Chapter 225
The applause and cheers still thundered across the arena, yet Eirunn's focus never wavered. Her chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of a controlled storm; the exoskeleton's hum matched her heartbeat, a subtle resonance vibrating through bone and metal alike. The crowd did not notice the faint shadow flickering along the rune-lined floor, a coiling darkness that trembled at her presence yet lingered, an omen rather than an enemy.
Harald Thryne staggered back, shield lowered, his pride battered more than his body. He had faced storms before, literal and metaphorical, but the Stormbreaker was unlike any tempest he had endured. Even the veterans in the stands whispered of her clarity, the surgical inevitability of her movements. "She… she is the storm," one muttered, gripping the railing as though to anchor themselves to reality.
Eirunn's attention shifted northward, to the growing tension at the arena gates. A herald ran across the sand, cloak whipping in the wind, delivering a single message: "Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane's vanguard has crossed the Forlorn March. The undead stir in the East." The words carried like a hammer strike, and the crowd's jubilation faltered as murmurs of fear rippled outward.
She did not flinch. Even in this charged moment, the calm of her pulse never faltered. Harald, sensing the shift, straightened, his eyes searching hers, not for hostility, but for guidance, for reassurance. Eirunn inclined her head once, sharply, signaling that they were not merely fighters in a spectacle: the world beyond the arena demanded vigilance.
The healing priests rushed Altan onto a wheeled litter, the boy's chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged gasps. His mind churned with visions of defeat, fury, and the Netherborn shadow that had clung to him during the fight. Every fiber of his being screamed for vengeance, yet every motion was now restrained, broken by the weight of the Stormbreaker's calm judgment.
A low rumble began at the edge of the arena. The rune barriers vibrated faintly, responding not to the crowd but to something older, deeper. It was as if the stones themselves remembered forgotten wars, whispered secrets in a language lost to time, and the shadows of the north began to stir in answer.
Harald straightened his back, pushing the remnants of fatigue aside. "Stormbreaker," he said, voice steadier now, a mix of awe and resolve, "we have faced death before. But I see now that this… this is something else. We must prepare. For them." He gestured toward the northern horizon, where the faint shimmer of necrotic light marked the first approach of Eirikr's undead legions.
Eirunn's gaze narrowed, eyes scanning the arena walls and the rune-lit floor beneath her boots. The battlefield had expanded. No longer was it only sand and steel, blood and skill. The currents of fate, thick with ancient hunger and half-forgotten power, were moving toward her, inexorable and patient. She lifted her chin, voice quiet but resolute, "Then we endure. We fight. And we survive the storm that comes."
The crowd, sensing a shift beyond mere spectacle, fell into a charged silence, the roar of cheering now replaced by the low hum of anticipation, fear, and awe. Soldiers, nobles, and mercenaries alike peered north, some gripping weapons, others clutching banners and prayers. The first cracks of thunder rolled overhead, the storm matching the tension of a world teetering on the edge of something colossal.
Eirunn stepped toward the arena gate, the exoskeleton's pistons whispering as they flexed. Every step was precise, measured, and yet carried the weight of inevitability. Harald fell in beside her, shield at the ready. Altan, watching from the healer's bench, clenched his jaw, bloodied pride fuming as his thoughts churned between hatred and fear.
And beyond the horizon, where the ice-kissed mountains of the north met the creeping shadow of the Forlorn March, Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane's legions, half rot, half bone, all intent marched onward. Each footfall echoed like a drumbeat of the apocalypse, a summons to the living to rise or be buried beneath the undead tide.
Eirunn's storm had ended the arena battles, but a far greater storm had begun. The sky above churned, rune-light flaring against rolling clouds, and somewhere in the distance, the first screech of the undead heralds cut through the wind.
She inhaled, letting the cold bite her lungs, letting the hum of steel and rune synchronize with the pulse of the earth. Her next fight was not here, not with cheering spectators or honor-bound clans but with death itself.
The Stormbreaker turned her gaze north, and for the first time, the arena was no longer the stage. It was merely the beginning.
The arena shuddered as the next round of the qualifiers began, a fusion of rounds, a chaos born of necessity. The organizers had merged the third and fourth stages, filling the sand with warriors who were supposed to fight later, yet many had bowed out, unwilling to test themselves against the storm that had become Eirunn Stormbreaker. What remained were the elite, the loyal, the brave, or the foolish.
