Caleb pressed forward through the throng of nervous trainees. The air was ripe with anticipation, and the earthy scent of leather oil mixed with fear-sweat. A scrying mirror dominated the far wall—a shimmering pane of polished silver offering a full, soundless view of the arena platform above. But the novelty was lost on him now, consumed by the stress eating at his stomach as Corinne and Mala took their final positions on the sun-drenched wood. Beyond the edge, Caleb could make out the blurred motion of the crowd—a sea of faces hungry for violence.

  The magic screen displayed their every movement with complete fidelity, as if he were looking through a window in reality. Corinne paced at the western edge of the platform, her chestnut hair catching Aurum's golden light as she settled into her stance. Her spear moved through patterns as she stared at her opponent, face alive with restless energy. Across from her, Mala stood stock still. Her thick shoulders were squared, feet planted wide like tree roots, her spear held with the casual confidence of someone who had never lost a strength contest in her life.

  Remember the plan. Caleb's hands clenched into fists at his sides. Stick to the plan.

  The other trainees crowded around the mirror, their earlier conversations dying to nothing as they watched their classmates prepare to draw blood. Leo stood beside Caleb, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of a nearby rack. Narbok leaned against the far wall, eyes hungrily fixed on the display. Even the usually boisterous Finn had fallen silent, sensing the gravity of the moment.

  Specialist Spinova moved between the two fighters like a surgeon preparing for an operation. Her white robes remained pristine despite traversing the dirt-pack tunnels, the bone charms woven into her hair twisting as she raised her palms. Caleb couldn't hear any incantation through the scrying mirror, but he watched pale golden light gather around her fingers. It's a slow process, Caleb noted, only really usable before a fight. The energy then flowed outward to envelop the girls one at a time in a faint, silvery shimmer.

  [Life Shield] activated, and the specialist retreated. The only thing standing between the combatants and a potentially fatal attack was her magic and a competitor's restraint.

  A single, piercing bell rang from somewhere above. The fight began.

  Mala charged.

  The attack was exactly what Caleb had feared—a straightforward rush designed to overwhelm through pure physicality. Mala's thick legs drove her forward with alarming velocity, her spear held low and angled upward in a rising thrust that would gut an unprepared opponent. The girl had always preferred the direct approach, using her superior strength to bulldoze through any defense.

  Corinne planted her feet and raised her spear in [Phalanx Guard]—a static, strength-based block designed to absorb the full force of an attack.

  The collision sent visible tremors through Corinne's frame. Her arms buckled under the tremendous force, her feet sliding backward across the wooden floor despite her desperate attempts to hold ground. The spear shaft in her hands vibrated like a struck tuning fork, and Caleb could see her face contort with pain and shock as Mala's raw power overwhelmed her defensive stance.

  Crumb! Caleb's nails dug into his palms. She was letting Mala set the pace, trying to meet force with force instead of waiting for her moment.

  Mala pressed her advantage. She had felt Corinne's weakness in that first exchange and moved to exploit it immediately. Her spear became a blur of controlled violence, each strike heavier than the last. Corinne jumped clumsily from a horizontal sweep at her knees. A rising strike from below nearly took her chin off. A high thrust to her shoulder made her duck and stumble.

  Corinne was being physically bullied across the arena, her face a mask of shock and growing panic. Each desperate block sent fresh shivers through her arms. Each step backward brought her closer to the platform's edge. The confident girl who had smiled at him just minutes ago retreated inward, leaving only a scared sixteen-year-old on the verge of being broken.

  Caleb's gifts fed him a clinical, alarming stream of data on every mistake Corinne made. Her timing was a half-beat too slow and her footwork purely reactive. She was letting Mala's aggression dictate the entire fight. Everything was wrong.

  The helplessness ate him up. He could see exactly what Corinne needed to do, could mentally trace the movements that would turn this disaster around, but he might as well have been on another continent. The soundless mirror showed him everything and allowed him to change nothing.

  Around him, the other trainees watched with fascination and apprehension. Some muttered quiet encouragements. Others placed hasty bets on how long Corinne would last. Leo looked like he was ready to pass out.

  Mala's spear shaft caught Corinne squarely in the ribs.

  The blow lifted the smaller girl off her feet and sent her crashing to one knee. Her spear clattered against the wood as she fought to keep her grip one-handed, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe around what was certainly a bruised rib, if not worse. Pain twisted her features into a grimace of agony.

  Mala raised her spear for a finishing blow, the tip aimed down at Corinne's exposed neck. The crowd's muffled roar grew louder, bloodthirsty expectation building as they sensed the approaching climax. This was what they craved—trainees fighting for survival, theory meeting blood and bone.

  Get up. The words hammered through Caleb's mind like a prayer. Get up!

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  The spear descended.

  As the weapon arced toward her, Caleb saw the exact moment the lessons clicked. The raw fear in Corinne's eyes sharpened into the controlled calm he knew from their long hours of practice. He didn't need to hear her thoughts; he knew the words that had just taken root because he had been the one to plant them there. Wait for the mistake. Let her over-commit.

  She rolled.

  The spear tip slammed into the ground where her head had been, sending a spray of splinters into the air. Mala's follow-through carried her forward, overextended and off-balance for a critical heartbeat. Corinne completed her roll and came up in a crouch, her spear held defensively but her posture completely transformed.

  Caleb saw the change instantly. Her core realigned as clear thought banished the last of her frantic desperation. Her stance had altered. Fluid movements replaced rigidity as she balanced on the balls of her feet. She held her spear loosely, poised to flow with the next attack. The desperate panic on her face smoothed into the attentive calm Caleb had drilled into her during their training sessions.

