Chapter 3: What beauty shall escape the rummaging sensations of a youthful splendor part 4

And so, the fated hour came. Alex and Michael stood on opposite sides of the arena, glaring at each other.

A hush blanketed the vast expanse of sand underfoot, as if the entire hall recognized the gravity of this confrontation. Arcane wards and defensive runes etched into the walls glimmered faintly, absorbing the tension that crackled in the air. Overhead, glowing orbs of mage-light cast overlapping halos on the combatants, illuminating every taut muscle and tensed fiber.

Michael wore his armor, covered in Kevlar plating, with a helmet that covered most of his face. Despite his rigid protective gear, there was an unmistakable sense of ease in his stance. He shifted his weight slowly, quietly testing the sand beneath his boots. The contours of his helmet obscured his features, making his composure all the more enigmatic—an unmoving mask in the eye of the storm.

Alex was a stark contrast. He came to the fight wearing a skin-tight combat suit that offered little protection. He was tall and muscular, his muscles showing through his suit. The expression on his face was serious, eerily so. Every breath made the sleek material flex, hinting at the power in his limbs. The severity of his focus bordered on feral intensity—his gaze locked onto Michael with unflinching resolve.

To him, he had much at stake in this fight. His pride as the first born was on the line. Seeing as his brother had never been able to beat him before should have made him feel calmer, but it was nothing of the sort. If anything, he felt something unusual, like not everything was as it seemed, not everything was as it should be.

His brow knit momentarily, and he flexed his fingers as though testing for a flaw in his own reflexes. The slightest hint of doubt gnawed at him—a warning that simple experience might not guarantee victory this time. Something about Michael’s demeanor spoke of a quiet confidence that refused to be ignored.

High above, on the observation deck, the little girl watched, glued to the glass with a visibly worried expression.

Her small hands pressed against the reinforced window. Through it, she could see the two figures poised for battle, dwarfed by the immense arena. The faint hum of ventilation and the distant echo of voices in the observation deck corridor did little to ease the knot of anxiety in her stomach.

“Don’t worry, your older brother is tougher than he looks,” Jonathan said, standing beside her.

His voice, though gentle, carried an underlying tension. Even Jonathan’s attempt at comfort reflected his own unease. He watched the arena intently, the subtle twitch of his jaw revealing how heavily the duel weighed on him.

The girl nodded in silent acknowledgement, but the two stood in silence watching what was to happen next with great anticipation. They remained pressed to the glass—Jonathan with a protectively curved posture, the girl with eyes wide and unblinking.

“So, brother, do you still want to do this?” Alex spoke with a visibly false bravado.

His voice resonated across the sand-strewn arena, echoing off tall walls. Alex’s eyes flickered with hints of uncertainty, though he tried to hide it behind a confident smirk.

“Yeah, that’s why I came here,” Michael replied with a shrug. From the observation deck overhead, the glow of mage-lights cast elongated shadows across his Kevlar armor.

“So be it then brother, attack me when you’re ready,” Alex replied, intending to discourage his brother.

A soft hiss escaped Alex’s lips as he assumed a defensive stance. The skin-tight combat suit he wore outlined every flex of muscle, each tension line in his arms and torso betraying the raw strength coiled beneath.

“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Michael smiled, his face twisting into an expression that suggested everything was going according to plan. “Soul,” he called forth.

The single, resonant word brought a sudden hush to the arena. For a brief moment, only the shuffle of loose sand and the faint hum of the overhead wards could be heard.

Golden particles swirled around Michael’s hand, forming into a gauntlet with a shield, with a red jewel encrusted on the palm. The bright motes of light danced about his forearm before coalescing into solid form, illuminating his armor with an otherworldly sheen. High above, Jonathan leaned closer to the glass, remembering how that shimmering manifestation often heralded the unleashing of Michael’s more dangerous abilities.

Michael charged forward, launching a punch aimed at Alex’s face. Alex backed away and, using his longer reach, threw out a haymaker at Michael.

Their sudden burst of movement tore through the silence. The dull thud of boots against sand reverberated through the fortified walls, and a handful of observers on the deck shifted in their seats, poised for what came next.