Daniel stepped into the center, bare feet brushing the rune-etched sand, his cloak trailing lightly behind him. Around him, the remnants of the safe warriors, the ones Melgil and he had trained, had either won with ease or had already fallen, leaving only the names that mattered. The four clan leaders loyal to Ragnarm held their ground: Alva Valsmir, her axe gleaming with dark steel; Varrik Stonejaw Thryn, shoulders like a mountain ridge, warhammer ready; Eldra Ironveil, blades whispering along her gauntlets; and Bjorn Raskir, eyes like molten iron and a sword forged to split shields in half. Ragnar himself was absent, his title chaining him to watch the victor—but his shadow loomed over the competition like an invisible judge.
From the west, a contingent of Tengri-Born warriors arrived, their armor wind-laced and blades curved like the claws of storms. Their eyes were sharp, searching for the central and east Skald-Born challengers. Four veteran Skyrend clan warriors had also come, their presence commanding, silent in observation, ready to test the mettle of anyone daring enough.
But as the warriors aligned, the Tengri-Born noticed the tension first. The Skald-Born were not interested in the newcomers; their eyes were fixed on the second-round victor, the one who had taken Altan Khödan and Harald Thryne with a mixture of calm, precision, and cold clarity. Every muscle in the Skald-Born warriors tensed, ready, not for intimidation, but for the thrill of genuine combat.
Daniel drew the attention of the arena. The dagger in his hand glinted, a familiar tool of subtlety and speed, but then he let it fall. It struck the sand with a muted clink, leaving only his bare hands and body as weapons. The gesture was simple, almost silent, yet it spoke volumes: he would fight without tools, without artifice, relying on instinct, strength, and technique alone.
A ripple ran through the crowd. The Tengri-Born stiffened, exchanging sharp, muttered words. To them, such a gesture was audacious, arrogant even, an affront to the meticulous honor of combat. Weapons were proof of skill, of discipline; to discard them was to challenge not just an opponent, but the rules of engagement itself.
But the Skald-Born, those who had trained beside Daniel and understood his vision, leaned forward. Their anticipation was palpable, hearts pumping with excitement rather than indignation. They wanted to see the raw display of body against body, mind against mind, steel replaced by sinew and reflex. Daniel's decision had stirred the very pulse of the arena; the air shimmered with a tension neither weapon nor rune could contain.
The clan leaders shifted, recognizing the audacity. Alva tightened her grip on her axe, Varrik adjusted his stance, Eldra's gauntlets whispered across each other, and Bjorn's fingers twitched along his sword hilt. Yet even their war-hardened instincts caught on the electric thrill emanating from Daniel. This was no ordinary challenger; this was a storm distilled into flesh and will.
From the stands, whispers grew louder: "He fights with nothing… nothing but his body…" and, "…is he mad, or has he become something more?"
The Tengri-Born warriors snarled, stepping forward, restless and eager to assert dominance, yet Daniel's calm met their aggression. His eyes, steady and unyielding, scanned the field, not with arrogance, but with the quiet clarity of one who knew the weight of every heartbeat in battle.
The fusion of the round meant chaos: clan leaders, Tengri-Born, Skald-Born, veterans, and those meant for later fights all mixed into a single storm. But the eyes of the arena—the ones attuned to true power—saw the core of what mattered. Weapons were distractions; titles were chains. What stood before them now was raw intent, honed skill, and the quiet promise that what would come next could not be predicted, could not be resisted easily.
Daniel dropped into a simple stance, one foot forward, hands open, body relaxed yet coiled. Around him, the arena's atmosphere tightened like a bowstring. Skald-Born warriors whispered among themselves, eager to witness what their peer would reveal. The Tengri-Born scowled, their pride pricked. And in that moment, the battlefield became more than a test of strength, it became a crucible where skill, mind, and spirit would clash, unshielded, uncompromising.
The air thrummed, the rune-etched sand pulsed faintly, and Daniel took his first deliberate step forward. The third round had begun, and for the first time in this tournament, weapons were nothing. Only bodies, minds, and the storm within each warrior would speak.
