Vasthren caught his wrist with his free hand, his grip like an iron shackle, and head-butted him.

The impact was staggering.

Stars exploded across Jaenor’s vision, and only instinct saved him as he threw himself backward, breaking Vasthren’s grip. Blood ran from his nose, warm and copper-tasting.

“First blood to me,” Vasthren said, advancing steadily. “You fight well for a whelp, I’ll give you that. But you’re outmatched.”

Jaenor spat blood and settled back into his stance.

Then he did something Vasthren didn’t expect.

He smiled.

“You’re right,” Jaenor said. “In pure swordsmanship, you’re better. Stronger, more experienced. So I won’t fight you fairly.”

Aura exploded outward from Jaenor’s body.

It was visible as a faint golden shimmer that wrapped around him like a second skin, enhancing every movement and reinforcing muscle and bone. This was the power men wielded—aura, the external manifestation of will and life force. It made them faster, stronger, and more durable. A warrior with a mastered aura could fight for hours without tiring, could shatter stone with their bare hands, and could turn aside blades with their skin.

But Jaenor wasn’t done.

Origin energy surged simultaneously, that raw, primal power that was traditionally the domain of women. It was unpredictable, dangerous and the fundamental force of creation and destruction. And Jaenor was channeling both at once.

Vasthren’s eyes widened slightly.

“Impossible. Men can’t—”

Jaenor moved, and he was suddenly three times faster than before. His blade came in low, then high, then from the side, a combination of strikes that forced Vasthren onto the defensive. Each blow carried enough force to break the massive warrior’s armor, the sound of impact like hammers on an anvil.

Vasthren blocked, parried and retreated a step.

Then another.

Bam Bam! BAM!!

His expression shifted from confident superiority to focused concentration.

“You!!” His shock quickly turned into amusement. He thought no male was capable of using Origin energy, so why was this one able to use it?

Hilda also watched with bewilderment; her son stood behind her, leaning slightly to watch Jaenor. He was terrified and was in utter shock seeing Jaenor being able to fight Vasthren.

He had known Vasthren for a long time. Vasthren was a knight who was known for his refined swordsmanship and formidable skills. But Jaenor was able to match him and fight like he was an equal.

Hilda watched Jaenor with a questioning gaze, and both of their energies swarmed around him like they were in sync. As she saw him, realization struck her.

“Don’t tell me…he’s Arkwright?”

“He’s an Arkwright child, Vasthren. I’m sure of it.”

Caelum didn’t tell his mom about what happened in the castle. Because he couldn’t tell her, as she was busy with her business. She told him to wait until she was done here.

But before that, Jaenor appeared.

“Interesting,” he growled, his own aura flaring to life.

Vasthren narrowed his eyes. “I thought they were all dead. To think I would have the privilege of killing an Arkwright boy, hahaha!”

His aura kept increasing around him.

It was darker than Jaenor’s, tinged with red, speaking of violence and brutality refined over decades. “You’re a freak of nature, boy. Using both powers. But let me show you what real experience looks like.”

He counterattacked with devastating force.

His blade became a blur, each strike coming from a different angle, each one designed to kill or maim. Jaenor’s sword moved in desperate defense, barely keeping pace. One strike got through, slicing across his shoulder and drawing blood. Another caught his thigh, opening a gash that would have crippled a normal man.

But Jaenor’s origin energy was already healing the wounds, flesh knitting together even as new cuts appeared.

Though Jaenor was highly talented, he doesn’t have the experience. It was what made him lose against Vasthren, who was a veteran doesn’t have

“You can heal,” Vasthren observed, his breathing still steady despite the exertion. “Good. That means I can take my time.”

Behind them, Hilda had been watching with clinical interest. Now she stepped forward, her hands beginning to move through complex gestures.

“Commander, let me assist you. The boy is more dangerous than he appears.” Hilda was aware of how terrifying the Arkwrights were, and she knew Jaenor was trouble the moment she saw him use both energies like it was nothing. Though Vasthren outranked the boy in swordsmanship, he won’t last long.

She can tell Jaenor was assessing him, like he was studying the man as he took his sword strikes.

“Stay back,” Vasthren snapped.

“This is my fight.”

“Don’t be a fool. He’s wielding powers that should be—”

She never finished the sentence.

