First Blood

"Are we going to spar?" Amon’s eyes were fixed on the Cacela militia, studying their form and swings with quiet intensity.

"There’s no point," Lucian said. "From what I’ve seen, you’d crush me in close combat. And if we start at range, I’d probably have to hurt you to win."

"Then why are we here? Training with these weaklings won’t do me any good."

Calling them weaklings after only watching a few minutes was harsh, but… not wrong either. Not everyone in Cacela was a warrior, but in a border town, knowing how to handle a weapon was a valuable skill. Cacela was lucky to even have someone capable of shaping a militia in the first place.

"No," Lucian smirked, "you’re here because I want you to spar with that guy." He pointed at the instructor.

For a man his age, Barion’s body was carved by years of discipline. Sweat streamed down his arms and chest in the midday heat. His philosophy was simple: the enemy wouldn’t wait for perfect weather, so neither would he. The cadets wilted under the sun, but the heat only seemed to fuel him.

Lucian motioned for Amon to follow as they approached the small podium.
"Aren’t you torturing them a bit too much, old man?"

Barion’s stern face cracked into a smile when he saw Lucian.
"They can hate me all they want, but they’ll remember this when it saves their lives. What’s got you out here so early? You looking to give it a go?"

Barion knew Lucian well. He never joined the drills, but seeing his good mood, it was worth asking.

"Give your students a break, old man. Look at them, they’re about to keel over. Besides, I have something that’ll fire them back up."

Lucian gave Amon a nod. The two understood.

The cadets gratefully collapsed onto the benches, ravaging the water supplies. It didn’t take long before they settled and began whispering among themselves.

"Isn’t that guy a Valtherion? No way they’re gonna fight."
"You know Barion used to be a high-ranking officer in Silere, right?"
"Yeah, but the other guy’s a Valtherion! My grandpa says no one can beat them because they have those red blades!"
"That’s just a story. They might beat the capital's army, but they'd lose against Silere’s mages."
"Tell that to the scholars. The records tell a different story!"

Word spread fast in Cacela. Soon townsfolk were climbing onto poles and fences to get a better view. Lucian even spotted Flynn and Amy in the crowd. Amy turned away pouting when their eyes met, still mad about what happened earlier.

Amon didn’t react to the growing commotion. He stood in the center of the yard, unmoving, like a mountain that had always been there. He hadn’t even shifted his weight in the ten minutes it took his opponent to prepare.

Barion glanced at the crowd. Spotting Lucian, he grinned.
"Cheer me on if you want a good show, lad."

Lucian stayed still. With no one wanting to sit next to the infamous youth, he was easy to find in the dense crowd. But he didn’t care. Today, he’d have the last laugh. Amon might not win, but Lucian was confident the Valtherion would make the old soldier work for it, and it was a perfect way to assess his usefulness.

Barion shrugged off Lucian’s rude silence. Drawing his sword, he focused on the task at hand.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Ready?"

As if those words broke a spell, Amon drew his own blade.
"In my culture, a duel ends with first blood. Is that acceptable?"

Barion nodded.
"Amon, son of Hamrael, requests a duel."
"Barion de Cacela accepts."

They charged without hesitation. Steel met steel, the clash ringing through the yard. The difference in raw strength was obvious. Barion had to sidestep to avoid being driven to the ground.

Realizing the disparity, he quickly adapted. Shifting into a defensive rhythm, he began weaving and parrying, fishing for openings.
Amon kept the pressure up, leaving no gaps for a counter. He continued his assault, using his footwork to keep Barion locked in close combat.

The crowd clamored in awe, especially the Wavebreakers. They roared at every narrow dodge and skillful parry, shoving each other in excitement as neither fighter was ready to lose ground.

Finally, Barion landed a sneaky kick, breaking free.
"Amon, you said? You honor your name and people." His breath was heavy, showing how taxing the exchange had been.

Amon smiled faintly, then Barion’s stance shifted once again. Now he was wide open, inviting Amon to attack, but there was also a fire in his eyes. Lucian recognized that look. It was the same one Barion had worn in the Garden when they first met. The same look he’d had after their doomed three-day push through the Wildlands to slay an Exabiest… to slay Byakko.

Amon noticed too. He halted mid-stride, warned by his warrior instinct. A hasty approach might lose him the bout. He composed himself, analyzed his stance, and decided to switch his blade to his dominant right hand.

"You’re a tough one," Barion said, eyes narrowing. "But is that enough? Maybe you should get your real sword out?"

The crowd erupted.
"The crimson blade! I told you they were real!"
"He’s bluffing. Why use steel if he has one?"

Amon glanced at the cloth-wrapped weapon on his back.
"I have to disappoint you. That sword is not for sparring. If I draw it, the duel won’t end with first blood."

Barion’s grin widened. "What a shame. Come on, then."

Amon lunged forward. Both swords came arcing down into each other, the crowd held their breath, and with a loud steel clang,
the duel was over.

A thin red line appeared on Barion’s cheek, a few bloody beads welling.

The yard exploded in applause, half cheering for the victor, half stunned by the spectacle they had just witnessed. Amon lowered his sword, and the two men clasped hands.

"I see why the folks in the capital fear your people," Barion said, wiping the blood away. "But if every Valtherion fights like you, we should’ve become allies ages ago!"

"Don’t sell yourself short. If you were younger, I’m not sure I would have won."

Barion laughed, but froze when Amon drew a dagger and cut his own jaw, letting blood drip into the sand.

"Oi! You crazy lad? What are you doing!?"

"This was a test of strength, was it not?" Amon said, frowning at the confusion.
"In my culture, we honor the exchange. This way, we don’t chase glory by killing each other when all we seek is mutual understanding."

The crowd went silent, then erupted in roaring approval. By nightfall, Amon’s name was already a legend in Cacela, the feared Valtherion turned comrade. Even Amy had gotten over her rejection and was practically glued to the still unresponsive and slightly confused Amon.

Lucian admitted to himself he was a bit jealous of his instant fame. In the end, it didn’t matter though.

Screw the Castellan and his plans, screw Barion, screw Cacela.

With Amon, he finally had a capable ally, one willing to follow him deep into the Wildlands.