The Forsaken Hero-Chapter 929: Burden of Proof

"Again, apostle. Without holding back."

Luke lunged, his sword a blur of violet light. Fyren, standing across from him in the arena of Haven, met it with a casual swipe of his sword, sending the apostle stumbling back a step. The shockwave from the clash swept outward, blasting up the translucent walls of the runic barrier.

"Wow," Korra said, staring at the two. "They’re fast."

"Of course they are," Ernyst said, folding his arms, feet a few inches from the ground. "Even without mana, their physical bodies reach the upper stages of sixth-level."

I nodded, clasping a hand to my chest, watching as the two continued to spar. It was just the four of us, five if you counted Fable, a hundred if the remnants were taken into consideration. After our dance practice, Luke and Fyren met for a spar, but the intensity had quickly gotten them kicked out of the training rounds, as even without infusing their attacks with mana, they disrupted the weak barriers and distracted the mages training under Selena.

"Why did you tag along?" I asked.

Korra shrugged. "Seemed like fun. Apparently, Luke asked Gayron to look into something out of the city, so I had nothing better to do. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve seen either of them fight. I hadn’t realized Luke’s gotten so strong."

"You’ve only recently broken through. He’s nearing the peak of eighth," I said.

"Yeah, but it’s more than that." She folded her arms, frowning as the two met again, their swords a blur. "His sword’s better than Soltair, I think. At least, what I remember. I’m sure that bastard’s come a long way himself."

"Fyren trained them both," I said softly.

"Who would win in a fight?" she asked.

"I think Luke’s better with a sword, but Soltair...his ability makes him immune to most curses, and his magic’s overwhelming for a demonkin. If they were just sparring, I’d say Luke, but..."

I shrugged helplessly, wincing as Fyren lunged, pushing Luke back. His blade cut in a vicious arc, forcing Luke’s sword high. Luke stepped back, adjusting his balance, but Fyren pushed forward, erupting in a cloud of sparks. A thick, spined tail swept out of the flames, catching Luke on the side. He flew across the arena, slamming on his back and rolling a few times before coming to a stop, lying face up.

Fyren’s aura blasted the cinders away, revealing he’d taken his demon form. Twenty feet tall, the massive broadsword Elaine had given him looked like a dagger. The spikes along his back jutted out like thorns, and molten fire glowed in cracks between his scales.

"The hell is that?" Luke grumbled, rolling to his feet. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a long cut on his forehead. Even hit by the unexpected attack, he hadn’t drawn his mana. "I thought we weren’t using special abilities!"

Fyren’s flames swirled around him as he walked forward, shrinking back into his tall, humanoid form. "Did I use mana or an art?"

Luke wiped the blood from his face, scowling. "No."

"Then I haven’t broken our terms," Fyren said. He drove the point of his sword into the ground, crossing his hands on the pommel and leaning on it. "You’re single-minded and myopic when you fight. No matter how skilled you get, how many stances and techniques you master, it’s all useless. You knew I was a demon, yet your guard only worked against blades. What if I had a dagger hidden in my sleeve, or an archer hidden yonder?"

He gestured vaguely to the side. Luke scowled, his tail lashing, but he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"How am I to watch both your blade and everything else? You catch the instant I let my focus wander, and I end up in the dirt either way," he said, pointing with his sword at the long furrow he’d carved in the ground.

"It’s something all great fighters must learn for themselves, to be aware of everything on a battlefield at once. For some, it takes a few years. For others, a few decades. For you," Fyren said, giving a pointed look at the apostle, "it must be mastered in the few weeks you have left."

"I see." Luke raised his sword, striking a more defensive stance than before. "Please, continue to instruct me."

The two began anew, and this time, Luke fought slower. Not his movements, for his sword still blurred faster than my eye could follow, but in the rhythm of the fight. He took his time, testing Fyren, studying him, and occasionally, throwing a glance to the left or right. There was nothing that could threaten him there, not unless Fyren truly did use an art or technique, but Fyren didn’t punish the gestures either, letting him feel the battle out.

"Do you think you could take him?" I asked, nodding at Luke.

Korra let out a bark of a laugh. "Not a chance in hell. Almost all of my training in this style was done against monsters and demons. I’ve been with Gayron for a while now, and sparred with plenty of different remnants, but my style’s intrinsically better at fighting larger, non-human opponents."

"It must be hard for you to train, too," I said. "I mean, it’s not like you can use your power to break the armor or weapons of your sparring partners as you do in a fight."

"Yeah, that’s true, but I spend plenty of time practicing my arts on my own. I usually spar to sharpen my instincts and actual skill, kind of like these two are doing. But I can’t remember the last time I got to go all out in a fight."

"Not even with Gayron?" I asked, tilting my head.

She giggled, shaking her head. "No. Even his style’s the worst for me. I can’t turn around without him sneaking another flicker in and hitting me from a weird angle. I don’t mind the damned clones sneaking up on me when we’re messing around, but when we spar? It’s like fighting an army."

"Messing around?" I asked, tilting my head.

Her cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as she looked away. "Yeah, you know. Messing around."

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Some things, it seemed, were better not to ask.

Luke and Fyren fought for another hour, with Luke losing every single bout. I quickly bored and began idly browsing my runic dictionary, searching for some of the unfamiliar runes that had cropped up in my studies of the ninth-level tome. At the rate things were going, it would be another few weeks before I could even begin the practical tests. Not that I really intended to. Breaking into eighth-level had almost killed me, never mind ninth. I could likely gather enough mana through Adaptive resistance, but my soul just couldn’t handle it.

"Looks like the final round’s about to start," Korra said, nudging me with her elbow.

Sensing her excitement, I stored the book in my spatial ring and looked up. Luke looked exhausted, his shoulders slouched, and breathing ragged. Fyren hadn’t changed at all, his face impassive.

"You said I wasn’t worthy to protect her," Luke said, gripping his sword in both hands, pointing it at the demon. "What can I do to prove that I am?"

"What can you gain by proving anything? Will the gods die because you earn their respect? Will the elves bow their heads and accept surrender without a fight?" Fyren asked. "What does it matter if I deem you worthy or not? That you even ask should tell you everything you need to know."

Luke was silent, a shadow cast over his face. When he looked up, the exhaustion had vanished, burned away by violet resolve.

Fyren’s lip curled, and he raised his sword. "Good. Show me your resolve."

They met in the center, the clang of their steel echoing through the arena. There were no signs of the careful, reserved sparring from before. Every move was short and brutal, a clash of power and speed. This was no longer a lesson, but a true duel.

I watched, breathless, my tail twitching with every shockwave of force that swept past us. Korra stood transfixed, arms folded beneath her breasts. Even the remnants seemed on edge, watching with fascination as the fight unfolded.

Between the bursts of combat, during which I literally couldn’t follow their movements, I could see hints of what Luke had practiced before, woven into his stances and footwork. But now, it was all blended into a seamless style, fluid and deadly.

But, still, he broke like waves against Fyren’s cliffs, never so much as touching the hair on the demon’s head. Fyren’s sword was unerring, always finding the perfect angle to parry or counter, forcing Luke onto the defensive again and again, sometimes before Luke had even struck. Even more intimidating, he shifted from demon to human and back again, mixing in claw and tail strikes. Cuts began appearing on Luke’s body, and soon his clothes were soaked through with sweat and blood.

"Please, Luke," I whispered, holding my hands together. "You can do. I know you can!"