The arena quieted, the distant hum of rune-light blending with the murmurs of the crowd, as Daniel stepped into the center of the fused round. The Skald-Born veterans, four in total, spread out like predators circling a quarry, each bearing the weight of years of battle and clan discipline. Their eyes locked onto Daniel, weapons raised, bodies coiled. But Daniel bore nothing, no dagger, no sword, only his bare hands, feet, and a body honed into a weapon itself.
He exhaled slowly, letting the air hum through his lungs, syncing breath with thought. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted his stance, a subtle rotation of the pelvis, the drop of the shoulder, the extension of the spine, a movement that spoke of a martial system evolved beyond mere strikes or blocks. The moment was a question: "Are you ready to meet the storm of flesh?"
The first veteran lunged, gauntlets swinging in a wide arc aimed at Daniel's head and torso. Daniel's body responded as one unified instrument. He stepped forward, pivoting on the ball of his foot, letting the swing pass over his shoulder while his forearm wrapped around the strike in a circular motion, energy redirected down into the attacker's wrist. The veteran staggered as his own momentum carried him slightly off balance. Daniel's free hand spun into an elbow strike to the ribs, shoulder driving forward, torso twisting like a coiled spring, snapping the man's breath inward.
The second Skald-Born warrior attacked from the flank, spinning low, dagger slicing through the air. Daniel dropped, his knees bending, hips rotating in perfect harmony. He swept one leg in a low arc, knocking the dagger aside with the precision of a pendulum, while his hands traced arcs through space, one slapping into the attacker's shoulder, the other pinning the wrist of the dagger hand, twisting until a grunt of pain erupted. His torso followed like water around a stone, absorbing, redirecting, flowing without pause.
A third veteran tried to capitalize on Daniel's split-second repositioning. He thrust a spear, aiming for Daniel's midsection. But Daniel rotated his shoulders and dropped his weight, letting the spear glance off his forearm while simultaneously vaulting low, sweeping the man's legs with the back of his ankle. The spear-wielder fell hard, the air hissing as Daniel's momentum carried him through a spinning elbow that clipped the jaw of the fourth warrior approaching from behind. Every part of Daniel's body, feet, knees, elbows, shoulders, torso, even his eyes—moved in coordinated succession, like a single weapon that could strike, defend, and pivot in a continuous wave of energy.
The crowd gasped. The Skald-Born veterans stumbled back in shock, realizing that Daniel's body alone had rewritten the rules of combat. The Tengri-Born warriors scowled, jawlines tightening; for them, fighting without weapons was a breach of honor, yet even they could not deny the precision, the ruthlessness, and the fluidity of Daniel's form. The loyal clan leaders, however, leaned forward, eyes wide with fascination. Alva Valsmir's axe hung loosely in her hands, and Varrik Stonejaw Thryn's hammer trembled as he muttered, "This… this is not arrogance. This… is art turned lethal."
Daniel pivoted, shifting from defense to offense in a single fluid motion. His forearms blocked incoming strikes like the crash of twin hammers, yet simultaneously, his elbows drove into knees, his knees into ribs, and his feet swept, kicked, or pivoted with mechanical precision. He spun low to evade a rising blade, whipping his leg upward into the veteran's chest mid-spin, the force snapping the man backward, his armor rattling. Every rotation, every step, every strike was layered—strike and counter, attack and reposition, flow and pause, a choreography of war that used the entire body as one continuous weapon system.
The crowd, previously tense and uncertain, now erupted into a mixture of awe and fear. The Skald-Born warriors stumbled as Daniel advanced with a wave-like rhythm, first feinting, then snapping with elbow and knee, twisting with shoulder and spine, sliding like water over sand, always in control, always two steps ahead of each strike and counter.
One of the veterans lunged for a double strike, aiming at Daniel's head and side. Daniel rotated inward, letting the first strike glance harmlessly off his shoulder, spiraled his torso, and delivered a spinning back-kick with the heel striking the man's sternum. The man arched backward with a loud crack, the crowd flinching at the force. Daniel followed instantly, lowering his stance, sweeping the legs of the final approaching warrior, pivoting into a low palm strike to the chest and a spinning elbow to the collarbone.
All four Skald-Born were down, staggering, gasping, barely able to hold themselves upright. Daniel stood in the center, breathing steady, every muscle relaxed yet ready, hands slightly open as if inviting the next challenge. The arena felt charged the air thick with the energy of precise violence, a demonstration that weapons were not required to dominate, that the body itself could be weapon, shield, and trap all at once.
