The sparring hall was quiet in the morning haze. Training dummies lined the walls, some scorched, others sliced clean through — marks of the talents and tempers of the remaining contestants. Leonhardt leaned against one of the pillars, chewing on a dried fruit stick while Alden stood shirtless again, arms wrapped tight with gauze, muscles twitching with tension.
"You know," Leonhardt said, watching him stretch his arms behind his head, "for someone who trains like his bones are made of steel, you sure snap like twigs."
Alden didn't dignify it with a reply. He rolled his shoulders, shadow-boxing the air.
Leonhardt sighed and walked over. "Alright, lesson one. Range of motion. Don't just hit the target — know where your body ends. Overextend and you're on the ground, eating cobblestone. Again."
Alden side-eyed him. "Are you seriously teaching me how to punch now? You got dropped in one hit yesterday."
Leonhardt nodded sagely. "Correct. Which makes me the perfect teacher. I've personally discovered every mistake possible. I'm basically a library of failure."
A snort escaped Alden, involuntarily.
"There it is. Your first laugh in... what, five years?" Leonhardt grinned. "Come on. Let me show you something."
They moved to the corner of the hall where Leonhardt had set up a few makeshift training tools — a bucket of water for control drills, padded stones for grip endurance, and a series of narrow poles to test balance.
"You're not just muscle and wrath, Alden. If you keep training like a warhammer, you'll break like one. The human body isn't just a weapon — it's an orchestra. You need to tune it."
Alden scoffed. "That's poetic. Coming from someone who got soloed by a janitor."
"I let him hit me," Leonhardt said. "Needed a reason to sit out, remember?"
Alden paused, then turned to him. "Shouldn't you be resting, though? You looked like death yesterday."
Leonhardt shrugged, the bandages under his shirt peeking out. "I'm stronger than I look."
Flashback: A few hours after the Second trial
Leonhardt sat on the cold floor of the infirmary, alone.
His hands trembled as he placed them against his own chest, whispering words only the divine would curse. A faint golden glow pulsed from his fingertips, tracing the veins of his arms. It wasn't aura. It was something older. Forbidden.
Magic.
"Flesh forgets pain," he murmured. "But the spirit... the spirit always remembers."
His wounds sealed quietly, without pomp. Without light.
When the medics returned, they found bandages already wrapped, blood gone, Leonhardt snoring like a corpse.
Back in the hall, Alden was mid-plank, muscles quivering.
"You're stronger than you look, huh?" he growled through gritted teeth.
"Exactly. Now hold that for another minute."