“Don’t worry, your older brother is strong—real strong. Especially when it comes to martial arts, he is second to no one,” Jonathan said, after seeing the girl’s troubled expression. He offered her a comforting smile, hoping his words would ease her mounting tension. Yet a knot still twisted in her stomach, a primal fear of what might happen if this duel escalated beyond control.

Michael ducked under the punch, kicking in Alex’s knee, before launching a well-timed combination directly at Alex’s face.

The strike to the knee forced Alex to lower his guard, opening a narrow window for Michael’s follow-up. In that heartbeat, Michael’s fist arced upward in a clean, disciplined motion that exemplified years of refined training.

“This won’t cut it brother!” Alex smiled after seeing that Michael’s punches were too weak to deal any real damage. At that moment, he believed that anything his brother could do would be too weak to hurt him. His confident grin spread, revealing a flash of teeth.

Immediately, he charged forward, throwing several punches, all of which were avoided and easily countered by Michael. With each counter, Michael would target his brother’s vitals. Alex, growing confident in his ability to withstand attacks, didn’t even try to dodge, taking the brunt of the blows without even shaking. His strong, mana-infused body was far too resilient and strong to be damaged by the punches of a human, and even if he was hurt, the damage would be so miniscule that it would heal almost instantly.

The sound of fists meeting flesh resonated repeatedly in the cavernous arena, but Alex barely flinched. Dust and stray grains of sand stirred around them, swirling in the wake of each impact. High above, the little girl’s breathing quickened, her fingers pressed tightly to the glass, torn between fear and awe.

Alex continued his assault, speeding up his attacks, increasing both their strength and ferocity. Yet Michael did not waver; each attack was deflected with perfect precision, with minimal wasted movements, and every single opportunity to counterattack—utilized.

Their motions turned into a dance of skill and willpower, each testing the other’s reflexes and resolve. Alex’s punches were like sledgehammers, but Michael’s parries were near-flawless, the gauntlet and shield shimmering with each deflection.

As Alex sped up, so too did Michael, and before long, the two molded into a blur of exchanging blows.

The rattling thud of their collisions pounded like a drumbeat in the arena. Sweeping arcs of fist and leg occasionally kicked up clouds of dust. Jonathan, leaning forward, exchanged glances with the matriarch and the patriarch. Even they seemed transfixed, unsure of how the next moment would unfold.

“Might as well give up, brother! You’re gonna run out of steam any moment now!” Alex shouted in a mocking manner.

His voice echoed through the enclosure, tinged with both challenge and self-assuredness. Yet a glimmer of something else flickered in his eyes—an uncertainty he refused to acknowledge.

But then, a slight smirk appeared on Michael’s face. The change was subtle but unmistakable. It radiated a confidence that Alex hadn’t expected.

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Suddenly, a squirt of blood shot out from Alex’s face. Immediately, he leaped back. Blood poured down his face, coming out of his right eye, with a toothpick stuck in it.

Shock rippled across the entire hall. The crimson droplets spattered in stark contrast to the golden hue of Michael’s gauntlet. In the stands, Jonathan’s eyes went wide. The little girl by his side tensed, her small hands pressed to the glass pane as though she could physically break through and intervene. Even the patriarch’s stoic veneer seemed to falter momentarily as his gaze fell upon Alex’s bleeding wound.

There, embedded in Alex’s right eye, was a slender, inconspicuous toothpick—the very same kind Michael had nabbed from the kitchen unnoticed. Its small, ordinary shape was a striking inversion of the extraordinary power they’d all witnessed moments before.

A hush fell over the master training hall the moment Alex’s scream reverberated against the fortified walls. The rune-etched pillars and arcs overhead seemed to absorb his cry, transferring a tense chill through the sand underfoot. In that suspended moment, even the flicker of mage-lights seemed to dim, as though the arena itself recognized an irreversible shift in the balance of the duel.

“What is this, brother?!” Alex screamed out in agony, pulling the toothpick out of his eye.

His voice ricocheted through the cavernous space, raw and unfiltered. Blood trailed along the slender wooden shard, dripping onto the sand below.