The Tengri-Born whispered angrily among themselves, their pride pricked, while the loyal clan leaders studied Daniel carefully, minds racing to understand, to anticipate, to measure the storm before them. "He has taken the storm of flesh… and made it his own," Bjorn Raskir muttered under his breath.
The third round had just begun—but Daniel had already reshaped it. His body was not just a fighter, it was a master class in applied martial evolution. And the rest of the arena, from Skald-Born veterans to Tengri-Born challengers, understood in a heartbeat that nothing in this tournament would ever be quite the same.
The four downed Skald-Born veterans pulled away, bruised and stunned, as a deeper rumble moved across the arena floor. It wasn't the crowd—though thousands shouted in disbelief—it was the approach of those who now understood they could not wait any longer. Alva Valsmir stepped forward first, axe raised, Seiðr-light smoldering along its edge like burning frost. Varrik Stonejaw Thryn moved beside her, hammer low, feet rooted like bedrock, runes carving sparks across the sand with his breath alone. Eldra Ironveil slid into place with blades whispering along her gauntlets, Seiðr pulsing through her veins, painting her form in gleaming iron heat. And last was Bjorn Raskir, sword drawn with a roar of wind, his stance coiled with predatory intent. These were not ordinary warriors; these were clan leaders forged through wars, blood-oaths, and Seiðr mastery. Daniel stood at the center, barefoot and unarmed, not a drop of Seiðr flaring from his skin, just breath, calm, and a readiness sharper than steel.
Alva struck first, a sweeping arc meant to split ribs and spine. Daniel didn't move fast—he moved exactly when he needed to. His shoulder slipped beneath the swing as though the axe had always been destined to miss him. His palm slapped the back of her wrist, redirecting her momentum, and his elbow drove straight into her ribs. The hit wasn't brutal, but perfectly placed. Alva staggered, stunned not from pain, but from the knowledge that he'd found the exact weak rhythm in her strike. Varrik surged in a heartbeat later, hammer slamming downward with enough force to crater the earth. Daniel stepped inside the swing, hips turning as if he was merely adjusting his posture, letting the hammer crash harmlessly past him. His knee snapped upward into Varrik's thigh, then his shoulder rotated forward with a tight, compact strike that hammered into the warlord's jaw. The massive warrior stumbled back, more shocked than injured, no one had ever stepped into his strike, let alone controlled it.
Eldra attacked like a storm of metal, blades singing with Seiðr heat. Daniel pivoted with small angles, arms weaving through her slashes, forearms intercepting blade edges not with resistance but with redirection, using the natural flow of her technique against her. The second she over-extended by even a finger's breadth, Daniel twisted his spine, driving a hook-kick into her hip, snapping her stance open. His palm smacked the center of her chest, pushing her back—not harshly, just perfectly enough to collapse her footing. Bjorn came next, furious and fast, his sword thrust straight for Daniel's throat. Daniel's body coiled low, hips dropping, and he stepped under the blade, using his entire torso like a turning wheel. His forearm guided Bjorn's sword arm upward, and his other fist slammed into the warrior's sternum in a tight, compact punch that echoed like a hammer on wood. Bjorn stumbled backward, breath stolen, eyes wide with disbelief.
The four didn't relent; they attacked together, a dance of weapons, Seiðr, and killing intent. Alva's frost-lined axe cut down with Seiðr vibration, Eldra's blades slashed horizontally, Varrik's hammer tried to trap Daniel with earth-cracking force, and Bjorn's sword thrust with wind-laced speed. Daniel didn't meet them with speed, he met them with timing. He rotated his torso, letting strikes slide past his ribs by inches, every lean a calculated shift of balance. His palms and elbows struck like punctuation marks between their movements, correcting their angles, breaking their rhythm, sabotaging their intentions. A foot stomp shattered Bjorn's balance; an elbow crushed into Alva's bicep; a shoulder jab rocked Varrik back; a spinning knee struck Eldra's ribs. None were lethal blows, but each one carried the precision of someone who understood anatomy, breath, and instinct more deeply than any Seiðr master could comprehend.
