Denvar and Ronald stood frozen as Derek's small frame moved across the stage like a blur.
Even the people who had been busy with their own work stopped what they were doing and turned toward the training platform.
A few blacksmiths who had been giving final touches to their weapons outside their huts halted mid-strike, tools dangling in their hands, eyes fixed on Derek.
'Where did this oddball come from?' Denvar thought in disbelief. 'His sword isn't cutting through the targets because there's no aura, yet those movements… those perfectly measured strikes… it feels like watching a reincarnated sword master who's lost his aura by mistake.'
On the stage, out of the fifteen dummies, five were already out of commission. The remaining ten lunged at Derek all at once. Each attack looked like it would hit him, but Derek slipped through every assault, sometimes smoothly, sometimes just barely, yet never once taking a blow. And whenever he struck back, his blade never missed.