“This,” Michael paused. “This is the winning bell.” He declared. “I needed to use something that you wouldn’t notice, a weapon no one could tell you about. These wooden toothpicks were undetectable by our scanners, which made them a perfect weapon. Wood, however, is far too brittle and dull to harm you, so I had to go for the eye.”

Michael’s explanation was offered in a near-monotone voice, yet there was an undercurrent of satisfaction in his words.

“You hit me alright. But winning?” Alex scoffed, opening his wounded eye, showing that the injury was almost completely healed. “You are still as far away from winning as when we first started.”

A nearly imperceptible tension rippled through his jaw. Though the tissue had mended with near-supernatural speed—thanks to his mana-infused physiology—something in his stance showed hesitation. Perhaps it was the realization that Michael had planned this moment carefully, or that Alex had underestimated just how far his brother was willing to go.

“That’s not true,” Michael smiled. “I don’t know if you’re aware. But there are certain requirements for me to use my magic. The simplest spells don’t require anything, while stronger ones require me to use hand gestures and prepare before using them. There are some spells that can only be used when I have my soul out. And then there are powerful spells that require me to touch the target. And finally, there are those insanely broken spells that require multiple conditions to be met before I could use them.” He stated, slowly circling Alex like a predator circling prey. “Conditions, such as the fight lasting more than a certain amount of time, the opponent being the first to bleed and of course having his blood fall perfectly on my crystal. I believe our father calls these spells demon arts,” Michael said with a smile.

With each word, Michael took a measured step in the sand, the fine grains shifting under his boots.

The patriarch’s eyes expanded, pupils dilated and breath turned shallow. Even from the elevated vantage point, it was clear that something monumental was about to happen. Though he was known for his stoic demeanor, the patriarch could not hide the tightness at the corners of his mouth, nor the flicker of concern in his gaze.

“A demon art? You don’t make me laugh brother!” Alex shouted. “You have gotten far too cocky. It seems like I must again show you the difference between our power.” He extended his hand to the side almost in preparation to grab something. “Soul,” he called forth, summoning a glowing red great sword, covered in swirling flames.

The heat from Alex’s newly manifested weapon radiated outward in tangible waves, the swirling embers crackling in the air. Sparks danced over the golden lines of runic script woven into the hall’s defenses.

“Oh, It seems that I forgot to mention. The last condition was for you to summon your soul.” Michael remarked. “Demon art, Curse of rebellion,” he growled as a dark, heavy, invisible aura enveloped the entire arena.

At once, a crushing weight descended upon every onlooker. The orbs illuminating the hall flickered, momentarily casting everything into half-shadows. Jonathan staggered back, eyes wide, feeling an uncanny pressure wrap around his lungs. Even the reinforced glass of the observation deck vibrated ominously, threatening to crack under the oppressive force.

Suddenly, Alex collapsed to the ground groaning in pain as the fire coming from his weapon melted the flesh off his hand. He squirmed frantically, looking at his hand, but no matter what he did, it wouldn’t heal. Every second, more of his skin sizzled and sloughed away, the regenerative abilities he had prided himself on rendered futile against this malignant curse. Bits of molten skin and scorched droplets trickled onto the sand, leaving dark, smoldering spots in their wake.

The patriarch watched intently, almost forgetting to breathe “My children are strong, aren’t they?” he spoke with a great sense of pride.

He stood in the observation deck, leaning toward the reinforced glass that overlooked the arena far below. Shadows from the overhead lights cut deep angles across his features, accentuating every line of his authority. In that moment, his stern gaze shimmered with an emotion close to wonder, as though he were glimpsing an inevitability he had always suspected but had never truly witnessed until now.

“That they are darling,” The madam replied. “Each in their own way.” She stated with a slight smirk.

Standing beside him, her posture was elegant yet confident. She reached out and let her fingers brush lightly against his arm—a subtle, reassuring gesture that acknowledged both the pride in her children’s accomplishments and the hint of anxiety in the patriarch’s otherwise unwavering stance.

“No,” the patriarch laughed. “My children are strong in every way!” His laughter reverberated inside the glass confines of the deck, cutting through the tense silence that permeated the space. Soldiers and servants who had gathered in the upper galleries exchanged hushed, awed glances as they overheard the patriarch’s declaration.