Jaenor disengaged from Vasthren with a powerful leap backward, then thrust his free hand toward Hilda. Origin energy lanced out in a visible beam of force.

Hilda threw up a barrier just in time. The energy splashed against it, crackling and hissing, spiderweb cracks spreading across the invisible shield. She staggered back a step, her eyes wide with shock.

“Mother!” Caelum gasped.

“He can project it externally,” she breathed.

“I’m full of surprises,” Jaenor said, then had to spin to deflect Vasthren’s blade as the warrior came at him again.

The fight became chaos.

Jaenor found himself caught between two opponents, having to divide his attention between Vasthren’s overwhelming physical assault and Hilda’s energy attacks. It was like fighting a hurricane and a wildfire simultaneously.

Vasthren’s sword carved through the air in patterns too fast to follow, each strike carrying enough force to shatter stone.

Jaenor parried what he could, dodged what he couldn’t, and took the hits he had no choice about. His healing kept him in the fight, but he could feel his reserves depleting.

Using both aura and origin energy simultaneously was burning through his strength at an alarming rate.

Hilda was equally relentless.

She’d abandoned defensive caution now, hurling attack after attack. Bolts of corrupted energy seared past him, close enough to scorch his clothing. The ground beneath his feet suddenly became quicksand, trying to drag him down—he had to burn a burst of aura to leap clear. The air itself compressed around him, attempting to crush him—he shattered it with a pulse of origin energy.

“You can’t win,” Vasthren said, his blade scoring another hit across Jaenor’s ribs.

“You’re strong, I’ll admit. Talented. But you’re one against two, and we’ve been doing this since before you were born.”

Jaenor didn’t waste breath responding. He was analyzing, calculating and looking for an opening. Vasthren was the more immediate threat but also the more predictable. His patterns were refined through decades of practice, which meant they followed certain rules, certain rhythms.

Hilda was the wildcard.

She was versatile and unpredictable, and she was clearly powerful enough to be dangerous.

He needed to separate them.

Jaenor feinted toward Vasthren, then suddenly pivoted and sprinted directly at Hilda. Origin energy gathered in his palm, condensing into a sphere of raw force. Hilda’s eyes went wide, and she began forming a barrier, but Jaenor was faster.

He released the energy point-blank.

The explosion was deafening.

Hilda was hurled backward, her barrier shattering like glass, her body ragdolling through the air. She crashed into the temple steps twenty feet away and lay still, smoke rising from her crimson robes.

Caelum quickly ran to his mother.

“Hilda!” Vasthren’s roar was equal parts rage and shock.

Jaenor spun to face him, his body aching, his breathing labored. “Now it’s just you and me. Fair fight.”

“Fair?” Vasthren’s aura exploded outward, darker and more intense than before. The ground cracked beneath his feet, and the very air seemed to darken around him. “I’m going to tear you apart!”

He charged, and this time there was no technique, no refined swordsmanship. Just pure, overwhelming violence.

His blade came down like a guillotine.

Jaenor blocked, and the impact drove him to one knee, his arms screaming with the strain. Vasthren kicked him in the chest, launching him backward. Jaenor hit the ground rolling and came up barely in time to parry another strike that would have taken his head off.

The massive warrior pressed his advantage relentlessly. Each blow was meant to kill, delivered with the full weight of his enhanced strength and decades of experience. Jaenor gave ground, his defense becoming more desperate by the second.

His back hit something solid.

The temple wall.

Nowhere left to retreat.

Vasthren’s sword came down, and Jaenor threw himself to the side. The blade buried itself in the ancient wood with tremendous force, and for just a moment, Vasthren was committed to the strike, unable to immediately withdraw.

Jaenor didn’t hesitate.

He dropped his sword, grabbed Vasthren’s helmet with both hands, and channeled everything he had left—both aura and origin energy—directly into the man’s skull.

Vasthren screamed.

His body convulsed, his aura flickering wildly as two fundamentally opposed forces raged inside him. Steam rose from the gaps in his armor, and the smell of cooking flesh filled the air.

Jaenor held on, ignoring the heat, ignoring the way Vasthren’s thrashing threatened to shake him loose. He poured more power in, burning through his reserves without care for the consequences.

Vasthren’s screaming stopped.

His body went rigid, then limp.

Jaenor released him, and the massive warrior collapsed like a felled tree, smoke rising from every joint in his armor.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep