The second morning of training brought a crowd.

  Zairen arrived at the guild yard to find it more populated than yesterday—at least twenty adventurers scattered across the space, most of them running drills or sparring, but several positioned near the fence in a way that suggested observation rather than training. Word had spread that Sylvan Greymane was personally coaching a C-rank for the tournament. People were curious.

  Sylvan stood in his usual spot, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But his eyes tracked the watchers with the same assessment he'd given Zairen yesterday. The man missed nothing.

  "Crow," Sylvan said as Zairen approached. "We have an audience today. Try not to disappoint them."

  "I'll do my best," Zairen said neutrally.

  "Your best is what I'm hoping to see." Sylvan gestured toward the sparring circle. "Same warmup as yesterday. Hundred strikes. Then we'll try something different."

  Zairen moved to the dummy, feeling eyes on him from multiple directions. He settled into stance and began the repetition. Strike after strike, mechanical precision, no wasted motion. The rhythm was almost meditative, allowing his mind to process while his body worked.

  Strike thirty-two: A pair of fighters near the fence had stopped sparring to watch. One of them was tall, broad-shouldered, with the build of a brawler. The other was lean, quick-looking, with daggers at her belt.

  Strike fifty: Sylvan was circling again, but this time his observations felt performative—showing the watchers what to look for. "Notice the consistency," he said, loud enough to carry. "Same depth, same angle. That's what discipline looks like."

  Strike seventy-five: Zairen let himself sweat properly this time, let his breathing show effort. The performance was becoming automatic, a second skin he wore without thinking.

  Strike one hundred: He stepped back, lowered the blade, controlled his breathing into recovery pattern.

  Sylvan approached, examined the dummy, nodded. "Good. Now the different part." He turned to address the yard. "Anyone want to volunteer for a demonstration?"

  Several hands went up. Sylvan's gaze swept over them, calculated, then settled on the broad-shouldered brawler. "Korvin. Circle."

  The man grinned—all confidence and swagger—and vaulted the fence in a single smooth motion. He was Zairen's height but probably fifty pounds heavier, all of it muscle. His hands were wrapped in fighting tape rather than holding weapons. A striker, then. Probably Earth affinity based on his build and the way he moved—heavy, grounded, immovable.

  "Rules," Sylvan said as they entered the circle. "Standard spar. First to three touches or submission. Keep it clean."

  Korvin cracked his knuckles. "Ready when you are, Crow."

  The nickname had stuck already. Zairen didn't mind—it was better than his real name being widely known. He settled into guard, sword held ready.

  They began.

  Korvin opened with a testing jab—fast for his size, but telegraphed. Zairen slipped it, didn't counter, just maintained distance. The bigger man grinned and pressed forward, throwing a combination—jab, cross, low kick. Zairen blocked the punches with his blade's flat, stepped back from the kick.

  "You just gonna defend?" Korvin asked, still grinning.

  "Until I see an opening," Zairen replied.

  The brawler lunged, committing to a heavy overhand. Zairen's Predator's Insight screamed solutions—sidestep left, strike exposed ribs, 96% success rate. He ignored it, blocked high instead, letting the impact drive him back a step. Made it look like Korvin's strength was overwhelming.

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  But he'd seen what he needed. The man dropped his guard slightly after big strikes, relying on recovery speed rather than maintaining defense. Exploitable, but doing so too obviously would look wrong.

  Korvin pressed the advantage, throwing another combination. Zairen gave ground, blocked, deflected, waited. On the fifth strike—another overhand—he didn't block. He stepped inside the punch's arc, too close for the brawler's reach, and tapped his blade against Korvin's ribs.

  "One touch," Zairen said, stepping back.

  Korvin's grin faded slightly. "Lucky."

  "Maybe."

  They reset. This time Korvin was more cautious, feinting before committing, testing Zairen's reactions. Good adjustment. The man wasn't just strong—he could learn mid-fight. Zairen filed that away.