“What-What did you d-do to me?!” Alex screamed with pure terror in his eyes. His voice, a wavering mixture of rage and desperation, echoed in the arena.

Down on the arena floor, Alex panted heavily, his combat suit clinging to him in tatters. He stared at his own trembling hand, unable to make sense of the agony gripping his body. Sand clung to the sweat on his cheeks, and the remains of his flaring great sword hissed as it extinguished on the ground beside him.

“What do you mean? I leveled the playing field brother. Now no matter what magic you use, it will always turn against you like mine. Now you too are done, you are forever a cripple, just like me.” Michael stated in a calm manner.

“Nooooo!” Alex screamed in anguish, struggling up to his feet. The cry tore through the arena like a ragged blade. Alex braced himself, one hand pressed to his seared flesh, trying to summon even a shred of mana—only to feel it recoil, devouring him from within. The crippling realization spread across his face, forcing him to stagger as he tried to maintain balance.

Using what little strength he had left he charged at Michael, but no matter how hard he tried– the duel was already lost. Alex was not accustomed to not being able to use mana, as such, his movements without it were sloppy, imprecise and weak.

His boots skidded over the sand, leaving deep furrows behind him. Each step betrayed a loss of power he had taken for granted his entire life. Where once he would have bounded with lethal grace, he now lurched, gripping the air in desperation, uncoordinated and frantic.

In a single fluid motion, Michael kicked his legs, shattering his knee in a single attack. Soon after, another kick came, aimed directly at Alex’s face, breaking his nose and throwing him back. A brutal crunch echoed across the arena as Michael’s boot connected. Blood spattered across the sand, vivid against the dull beige.

“Had enough?” Michael asked, raising an eyebrow. A calmness clung to Michael’s voice, bordering on eerie. Though his breathing was deeper now, there was no sign of exertion or desperation—just the resonant composure of someone who had orchestrated every step of this outcome.

“Enough! I give up brother! Please don’t kill me, I was wrong!” Alex begged on his knees as tears flooded out of his eyes. Blood ran down from the ridge of his broken nose, dripping to the sand below. He cried uncontrollably, unable to regain his composure, striking the ground with his fist. His once-proud form now hunched in the dirt, face streaked with a mixture of blood and tears. Each sob shook his chest, raw and unrestrained. The path from the grinning, unbeatable older brother to this broken figure had been terrifyingly swift.

Gently, Michael slid off his helmet, revealing sweat-matted hair and a face betraying exhaustion, yet touched with undeniable compassion. “Come on stop crying,” Michael said, approaching his brother, grabbing his shoulders as he knelt beside him. “I lied about the spell lasting forever it will go away after I put away my soul.” He said raising his brother’s head. “Now, brother let me realign your nose, so it doesn’t stay like that when you get your powers back.” He spoke with a caring expression, so far from the monstrous gaze he carried just moments prior.

“Mhm,” Alex nodded, sucking in his snot. The meekness in that single syllable reflected a vulnerability Alex had never shown before. He let his forehead rest against Michael’s shoulder, breath hitching as relief mingled with humiliation. With gentle precision, Michael adjusted Alex’s nose, eliciting a hiss of pain but also a faint spark of hope in his brother’s tear-streaked eyes.

Jonathan stood tall over at the observation deck. A wide smile took root on his face as he glimmered like the proudest older brother in the world. He practically pressed against the glass, hands splayed across its reinforced surface. Emotions welled in his chest: admiration for Michael’s meticulous strategy, relief that Alex still lived, and pride that, together, they had all carved out a chance at something resembling reconciliation.

“See I told you it was going to be fine,” he smiled looking down at the little girl when a sudden thought reached his mind. “By the way, I don’t think I ever had the chance to ask you for your name.” Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

The child, though visibly shaken by the violence she had just witnessed, lifted her gaze from the arena below to meet his eyes. She blinked, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Nia,” the girl answered in a high-pitched tone. Her voice trembled slightly, but the resolve in her expression could not be missed.

“Well now,” Jonathan smiled. “Nia Mercer sure has a nice ring to it!”