Across the arena, the Tengri-Born warriors scowled. One spat into the sand, insulted at the idea that weapons and Seiðr meant nothing to this man. But even they could not deny the truth unfolding before their eyes. Daniel's body moved as if every limb, every muscle, every shift of weight was part of a greater language, one that predicted attacks before they were made, one that used every inch of his body to block, strike, and counter in one continuous motion. He was not fighting faster; he was fighting smarter than instinct itself. His arms blocked like shields, his elbows cut like blades, his feet swept like axes, his spine twisted like a whip, each motion crafted to end violence by understanding it.
The four clan leaders backed away, panting, eyes burning with disbelief and respect. None were beaten, but all had been disarmed of certainty. They stared at Daniel—not at a man without a weapon, but at a warrior whose entire body was an evolved martial art, one unspoken and undefeated. Around them, the air thickened, the crowd roared, and tension coiled between the Skald-Born and the Tengri-Born like sparks awaiting flame. With every calm breath Daniel took, every step he made, the understanding became clearer:
Weapons could break.
Seiðr could fail.
But a perfected body, mind, breath, instinct, was a storm with no edge to dull, no rune to disrupt, no armor to stop.
The round had only begun… and already, the arena's beliefs were cracking under the weight of something new, something dangerous, something unstoppable.
The Tengri-born did not wait for silence to settle.
Their voices rose in a rough, throat-deep chant, and strips of painted animal hide, bone slips, and crimson-inked paper talismans fluttered in their hands like wounded birds. Shamans along the outer ring slammed their staves to the stone, and the air snapped with raw sparks. This was their Fulu, their written power, primitive in look, but brutal in force. Flames serpentine across ink, symbols pulsing like open wounds, and then,
BOOM.
nemerous talisman, thrown like a burning knife, detonated at Daniel's location . Heat burst outward in a violent bloom.
The Skald-Born expected a dodge, the Tengri-Born expected a scream, the watchers expected a wound at last.
Instead, Daniel stepped into the blast.
A palm shot forward with perfect, brutal timing, not to block the flame, but to redirect the force behind it. His body curved with the shockwave, torso twisting, knees bending with the rolling fire like a dancer bowing to a drumbeat. The explosion, redirected by that split-second motion, bent backward in a distorted funnel of roaring heat,
And lashed straight toward its caster.
The Tengri warrior who had launched it snarled in disbelief, scrambling, only to be scorched by his own fire. The blast cracked against his shoulder, ripping cloth, burning flesh beneath armor. The crowd gasped, but the sound broke apart under the roar of the Skald-Born trainees,
"Drengr! Drengr! DRÉNG..R!"
In their eyes, this wasn't arrogance now.
This was art.
The Tengri-Born, anger boiling, surged again with another cluster of Fulu talismans. Their energy was strong. but wild. Their seals were fierce, but imprecise. They lacked the calm, iron discipline of Seiðr rune-casting. Each violent symbol they hurled was a storm without a direction, and Daniel read them like oversized arrows pointing directly at their owners.
Wild fire hurtled. Daniel slid under it.
Crackling lightning snapped. Daniel turned his hip and raised an elbow, letting the current scrape past like a blade glancing off armor. Static hissed across his skin but never found purchase. Another Fulu burst open mid-air, and he punched, not the explosion, but the pressure beneath it. The blast shattered sideways, scattering into harmless embers.
He didn't rush. He didn't parry with desperation.
Every counter looked slow, almost lazy, but each was placed exactly where power traveled.
The Tengri-Born began to adjust their footwork, realizing they were against something they had never trained for: a warrior who didn't overpower technique… he harvested it. He took their rage, their speed, their raw elements, and turned them against their own hands.
The Skald-Born clan leaders watched with narrowed eyes, Alva's lips parted, thinking of technique; Varrik's battered jaw set with a grudging nod; Eldra's knuckles tightened; Bjorn's rooted stance shifted unconsciously, studying.
The trainees shook the arena with their chants, pointing at Daniel not like an enemy, but a revelation. They weren't just excited. They were witnessing a new way to fight.
A martial art using every part of the body as a weapon,
hips generating force, elbows cutting angles, steps shifting power lines, fingers reading the shape of an incoming attack.
It was precise. Savage. Beautiful.
And the western shamans weren't used to seeing their storms returned to them, disciplined like misbehaving children.
One Tengri-Born warrior snarled in disbelief:
"He does not fight with gods or spirits… he fights like he is the storm."
Daniel's eyes lifted, and he gave no roar, no boast, no threat.
Just a slow exhale…
and a stance that simply invited the next mistake.
