DUNCAN VARN vs. ARJUN HAGAR

Duncan stepped into the combat ring with growing apprehension, his opponent's reputation having preceded him through gossip he overheard walking up to the fight.

Arjun Hagar. A House Hagar prodigy. A Sword specialist from a noble lineage known for producing exceptional blade masters.He was low Initiate rank but with technique that made him dangerous above his official classification.

This is going to hurt, Duncan recognized immediately.

Arjun stood opposite with relaxed confidence, his single sword held in a stance that suggested decades of training despite his youth—probably sixteen or seventeen, but moving with precision that spoke to intensive instruction from his early childhood.

His eyes were unusual—irises showing faint golden luminescence that suggested an active core ability, some kind of enhanced perception that Duncan couldn't immediately identify.

"Ready?" Arjun asked politely, his tone carrying no arrogance despite his obvious capability advantage.

"No," Duncan admitted honestly. "But let's do this anyway."

The match proctor activated the combat matrices. "Begin."

Arjun moved with fluid precision—his sword becoming an extension of his body, his technique so refined it looked like a performance art rather than combat application.

Duncan activated Bone Guard immediately—defensive plating emerging from his skin, creating armor that should provide protection against the blade strikes.

Arjun's first attack came from an expected angle— a straightforward thrust that tested Duncan's defensive positioning.

Duncan blocked solidly, his Bone Guard absorbing the impact, his superior strength providing a foundation for his defensive strategy as he throwed in shots of his own.

That was until Arjun's sword twisted mid-strike—the blade changed angles impossibly, curving around Duncan's guard and finding a gap in his armor with surgical precision.

it was some kind of metal manipulation, Duncan recognized as shallow cuts appeared on his forearm. His opponent was controlling the blade's trajectory beyond normal physical constraints. Making his sword strike from angles that shouldn't be possible.

The golden eyes flared slightly—some kind of enhanced perception analyzing Duncan's defensive structure, identifying weaknesses, feeding data to Arjun's already exceptional technique.

Enhanced combat analysis, Duncan assessed, even as he was getting his ass handed to him.

Arjun was not just skilled. He had a core that allowed him to boost his base ability to unprecedented levels.

The combination was devastating.

Every attack came from an unexpected angle. Every strike found a gap in Duncan's guard. Arjun's metal manipulation made his sword behave like a liquid weapon, flowing around defenses, creating threat vectors that conventional blade work couldn't replicate.

And his enhanced eyes meant he wasn't guessing at weaknesses—he was seeing them, identifying them with precision that turned Duncan's defensive structure into a targeting map.

Can't block what I can't predict, Duncan realized with growing desperation. He couldn't defend when his opponent could see exactly where his armor was weak and had the ability to strike those points from an impossible angles.

He tried an aggressive counter—using his superior strength to force Arjun back, hoping his raw power could compensate for his technical disadvantage.

Arjun simply flowed around the assault, his movement economy making Duncan's powerful strikes look clumsy by comparison, his sword finding three more cuts before Duncan could recover his defensive position.

His foundation is at least better than most, Arjun observed, continuing his precise dismantling of the defense. His opponent possessed some form of bone armor as a core ability, yet Arjun noted the restraint—why rely on only that? Perhaps the boy was hiding his hand, unwilling to reveal everything in a public match.

Arjun never paused to consider the simpler explanation. Poverty.

Duncan, for the first time, truly felt the absence of a second core. Until now, it had never seemed like a loss—never something that mattered. But facing an opponent who could genuinely fight stripped that illusion away.

This wasn't a contest. It was a lesson, delivered with brutal clarity, each exchange a demonstration of just how completely he was outmatched.

The match continued—not because Duncan had a chance of winning, but because he refused to quit, refused to yield despite the accumulating cuts and obvious disadvantage.

His Bone Guard kept regenerating, his durability keeping him functional even as Arjun's precision attacks accumulated more damage.

"You're durable," Arjun acknowledged. "Genuinely impressive endurance. Most opponents would have yielded by now. But persistence isn't strategy. Refusing to quit doesn't constitute victory."

"I know," Duncan gasped, maintaining his defensive position despite exhaustion. "But quitting isn't an option. Not how I'm built. Not what I do."

Arjun's expression shifted—something like respect crossing his features.

"That's a warrior's mentality," he said.

His sword found Duncan's throat—blade-flat touch, demonstration that he could have ended the match at any moment, that Duncan's continued existence was courtesy rather than tactical failure.

"Yield," Arjun said gently. "You've proven your point. Demonstrated your durability and refusal to surrender. That's noted in your assessment. No need to continue taking damage."

Duncan stood for a moment longer, pride warring with pragmatism.

Then he lowered his guard. "I yield."

"Winner: Arjun Hagar."

The proctor still recorded the name Duncan Varn, noting the exceptional durability he had displayed—and, more importantly, the mental fortitude to remain standing and engaged long after the outcome had become inevitable.

Arjun offered a hand, a genuine respect in his expression. "You're going to be an exceptional tank once you develop your technique to support your natural capabilities. Right now, you're raw potential. Give yourself two years of proper Academy training—you'll be a formidable defensive specialist."

Duncan accepted the handshake, his pride intact despite the clear defeat.

I lost but I learned, he thought. Saw what real excellence looks like. Understood exactly how far I need to develop to match that capability.

That's worth the beating. Worth the demonstration of inadequacy.

Because now I know what I'm aiming for.

He left the ring, already processing the lessons, already cataloging Arjun's techniques, already planning how he'd develop his defensive capabilities to match that kind of precision.

Next time, Duncan promised himself. Maybe not next week or next month. But eventually—I'll close that gap. I'll develop a technique that matches my determination.

That's the goal. That's what Academy training provides.

And I'm going to achieve it.

However long it takes.

-----

The combat assessments continued throughout the day—hundreds of matches, systematic sorting, candidates demonstrating their capabilities while instructors catalogued strengths, identified weaknesses, assigned preliminary specialization classifications.

By evening, results were posted.

SPECIALIZATION ASSIGNMENTS - PRELIMINARY

The candidates gathered around display boards, searching for their names, discovering how Academy had classified them based on demonstrated capabilities.

The classifications would determine their training tracks, their instructor assignments, their development trajectories throughout their Academy education.

We're sorted, Bright thought, reading through the assignments.

Around him, candidates showed mixed reactions—satisfaction with assignments, disappointment with classifications, concern about development focuses that suggested challenging training ahead.

But they'd all passed. All survived both written and combat assessments. All earned their positions at Sparkshire Academy.

We belong here, Bright recognized.

Now we just have to maintain that standard. Now we just have to develop into what our classifications suggest we can become.

Now the real work begins.

The first day at Sparkshire Academy was ending.

Tomorrow, formal training would start.

Tomorrow, they'd discover what institutional education actually meant.

Tomorrow, they'd begin transforming from candidates into specialists.

But tonight—tonight they could rest.

Tonight they could process their performances, their victories and defeats, their preliminary classifications and development expectations.

Tonight they could be satisfied that they'd survived the sorting.

That they'd earned their places.

That they belonged.

Even if the road ahead promised to be harder than anything they'd yet experienced.

Even if the Academy training would push them beyond limits they thought they had.

Even if some of them wouldn't survive to graduation.

For tonight, they'd succeeded.

And that was enough.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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