Ethan was caught completely off guard by Kael’s sudden proposition.
Spar? His mind thundered with confusion.
Why would Kael want to spar me now? And why so soon, right after that gruesome battle? Googlᴇ search n͟o͟v͟e͟l͟f͟i͟r͟e͟.net
The bewilderment etched itself across Ethan’s face, betraying his unsettled thoughts.
Kael, reading the silent question, gave a calm, assured smile.
"It’ll just be a spar," he said plainly.
"A normal spar. Since you’re not a spiritual cultivator, I won’t use my spiritual energy during it, and neither of us will lose anything vital. But you might gain something from it."
Ethan frowned, reluctantly chewing on the words.
The bloody scene he had just witnessed still clung to his mind, a macabre shadow that refused to let go.
His body still throbbed with the ache of witnessing such raw brutality.
He didn’t understand Kael’s intention—what "something" could he possibly gain from duking it out in a simple spar after everything?
Yet beneath the haze of questions, a flicker of rising confidence flared within him. He lifted his eyes to the pale sky above the battle arena as a steady breath settled in his chest. He had opened his Spirit-Eye, learned to interpret the flowing Qi that shaped the world, the Celestial Jade Physique Scripture pulsed within his bones like a hidden engine of power.
He could at least meet Kael on equal footing in strength.
I’ve come this far... I can face him.
The decision settled silently in Ethan’s mind, and with a slow, resolute nod, he gave his answer—accepting Kael’s challenge to spar.
Kael’s eyes gleamed for a moment, as if pleased by the answer. Then, shifting his gaze forward, he said knowingly.
"Let’s head back first and pick up our weapons. I said no spiritual energy or special techniques, but weapons are necessary in a spar. You’re a physical cultivator, if I come at you with only fists, I might not even know what would happen. Fighting you barehanded would be too risky."
Ethan’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief, lips twitching in a wry expression that screamed Are you joking? The memory of the first day lingered like a bad omen—when Kael had slammed the door open with such fierce power that Ethan nearly died just from the shock of it.
You think fighting me barehanded would be risky? But no words escaped; he kept that thought buried and followed silently.
On the way back to his hut, Ethan felt conflicted about what to do.
He could draw the Moonflood Reaper right now, conjure the scythe from the system inventory, and march straight to the arena.
Yet that would be suspicious, like brandishing an unknown, rare weapon from thin air—a move any cultivator would question immediately. The subtlety required was staggering; it would make more sense if he had a spiritual ring. Such rings were common among spiritual cultivators, serving as vaults for weapons, elixirs, talismans, and other precious tools.
Ethan gripped the hilt of the scythe with a steady hand.
The Moonflood Reaper shone with its unmistakable celestial blue, the blade’s surface fluid and moonlit, as if water immortalized in shimmering metal. Its curved crescent gleamed with soft radiance, rune marks dancing faintly across the blade, shifting in patterns only visible if you looked long enough. The shaft of the scythe was polished obsidian, cool and balanced, designed not simply for wielding but for becoming an extension of the wielder’s will.
Reflecting on it comforted Ethan, reminding him that although this was exile, he was not alone in power.
At the arena’s edge, murmurs grew louder as Ethan approached. Whispers carried on windy breaths, each phrase tilted with suspicion and fear:
"Is he really going to spar with Kael?"
"Why now? What’s Kael thinking?"
"That kid’s had no experience here—this can’t turn out well."
Yet Ethan pressed on, ignoring the chatter like distant thunder. The voices followed him along the path with echoes of doubt, but he did not pause.
Passing through clusters of sparring cultivators and practitioners, he sensed eyes locked on him—some scrutinizing, some fearful, many whispering. But none dared challenge or approach directly as he made for the sparring arena, determination shaping each step.
Finally, he reached the arena—a smaller, more intimate circle surrounded by simple stone bleachers worn by years of watching desperate fights.
There, seated with relaxed confidence, was Kael—clad in weathered black robes, massive battle axe resting on his shoulder. The axe was a striking weapon.
The broad blade curved like a crescent moon, its edge honed razor-sharp and bordered with a subtle frost that shimmered faintly in the light. Ancient symbols, worn but still visible, were etched deeply into the metal—markings that whispered of uncounted battles and divine blessings. The shaft, thick and sturdy, was wrapped in blackened leather strips, worn soft from decades of grip, ending in a counterweight balled with chipped obsidian for perfect balance.
Kael’s expression was neutral but calculating as he noticed Ethan approaching, the blue Moonflood Reaper glinting in Ethan’s hand.
"That’s a nice weapon," Kael remarked casually, eyes flicking over the shining scythe.
He stood slowly, the battle axe sliding from his shoulder with a low metallic rasp as he tested its weight.
"Let’s wait for the current spar to finish before we start," Kael said in a playful tone that seemed to soften the tension like a whispered joke. "We can’t just interrupt a fight, can we?"
Ethan studied Kael with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He could never quite unravel the man’s layers—sometimes serious, precise, and ruthless, other times playful, teasing, almost lighthearted. Kael was a puzzle wrapped in contradiction, and Ethan’s patience to decode him was still thin.
As the last blows of the nearby sparring match landed, bodies twisting and striking, the pair watched silently, both readying themselves.
When the final bell—or what passed for one in this forsaken place—sounded, Ethan and Kael moved to the center of the arena.
They faced each other, weapons poised, eyes sharp with intent.
The unspoken challenge ignited between them—the first meeting of what could be friend, rival, or something more perilous still.
The battle was about to begin.