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Chapter Seven: Final Exchange
The sun had barely cleared the trees when they stepped behind the barn.
No words were said. No crowd watched. Just Bram and Eli, standing on opposite sides of the dry-packed dirt, staffs in hand, shadows stretching long across the ground.
Eli had risen early, gone through his usual drills, and eaten a light meal. His muscles were already warm, his grip already tight. His Soul Energy was active—low and steady in his arms and legs, giving subtle support. Just enough to help him keep pace.
Bram stood tall, staff resting across his shoulders. His expression was unreadable. Calm. Focused.
They met eyes.
Then Bram moved.
A sharp step forward and a strike aimed center mass—fast, clean, direct. Eli dropped into a low stance, caught the blow with his own staff, and turned it aside. No hesitation.
Bram spun immediately into a backhanded sweep. Eli ducked and stepped forward, trying to close distance. He struck low, aiming for Bram's thigh.
Blocked. Countered. Bram's foot snapped forward—Eli barely twisted in time to avoid a clean hit to his side.
The fight shifted fast.
Bram pressed.
A barrage of strikes—high, low, left, then overhead. Eli blocked each, his arms jolting with every clash of wood. He deflected one strike wide and stepped in, swinging with both hands.
Bram stepped aside, angled his body, and clipped Eli on the shoulder with a sharp strike. Not full strength, but enough to throw Eli off balance.
Eli gritted his teeth and rolled away, coming back to his feet quickly.
He was breathing harder now.
But so was Bram.
The air between them stayed tense. Dust drifted from where their feet had moved. A light wind stirred the dry leaves nearby.
Eli surged forward again. This time, his steps were tighter. He moved with the rhythm he had learned over the past week. Block, shift, swing, deflect, pressure.
He caught Bram off guard once—struck the edge of his staff and nearly forced him to step back. Bram recovered fast, reversed the grip, and nearly caught Eli across the ribs again.
Eli dropped, spun, struck low. Blocked. The next moment, Bram's staff was already swinging toward his head.
Eli raised both hands and caught the strike, the wood vibrating against his palms.
"Good," Bram muttered. Then he shoved.
Eli stumbled, but didn't fall.
He stepped in again. Faster this time.
Every strike had to count. He couldn't rely on strength. He used angles. Short jabs. Light contact followed by retreat. He weaved between Bram's counters, trying to force a mistake.
Bram didn't give him one.
Instead, Bram advanced again, pushing with raw force.
Eli matched him for ten exchanges.
The staffs cracked loud in the open air.
Eli's breathing grew heavier. His grip started to weaken. The Soul Energy helped, but not enough. His fingers were starting to tremble.
Another strike came.
Eli ducked, rolled, blocked low, then swung up—
Missed.
Bram stepped inside, turned his hips, and struck Eli square across the chest.
Eli flew back and hit the dirt hard.
Dust kicked up around him.
He coughed, rolled onto his side, and propped himself up on one elbow.
Bram stood where he was. He didn't move in for another strike. He just lowered his staff and waited.
Eli looked up at him. His arms ached. His legs shook. His chest stung from the blow.
But he managed a breath.
"That's it," Bram said calmly. "You're spent."
Eli didn't argue. He let his staff drop beside him and stayed sitting on the ground, chest rising and falling.
Bram walked over, knelt, and offered him a hand.
Eli took it.
The spar was done.