Not defensively this time, not using Kir'stalan's flowing deflection, but offensively. He advanced across the arena in a burst of speed that left footprints of disturbed sand in his wake, his hands moving to form the opening strikes of a blood sorcerer's combat form.

The technique that his aunt taught him.

El'ran met him without hesitation, their blade meeting his manifested blood magic in a clash that sent another shockwave rippling outward.

This time, the impact cracked the already-weakened arena floor, forcing deeper fissures through stone that had been solid for millennia.

"Yes," El'ran said, his voice carrying the exhilaration of a true warrior finally facing a genuine challenge.

"Yes, this is what combat should be."

They collided again and again, their exchanges accelerating into a blur of motion and power. Each impact sent shockwaves that visibly deformed the arena and forced the evacuated crowd to move even further back despite Sarhita's protective barrier.

And for the first time since arriving in this world, since becoming Jorghan Sol'vur, Jorghan faced an opponent who matched his intensity, who understood the nature of power and combat and the strange grace that came from two forces colliding at their absolute maximum.

The arena erupted into genuine chaos as El'ran transitioned from pure swordplay into a hybrid assault that combined his blade techniques with raw magical force. He swept his arm upward, and the sand beneath Jorghan's feet transformed into crystalline structures that shot upward like a forest of glass spears.

Jorghan sidestepped the first wave, but they kept coming, multiplying, forcing him to move with impossible precision to avoid impalement.

El'ran wasn't trying to hit him directly—he was creating terrain, reshaping the battlefield itself into an environment that favored his fighting style.

The patriarch advanced behind his magical assault, his blade glowing with accumulated power. When he swung it horizontally, the blade trailed energy that left a visible scar in the air itself, a wound in reality that hung for a heartbeat before fading.

Jorghan countered by releasing his own power.

[Carnage Requiem—Form One]

Blood erupted from his palms, manifesting in the form of whipping tendrils that intertwined with the crystalline spears, shattering some and neutralizing others.

But as he worked to clear his immediate space, El'ran was already moving, his blade coming down in an overhead arc aimed at where Jorghan's concentration was focused.

Jorghan threw himself backward, rolling across sand that had become dangerously unstable. El'ran's blade struck the ground where he'd been standing, and the impact cratered an area twenty to thirty feet in diameter. Stone shattered, and sand liquefied momentarily before resolidifying into new configurations.

"You can manifest your sorcery externally," El'ran observed, his breathing controlled despite the intensity of his attacks.

"Interesting. Most mages of your apparent skill level can barely maintain internal reserves, let alone project externally."

"You seem to have a lot of mana in you."

"You talk too much. So why don't you shut up and fight?" Jorghan snapped, launching his counterattack.

He advanced not with his body but through the blood he'd already manifested, using it as an extension of himself. The tendrils became weapons—whipping, stabbing, and probing for openings in El'ran's defense. The patriarch blocked with his blade, moving it with supernatural speed to intercept each strike before it could connect with his body.

But Jorghan wasn't trying to hit him.

Not yet.

The blood was a distraction, a feint, a way to occupy El'ran's attention while Jorghan closed distance. The moment he was within arm's reach, he pulled the tendrils back and struck with his physical form—a combination of punches aimed at El'ran's torso designed to test his defensive capabilities up close.

El'ran was ready.

He shifted his grip on his blade and used it as a guard, blocking strikes that should have shattered bone. But the impact force was immense—even with centuries of conditioning, the old patriarch felt his feet slide backward slightly with each blocked strike.

"Impressive," El'ran admitted, and then he unleashed his own offensive barrage.

He moved with a fluidity that suggested he was gliding rather than running, his blade becoming a blur of motion that covered every possible angle of attack simultaneously. High strikes, low strikes, thrusts aimed at vital organs, horizontal sweeps designed to bisect at the torso—they came faster and faster, an overwhelming assault that gave Jorghan no room to do anything but defend.

And defend he did, using Kir'stalan principles to flow with each strike, redirecting momentum, and finding angles where he could slip past the blade rather than meet it head-on. But the density of attacks was such that occasionally the blade would connect, drawing blood, creating wounds that burned with magical contamination.

The arena was suffering catastrophic damage.

Where their combat was taking place, the stone had become completely fractured. Sand was flowing into the newly created gaps, and stones were tumbling down from the amphitheater's sides.

The natural structure that had hosted countless duels over thousands of years was being systematically dismantled by the power being unleashed within it.

Jorghan sensed an opening—a microsecond where El'ran's rhythm was disrupted by his need to transition between two major attack combinations.

He seized it, manifesting blood in a concentrated burst that formed a spear aimed directly at the patriarch's chest.

El'ran's response was instantaneous and devastating. He rotated his entire body, letting the blood spear pass within inches of his side, and then his blade came around in a counterattack that would have removed Jorghan's arm if it had connected.

Jorghan pulled his limb back just in time, but the blade was close enough that he felt the air displacement and felt the heat radiating from the magically charged metal. That strike would have cauterized any wound it created, burning away blood so completely that even his sorcery couldn't have reattached the severed limb.

They separated momentarily, both breathing harder now, acknowledging that they'd moved past the testing phase.

El'ran's polished amber eyes gleamed with the exhilaration of genuine combat, and Jorghan could feel the shift in the patriarch's approach—no more measuring, no more seeking weakness, just pure combat intent from one warrior to another.

"Your technique is beginning to improve," El'ran said, moving in again.

"The confusion between two different fighting styles is resolving. You're learning to integrate them in real time."

"Stop talking," Jorghan replied, meeting his advance halfway.

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