  The second exchange lasted longer. They traded positions, Korvin throwing strikes, Zairen defending and occasionally countering. The watchers had multiplied now—at least a dozen people lined the fence, including the lean woman with daggers and several others Zairen didn't recognize.

  On Korvin's eighth strike—a low sweep kick—Zairen jumped it, landed, and immediately lunged. His blade tapped the brawler's shoulder before the bigger man could reset his stance.

  "Two touches," Zairen said.

  Korvin's jaw tightened. The easy confidence was gone now, replaced by focused aggression. "One more."

  The third exchange was faster, harder. Korvin abandoned caution, pressing forward with combinations that required Zairen to give serious ground. The man was strong enough that blocking too many strikes would look suspicious—humans tired, blades were knocked aside by repeated impacts. Zairen had to make it believable.

  He let a punch slip his guard, took a glancing hit to the shoulder. Not hard enough to injure, but enough to look real. The watchers murmured. Korvin's confidence surged.

  There. The opening. Korvin overcommitted on a follow-up strike, his guard dropping for half a second. Zairen's blade flickered out—not fast enough to be inhuman, but quick enough to beat the recovery—and tapped the brawler's neck.

  "Three touches."

  Silence for a moment. Then Korvin stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and grinned again. "Clean work. You're faster than you look."

  "You're stronger than I'd like," Zairen replied honestly.

  That earned a laugh from the brawler. "Fair. Good match, Crow."

  They exited the circle. Sylvan nodded approvingly. "Notice what happened there?" he said to the watchers. "Crow didn't try to match strength with strength. He used distance, timing, and patience. That's tactical intelligence."

  The lean woman with daggers caught Zairen's eye. She was maybe his age, with dark hair cut short and eyes that catalogued everything they saw. "I'm Nyla," she said. "Rogue specialist. You fight like you're waiting for something."

  That was the second time someone had said that. Zairen kept his expression neutral. "I fight like I was taught."

  "Who taught you?"

  "Valerius the Duelist."

  Her eyebrows rose. "The Valerius? I heard he doesn't take students anymore."

  "He made an exception."

  "Lucky you." She studied him for a moment longer, then smiled—sharp and calculating. "I think we'll see each other in the tournament."

  "Probably."

  She walked away, but Zairen felt her attention linger like a physical weight. Another observer. Another person cataloguing his movements, looking for patterns. The tournament hadn't even started, and he was already being scouted.

  Sylvan called him back to the circle. "Again. This time against Nyla. Let's see how you handle speed."

  The morning continued like that—sparring matches against different opponents, each one showcasing a different style. Zairen won some, lost others, always making it close, always making it believable. By the time Sylvan called an end to training, three hours had passed and Zairen had fought seven different people.

  "Good work," Sylvan said as the yard began to empty. "You're adaptable. That's going to matter in the tournament."

  "Thank you."

  "One thing, though." Sylvan's eyes locked onto his. "You're still holding back. I can see it. The question is why, and how much."

  Zairen met his gaze steadily. "Everyone holds back in training. Full commitment is how people get injured."

  "True." Sylvan nodded slowly. "But there's holding back, and then there's what you're doing. It's not just safety. It's..." He trailed off, searching for the word. "Calculated. Like you're running probability assessments mid-fight."

  The observation was too accurate. Zairen said nothing.

  "Well," Sylvan continued after a moment, "whatever your methods, they're effective. Same time tomorrow. Bring your A-game, not your careful one."

  He walked away, leaving Zairen standing in the yard, surrounded by the scattered evidence of morning training—scuff marks in the dirt, discarded water skins, the faint smell of sweat and leather.

  Two people now watched him closely: Sylvan and Nyla. How many more would notice before the tournament began? How long could he maintain the careful balance between competent and suspicious?

  Not long enough. He could feel the timeline compressing, the window narrowing. Something would have to give.

  He just hoped it wouldn't be him.