Didn't even look up. And then—Cyrn struck. His sheath smashed into the boy's temple with a loud crack. One down. No reaction from the professor. Just silence. Then chaos.
Soon, others began to fight one another. A full battle royal between students. People grouping up to fight others, people going solo, and groups betraying one another.
Cyrn was by himself, overwhelmed by the number of people he had to fight all at once.
Being unfamiliar with everyone's fighting style around him, he was at a relative disadvantage, but his incredible constitution and adaptability served him perfectly in this situation.
He weaved through strikes like mist, swords, fists, daggers, fireballs, windblades, anything and everything coming from all directions. Some, but not all, meant for him.
He curled around someone's punch like a snake trapping prey, before taking his sword and whacking it at his opponent's knee.
A sickening crack was heard, the low sound reverberating in his ears, before his opponent fell.
This is fun.