The arena was no longer waiting to see if someone could hurt him.
They were waiting to see what he would do when someone tried.
The shamans along the western side began a harsher chant, slamming their staves until the air trembled with crackling resonance. More Fulu talismans ignited, some spitting lightning, others dripping molten sparks that sizzled like liquefied suns. The Tengri-Born warriors hurled them in furious arcs, their attacks wild but brutal, hellbent on swallowing Daniel whole. The ground splintered under the explosions; shards of stone ripped upward like jagged fangs. Yet through the storm,
Daniel moved with a calm that seemed almost insulting. He stepped into blasts instead of running from them, shifting his weight just enough so the force slid along the contours of his body rather than slamming into him. A twist of his hip redirected shattering fire, a sharp pivot of his shoulder caused lightning to crack over his back and disperse into the sand, a downward strike of his palm pushed wind pressure into a vortex that rolled back at its caster. Each counter looked simple, but every movement was placed precisely at the moment a spell was most unstable, turning raw power against its owner with nothing more than timing, bone, and muscle. Even the Hengri-Born's fiercest sigils became liabilities when met with such cold accuracy.
A final explosive talisman burst near Daniel's chest, and instead of blocking, he struck the blast itself, fist driving perfectly into the center of the pressure where the force had not yet fully expanded. The timing was razor thin, the impact like cracking a whip mid-snap. The explosion warped backward, warbling like a dragged scream as it curved into a cone of violent heat. The shaman who cast it barely had time to gasp before the blast punched into his ribs, sending him stumbling to one knee in a smoking heap. Silence collapsed over the arena, not from shock alone, but awe.
The Skald-Born Drengr trainees were the first to break it, erupting into a riot of cheers, stamping their feet, roaring not out of loyalty to Daniel, but reverence, they were warriors raised on steel and rune, and now they had witnessed a man shaping battle like a potter molding clay, as if violence itself obeyed him.
The four clan leaders, who had faced Daniel moments prior, watched with a different fire in their eyes. Alva Valsmir, whose blade work was revered among hunters, studied Daniel's footwork with narrowed intensity. Varrik Stonejaw Thryn rubbed his bruised forearm where Daniel's elbow had cracked him effortlessly through muscle.
Eldra Ironveil's face remained cool, but the pulse in her throat betrayed excitement at a new form of combat she hadn't mastered. Bjorn Raskir, ever stoic, found himself shifting his stance unconsciously, as if preparing to learn this strange method just by watching it. None felt shame at being struck; they felt curiosity, and hunger. For them, this scene was not humiliation. It was revelation.
Even the Tengri-Born, though simmering with frustration, began to quiet—not in fear, but in a warrior's realization that they were facing something unfamiliar, a style that could not be overpowered by spirit or flame alone. Their storms were not being absorbed, resisted, or shielded against. They were being guided. Redirected. Returned. Daniel didn't need gods. He didn't need Seiðr. He needed only understanding, of motion, of timing, of the invisible lines force traveled through. And the more they watched, the more they realized: this was not arrogance. This was mastery.
Daniel stood at the center of the arena, no longer merely a contender in a tournament. His stance was relaxed, his eyes calm, arms lowered, not in mockery, but in honesty. The earth still smoked around him, embers drifting lazily like dying fireflies. He simply exhaled a slow, steady breath, as though he had only warmed up. And without speaking a word, he invited the world to attack again. The arena, filled with warriors who prized strength, suddenly understood:
They weren't witnessing a battle.
They were witnessing the birth of a new art.
Ragnar could no longer sit still.
He had been watching like a chained wolf, muscles coiled beneath ceremonial armor, jaw clenched until the tendons in his neck stood taut like drawn bowstrings. The roar of the crowd was nothing to him now; even the shamans' chants faded into a dull echo. His entire world had narrowed to a single man standing calmly in the center of the arena, the man who fought as though every strike belonged to someone else.
Daniel didn't overpower.
He redirected.
He bent the arc of violence until it came back home, like a river circling to its source. And Ragnar, son of storms and breakers, born with an axe in his hands and a tempest in his bones, had never seen anything like it.
Each movement Daniel made was a taunt without words, a lure without arrogance. The way he shifted his weight to meet force, not with resistance, but with acceptance, felt blasphemous to a warrior raised on crashing blows and thunderous clashes. And yet, Ragnar wasn't insulted.
