Chapter 45: Hands in Pockets vs Sword

  Pow-Pow watched Darek with a skeptical expression.

  “A forceform conversion with only a hint of arrogance?”

  Darek immediately felt a subtle, almost intangible wave flow through his body. It was not a surge of energy, not a sudden boost of strength, but rather a quiet awakening. His perception sharpened, and he became aware of every single fiber of his body.

  It did not feel like strength.

  It felt like understanding.

  He sensed the tension in his muscles without them tightening. He felt the balance in his feet, the shift of his weight, the minimal play of his joints. Everything seemed clearer, more structured, as if someone had lifted a veil from him.

  For a fleeting moment he even had the feeling of becoming lighter, almost fragile. Not fragile in the sense of weak, but reduced to the essential. Every unnecessary resistance seemed to leave his body. A faint golden shimmer surrounded him, so subtle that one would only notice it when looking closely.

  He suddenly understood intuitively how he should move. This understanding was not new; it felt natural, as if he had always known it and had merely forgotten. The fighting technique that arose from this slight arrogance was not a practiced style but a natural consequence of his mindset.

  His posture changed instantly. His chest opened slightly, his chin lifted just a fraction, his gaze remained calm and directed straight ahead. No instinctive defensive reflex, no hesitation. His pulse slowed, calm and controlled, settling into a relaxed and steady rhythm.

  He did not stand like someone who had to fight.

  He stood like someone who expected to win.

  Iris observed Darek with visible curiosity. She too wanted to know what effects other dream creatures had on him and how much his posture changed when he chose a specific emotion.

  Darek’s gaze deepened. Not more serious, not more confident in the classical sense. It was something else.

  Something colder.

  His expression did not seem tense but superior, as if he had already evaluated the situation and declared the outcome decided.

  There was something condescending in his eyes.

  The third leader noticed it immediately.

  A battle-hungry smile flashed across his face, not angry but almost pleased, as if he had been waiting for exactly such a provocation. His gaze sharpened, grew more energetic, and he slightly increased his pace.

  The way Darek looked at him was not openly hostile, yet it was clear and provocative enough.

  “Are you underestimating us Silvarans?”

  His voice was calm, but beneath it vibrated something that left no doubt that this question was more than simple curiosity.

  “Iris, did you know that for us humans an attack on the ego can sometimes hurt more than a cut across the throat?”

  “Hm. Strange, you humans,” she replied dryly. “Hard to believe, but fine.”

  Darek lowered his gaze only slightly and whispered quietly:

  “Vision.”

  In that moment his perception changed.

  His field of vision did not become sharper in the usual sense, but more layered. Movements appeared clearer—not faster, but more understandable. He noticed subtle air currents, saw how the wind carried dust particles, how fabric tensed slightly even before the muscles beneath it moved.

  Every shift in space suddenly had direction, origin, and consequence.

  The knowledge he had gained through the forceform conversion now became structured. What had previously been an instinctive understanding of his body now connected with a precise analysis of his surroundings.

  His gaze lowered slightly, though not out of uncertainty.

  It became even more condescending.

  The certainty granted by Iris’ vision strengthened his inner sense of superiority. His chin lifted slightly again, almost imperceptibly, yet clearly enough to be noticed.

  It felt like a cycle.

  The additional clarity from the vision strengthened his arrogance, and that arrogance in turn intensified the effect of his forceform conversion. Each reinforcement fed the next until both interlocked like the gears of a mechanism accelerating itself further and further.

  Darek still stood exactly where the third leader had challenged him. He looked open, relaxed, almost calm. He even let his left hand casually slide into his pocket.

  That posture alone was a provocation.

  It was not an open insult, no spoken mockery, yet the casual certainty with which he stood there bordered on ridicule. A silent belittlement that noticeably hardened the third leader’s gaze.

  When he saw Darek slide his hand into his pocket, it was enough.

  The ground beneath his feet seemed to explode in a cloud of dust. For the blink of an eye, the spot where he had just stood was nothing but swirling earth.

  It took less than a second.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The next moment he stood directly in front of Darek.

  To untrained eyes it might almost have looked like teleportation. The roughly seven meters that had separated them only moments ago had been crossed in a single explosive burst. His movement had not been frantic, but precise, direct, perfectly controlled.

  He stopped only an arm’s length away.

  “Let’s see just how brave you really are.”

  His voice was calm, but now it held no restraint at all.

  A left hook shot toward him.

  But Darek had already seen the movement before the fist had even fully begun its path. Not the hand itself, but the minimal rotation of the shoulder, the tension in the back, the shift of weight in the stance had prepared him.

  He did not even look toward the incoming strike. His eyes remained locked on those of the third leader.

  Darek did not move.

  Only at the very last moment did he lean his upper body back ever so slightly—perhaps a single centimeter.

  The gaze.

  The timing.

  Nothing more was needed.

  The fist passed so close to his nose that he could feel the rush of air against his skin.

  The third leader reacted instantly. Even as his hook cut through empty space, he shifted his weight low, used the momentum of his rotation, and allowed his body to continue spinning. From that movement his heel snapped toward Darek in a powerful kick.

  But Darek had seen that coming as well.

  He sank smoothly into a crouch, without haste, without visible urgency, and the returning kick swept just as narrowly above him as the hook had before. The heel sliced through the air exactly where his head had been a moment earlier.

  To an outside observer it might have looked as if Darek had barely escaped.

  But for him it was not escape.

  It was arrogance.

  The third leader had not expected such an outcome, and it showed clearly on his face. Fine lines appeared on his forehead, his gaze narrowed, and without any further delay he pressed the attack from close range.