  Yes. Relief flooded through him so powerfully it left him lightheaded. That's it. Now think.

  The dynamic flipped.

  When Mala recovered and launched her next attack—a powerful overhead strike designed to split Corinne's skull—the smaller girl was no longer there to receive it. Her evasion was masterful in its simplicity. Instead of trying to block the blow, Corinne timed her sidestep perfectly, letting Mala's own momentum carry the spear harmlessly past her body. The larger girl's own strength sent her forward, unsteady and exposed. The spear tip gouged deep into the platform beside her feet, but Corinne was already moving, circling to Mala's weak side.

  Mala wrenched her weapon free and tried again. This time she thrust straight forward, putting all her strength behind a killing blow aimed at Corinne's chest. But Corinne wasn't there to meet it. Her spear caught Mala's just above the head, deflecting it with minimal force while she gracefully stepped outside the attack's line.

  The savage roar from the crowd above faltered, replaced by confused murmuring. This wasn't the straightforward brawl they had expected. The underdog wasn't just fighting back—she was making the favorite look clumsy and untrained.

  She's not just deflecting. Caleb's heart hammered against his ribs in excitement. She's reading Mala's rhythm.

  Through the mirror, he could see the frustration building in Mala's movements. The stocky girl had always won through overwhelming force, and now that force was being made irrelevant. Every powerful swing was met with an efficient parry that cost Corinne little effort. Every follow-up strike found empty air as she danced just outside of its reach.

  Mala's technique began to deteriorate. Her careful footwork became plodding and telegraphed. Her controlled strikes turned into wild swings powered more by anger than skill. She was making the classic mistake of the strength fighter—when finesse failed to work immediately, she doubled down on power.

  Corinne deflected a particularly vicious horizontal sweep and countered with a quick jab to Mala’s thigh. The move was deliberately shallow. Caleb recognized the setup instantly; it was a goading tactic they had practiced until it was second nature. As if on cue, Mala snarled and abandoned form, responding with predictable rage. It was working.

  Mala shifted her balance to her back foot, pulling her spear back until the head was almost to her shoulder. It was the clear telegraph for her most powerful attack, a lunging thrust designed to punch through any guard. At the same moment, Corinne deliberately made her footwork seem a little sloppy as she recovered from her previous attack, her balance a bit uncertain. It was an expert bait to provoke the right attack, at the right time.

  There. Caleb's [Combat Analysis] flagged the opportunity. Pride swelled within him as he realized Corinne had not only seen the opening, but had created it.

  Mala took the shot.

  The stocky girl committed everything to a massive [Breaching Thrust], her entire body behind the attack. It was the technique they had all learned from Captain Hatch, but powered by raw desperation and fury. Her spear shot forward like a ballista bolt, aimed directly at Corinne's apparently vulnerable center.

  From Caleb's perspective, watching through the mirror, he could see everything unfold as calculated. The telegraph. The fake opening. The overcommitment. His breath caught in his throat as the moment crystallized.

  Now!

  Corinne's "sloppy" footwork had been a textbook pivot. As Mala's spear thrust toward where she had been, Corinne dropped low and spun, her own weapon sweeping in a horizontal arc that caught Mala's leading ankle. The [Linebreaker Sweep] used the stocky girl's own momentum against her, and physics did the rest.

  Mala pitched forward, her powerful thrust carrying her past her target and sending her crashing heavily onto the platform. The impact drove the breath from her lungs and left her sprawled face-down on the scarred wood, her spear rolling away from stunned fingers.

  Before Mala could recover, Corinne's spear tip was at her neck.

  Mala stilled, eyes wide as her situation registered. She slapped the ground twice in submission.

  The bell rang again.

  The muffled noise from the crowd above cut out entirely for a single stunned heartbeat. When it resumed, it was a completely different kind of cheer—an explosion of shocked, respectful applause for the skill they had witnessed. Corinne had put on the clinic.

  A gasping laugh of unadulterated relief burst from Caleb's lips. He staggered back a step, one hand bracing against a nearby weapon rack as the stress that had held him rigid finally snapped. Amid the general roar filtering through the ceiling, a new sound began to grow, a rhythmic chant he could just make out.

  Juice Maiden! Juice Maiden! Juice Maiden!

  A fresh smile touched his lips. Gareth must have brought the whole kitchen crew. Around him, the other trainees' voices were full of awe and renewed confidence. Even Leo was grinning, the terror on his face having dissolved into vicarious pride.

  Through the mirror, Caleb watched Corinne help a stunned Mala to her feet. The gesture was genuine, but the brilliant, exhausted, triumphant smile was entirely for herself. And in that smile, Caleb saw everything. It carried more satisfaction than any System notification ever had. She had taken his lessons, adapted them under pressure, and emerged victorious through intelligence and grit.

  As he basked in that relief, the other trainees erupted into conversation around him. Some replayed Corinne's deflections with admiring gestures. Others muttered revised predictions for their own matches. Leo seemed like he might actually breathe again.

  Only one figure remained perfectly still.

  Caleb's attention snagged on Narbok, standing apart from the others against the far wall. The Mycari's expression remained flat. An analytical scrutiny, as if studying a problem that had grown more interesting.

  Their eyes met. Narbok's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk that didn't reach his eyes. Then he looked past Caleb's shoulder to the mirror, lingering on Corinne as she accepted water from Specialist Spinova.

  The smirk widened.

  A thread of unease roiled in Caleb's gut, displacing his earlier satisfaction. Before he could think on it more, the voice of one of Captain Hatch's aides cut through the celebration, ringing with command. "Morian Greenshade. Sabine Gibbs. You're next. Tanner, Mhuire, you're after them."