He was starving for it.
His fingers twitched before he even realized it, brushing the haft of his massive war axe. The polished steel shivered as his hand closed around it. He gripped so hard the thick wood creaked, his knuckles whitening beneath the calloused skin. The weapon wasn't just iron and oak—it was an extension of him, a promise of violence begging to be fulfilled.
His shoulders trembled. Not with fear. With crushing anticipation.
"This style…" Ragnar breathed, barely aware he'd spoken aloud. His heartbeat slammed in his ears like war drums. "It absorbs force. It feeds on it." A grin tore across his face, wild and unrestrained. "Gods… I want to feel it."
He stepped forward, only for officials and shield-bearers to block him, crossing their weapons to hold him back. Ragnar's nostrils flared like a bull shackled at the gate. His title, his honor, the rules of the tournament, these had become his chains, binding him from the very storm he longed to unleash.
He could only challenge the final victor.
He could not join the battlefield now.
Not yet.
But when Daniel redirected a final flare of lightning with a simple palm strike, Ragnar's body locked. His pupils narrowed. His grip tightened again until veins bulged beneath his skin.
He didn't want to watch anymore.
He wanted collision.
He wanted struggle.
He wanted to hurl his whole being against that calm, unshakable style and see who broke first.
The four clan leaders sensed it too. Alva's lips thinned, Varrik's jaw cracked as he clenched it, Eldra exhaled slowly as though suppressing the urge to rush the arena, and Bjorn's stance subtly widened, his warrior soul rumbling awake.
All of them felt the same terrible hunger,
But Ragnar felt it louder than all of them.
He leaned over the barrier, voice low, shaking with excitement that bordered on madness:
"Win quickly… Daniel. Win fast… so I can finally fight you."
His axe pulsed in his grip like a living beast.
And in the arena's center, Daniel exhaled as if he already knew.
The air around Daniel seemed to slow as he moved, and it was no longer the crowd or the warriors who dictated the pace of the battle, Daniel himself controlled the rhythm. He showed them a fighting style none of them had names for, a discipline carved not from brute strength nor mystic sigils, but from understanding the invisible currents of force itself. Every step he took shifted pressure, every breath aligned his center, every stance let his hips, shoulders, and spine become one continuous strike. The body was not a collection of limbs, it was a single weapon with infinite angles. To the Skald-Born, raised on hammering blows and iron will, this was blasphemy turned into beauty. To the Tengri-Born, whose seals demanded wild energy, this was heresy refined into science. Daniel demonstrated that power did not need to be resisted, it could be borrowed, redirected, and returned with greater impact than any rune or talisman could conjure.
He parried strikes not with blocking strength, but with subtle rotations that bent momentum away like wind slips past mountain peaks. He countered not by initiating violence, but by letting his opponent's own force snap back into them like a snapped bowstring. He proved that any attack, no matter its weight or fire or lightning, could be undone with timing, angle, and execution. To the trainees, he had become a teacher without words. To the masters, he had become a revelation they could not yet comprehend. And to Ragnar…
He had become temptation.
Ragnar's breath grew louder with every exchange, every redirected blast, every effortless counter. His heartbeat crashed like waves on cliff rock, and his muscles tensed with unbearable hunger. The moment Daniel completed a final sweeping counter, guiding a flame-wrapped spear into the sand like pulling a thread taut, Ragnar's restraint shattered.
With a roar that cracked across the arena, Ragnar stood, throwing aside the rule binders and ceremonial guards as if they were children. The war axe hooked over his shoulder gleamed with battle hunger. The crowd screamed in alarm, half-elation, half-terror, as Ragnar vaulted over the barrier, armor thundering, eyes burning.
He broke the rules. He broke his title. He broke his chains.
He did not walk. He charged.Sand exploded beneath his boots as he lunged toward the arena's heart, toward the man who moved like water and struck like consequence. The Skald-Born elders tried to shout him down, but Ragnar heard nothing, his blood was too loud.
"DANIEL!" he bellowed, voice splitting the air."I WILL NOT WAIT. I CANNOT WAIT!"
He raised his axe, every tendon in his arm swelling with power, veins pulsing like rivers ready to burst. The head of the weapon cut a path through the air that wailed like a banshee—
"I WANT TO KNOW"He leapt, axe descending with the weight of mountains, fury, and need.