  A rapid double strike followed, left and right, immediately after a rotation into a deep body hook, followed by an explosive right uppercut. The four blows came in a flowing combination, executed with great speed and enormous force. Each cut through the air with a dull thunder that echoed through the circle of spectators. His breathing bursts and short battle cries emphasized the power of the movement.

  But this time Darek did not dodge.

  He caught the first strike with his open right palm, redirecting it slightly to the side without altering his posture. The second he blocked just as calmly, as if he were merely brushing aside an annoying movement. The following body hook struck his prepared forearm, which instinctively protected his ribs, and the uppercut he stopped casually before it could reach its full impact.

  His left hand still rested in his pocket.

  It did not look like a defense born of necessity.

  It looked like a casual dismissal.

  The third leader jumped a step back to regain his focus.

  He had not expected that.

  Neither had the spectators surrounding them.

  The crowd had suddenly fallen silent.

  Many stood with their mouths open, unable to process what they had just witnessed.

  No one had expected such skill from a foreign guest.

  Darek said nothing.

  He still stood in his original position, his gaze unchanged—calm and condescending.

  Then he slid his right hand into his pocket as well.

  The gesture was small.

  Almost insignificant.

  But its meaning was enormous.

  For the third leader it was an insult.

  For the spectators it was a provocation.

  For Darek it was nothing more than a game.

  He stood there with both hands in his pockets, as if he were not in a fight but in a conversation that only mildly interested him. No defensive reflex, no tense twitch of muscle—only that calm, condescending composure.

  The message was clear.

  He did not feel threatened.

  And that made it unbearable.

  “Hahaha, not bad. Just my kind of style,” Pow-Pow said with amusement, while Iris merely rolled her eye slightly.

  The third leader swallowed.

  Thoughtfulness and barely concealed shock mixed across his face before he finally spoke.

  “How do you intend to win without truly fighting? You are only mocking me.”

  For a moment his voice lost its calm authority and instead gained a sharper edge.

  “You asked for this.”

  His posture changed almost imperceptibly. The controlled calm from before gave way to a focused determination that made it clear the next attack would no longer be a test.

  The third leader shot forward again.

  Dust erupted as his feet left the ground with raw power.

  In the same movement he drew his sword.

  The blade flashed as it cut through the air with a sharp, vibrating sound.

  Darek’s gaze did not leave him for a single second.

  The blade struck.

  With a clean, precise motion it slid through Darek’s throat.

  A short, cutting sound.

  Then silence.

  For a breath nothing happened. The moment stretched, as if time itself hesitated to accept the result.

  Only afterward did blood emerge from the wound. At first as a dark line, then as a heavy surge that poured over his clothes and stained the dust on the ground red.

  The third leader felt his stomach tighten.

  He had not expected a hit.

  Not after what he had seen before.

  Why hadn’t Darek read the strike?

  Why hadn’t he dodged?

  Unrest erupted among the spectators. Shouts echoed through the circle of onlookers, people stumbled backward, some covered their mouths in horror. Even the bears seemed disturbed as the metallic smell of blood filled the air.

  And yet Darek was still standing upright.

  Blood ran down his chin.

  His expression remained unchanged.

  The third leader froze.

  How could this happen? the thought shot through his mind.

  His fingers lost their strength. The sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. While his mind struggled to comprehend what he had just seen, the stability left his legs and he sank backward onto his seat.

  Disbelief and pure shock spread across his face.

  Then something even more unbelievable happened.

  No more blood flowed from Darek’s wound.

  Instead, red dust drifted out of the opened throat, as if his body were dissolving into fine particles. The dust swirled through the air for only a brief moment before closing again and sealing the wound seamlessly.

  Skin met skin as if the cut had never been made.

  Darek smiled faintly.

  “Looks like I won. You’re on the ground.”

  Shock spread through the spectators.

  No one understood what they had just witnessed.

  The screams faded.

  The murmuring dissolved into a heavy silence.

  The third leader could not speak.

  His lips moved, yet only a broken stutter escaped as he desperately tried to form the right question.

  Darek looked down at him.

  “And I didn’t even have to fight.”

  Pow-Pow burst into loud laughter, clutching his stomach and nearly collapsing onto the ground from how amusing he found the scene.

  Always a cool line ready, huh? Iris asked dryly in Darek’s thoughts.

  The third leader blinked, still dazed, as if his mind were chasing after what had just happened.

  Slowly he stood up, picked up his sword, and returned it to its sheath with a controlled motion. Afterward he brushed the dust from his clothes while his gaze noticeably changed.

  Now he was serious.

  “Your manner and your style are truly unique,” he said calmly. “I cannot name exactly what it is, but insulting it certainly is.”

  A brief moment of silence followed.

  Then he nodded once.

  “Passed. The guest Darek is hereby granted access to the Trial of Courage.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd.

  Darek smiled slightly and bowed politely.

  “Thank you, Third Leader. I would like to begin the trial immediately.”

  His politeness stood in such stark contrast to his fighting style that the third leader watched him with skepticism for a moment. His gaze lingered on Darek as if searching for some hidden intention.

  Then the skepticism faded.

  A faint, almost mischievous smile appeared.

  “I will prepare the trial immediately. It will take place in Silvara’s underground arena. Simply follow the crowd.”

  He gestured toward the now significantly grown mass of people. Many spectators had already begun moving, driven by curiosity and excitement, flowing down the path that led deeper toward the center to continue watching the spectacle.

  Darek only nodded briefly and turned toward his companions.

  Iris floated calmly in the air, still seeming mentally focused on the fight. Pow-Pow was half lying on the ground, still amused, wiping tears of laughter from his face. Seraphis, on the other hand, stood slightly apart and still seemed somewhat absent, as if his focus was not entirely here.

  “Hahaha, you really did that perfectly,” Pow-Pow said while slowly pushing himself upright. “You’re far crazier than I thought.”