"WHAT IT MEANS TO FIGHT A LIVING GOD!"
And Daniel…
He simply lowered his stance, weight aligning through his heel, hip coiling, arm folding into a perfect angle of deflection, as if Ragnar's storm wasn't coming at him, but toward the exact place he wanted it to be.
The arena held its breath.
A mortal's rage was about to collide with a living discipline.Storm was about to meet still water.
One was force.The other was how force becomes power.
Ragnar's charge crashed down on the arena like thunder given flesh. Every thundering step carved deep craters into the sand, and every breath he took came like the growl of a starving beast. His war axe, broad enough to cleave horse and rider in one stroke, gleamed beneath the rune light like a crescent of wrath made metal. The audience saw more than a weapon, they saw legacy:
the heirloom of Ragnars blood, a symbol of his right to rule, a weapon that had drunk from twenty years of wars. Ragnar's roar wasn't anger. It was yearning. A hunger for challenge. For truth in combat. For an opponent who walked between myth and mortal breath.
Daniel tilted his head slightly, waiting, not with tension, not with fear, but with the calm of someone who already understood how this moment would end.
Ragnar swung.It was not a strike, it was a world ending.
The axe descended with such weight that even the runes carved across the floor flickered in panic. The blow didn't aim to wound, or test, or intimidate. It sought to erase. The pressure alone shook sand into spirals and sent lesser warriors stumbling back. The Skald-Born veterans clenched their shields; even the Tengri-born shamans swallowed hard. No human could block that without shattering bone or crumbling into paste.
Daniel did not block.
He sidestepped just enough, not dodging the strike, but guiding it. His arm curved through the air like a subtle arc of water, palm not slamming into the weapon, but brushing the haft near Ragnar's grip. It was not strength; it was angle, timing, and direction. He met the flat of the axe blade, not head-on, but along its momentum, fingers sliding like wind over polished steel. Ragnar's own force pulled the blade further than intended, twisting his stance off a fraction.
That fraction was all Daniel needed.
The audience expected a counterstrike, something brutal and shattering. Instead, Daniel sank his heel, rotated from the waist, and redirected the attack through Ragnar's arms. The force that Ragnar unleashed did not vanish, it was turned back into his weapon. Like a river redirected, the strike carried itself into ruin.
Daniel's palm snapped outward, not to strike Ragnar, but to tap the haft near its weakest point.
The arena heard it, sharp and unnatural,
CRRRRK!
The ancient war axe splintered. The haft fractured beneath its own momentum. Ragnar's eyes widened as his weapon betrayed him, the metal head twisting, then
SHATTERING.
The blade split in two, runes scattering like sparks, fragments spinning into the sand. Gasps broke across the audience like hail. The Tengri-born warriors stood, stunned, not by destruction, but by the method. He had not overpowered Ragnar's strike.
He had turned Ragnar's power against itself.
Daniel stepped back, offering no follow-up blow, no humiliation, only mercy wrapped in discipline. His arms lowered slowly, respectfully, as if acknowledging the fallen weapon. His voice carried softly, but clearly enough to reach Ragnar's ears over the ringing silence of the arena:
"I will not break your honor. Only your weapon."
Ragnar stood with nothing but a splintered haft in his hand, chest rising and falling, eyes wide with shock, yet blooming with raw, savage admiration. He did not feel shame. He felt awakened.
He wanted more.
And the crowd?
They didn't cheer. They didn't shout. They absorbed. Silence fell over the arena like a heavy shroud, pressing down on every witness. They had just seen the chasm between violence and mastery, between raw power and true control. Between a man who fought with brute strength and a man who fought with the unyielding force of truth.
Ragnar's broken axe lay on the scorched earth like a fallen crown, shards of metal glinting in the dying light. The arena itself bore the scars of the clash, stone cracked, dust swirling, banners torn and fluttering like wounded wings. And yet amidst the ruin, Daniel stood unscathed, eyes calm, shoulders steady. He had proven that even a king could be deflected… if he failed to master the force he wielded.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Daniel's voice cut through the quiet, carrying the weight of certainty and purpose:
"I am withdrawing from this battle… as I am needed elsewhere."
The words hung in the air, echoing across the shattered stone, leaving no doubt that his fight was far from over—it had merely shifted to a battlefield beyond sight.