Riven staggered back, spitting blood.
So that's what a fist to the face felt like.
He didn't like it.
Yel hadn't held back—
And he didn't let up.
The second blow came fast. Sharp. Clean.
It slammed into Riven's ribs just as his heel scraped for balance.
Air left his lungs.
Dignity left his posture.
But he didn't fall.
Feet skidding, he dragged himself upright, body tilted, chest burning.
Yel didn't wait.
Another step. Another punch—this time slicing in from the right.
No cocky taunt. No smug grin.
Just a sharp gleam in his eyes that said he'd already figured him out.
The strike clipped his shoulder.
Then the next one hit closer to the jaw.
And then it clicked.
That punch came from the right… again.
It wasn't a fluke.
It was strategy.
Every strike Yel threw came from the same angle — Riven's right.
His blind side. His weak side.
The one without an arm to block.
He was exploiting it.
Again and again.
And Riven couldn't do anything about it.
He tried to pivot. To slip the blows. To readjust his stance.
Didn't matter.
Yel was too fast, too practiced — and Riven was still reeling, breath short, body aching from three days of relentless training and his prior wounds.
Bang.
Another punch hit him low in the gut.
Another clipped the edge of his cheekbone.
He felt the cut open. Warm. Wet.
"Shit."
Still, he didn't fall.
He staggered. Bent. Rebalanced.
But he stayed up.
And that was apparently enough to piss Yel off.
"Tch," the disciple muttered, stepping back and shaking out his hand. "Just lie down already."
Riven didn't answer.
"You're a bug. One arm, no technique, no stamina — what the hell are you still standing for?"
Still, Riven said nothing.
Not because he didn't have a comeback.
But because he couldn't afford to waste breath.
The world was tilted. His vision throbbed with every heartbeat.
He could taste metal on his tongue.
But he stayed up.
I've survived worse, he thought. Way worse than you.
And slowly — very slowly — he started to adapt.
Yel kept coming from the same angle. Predictable. Because he thought he didn't need to switch it up.
Because he was winning.
But that predictability? It was a thread Riven could pull.
At first, it didn't help.
Even knowing the punch was coming didn't mean he could dodge it. Or block it.
His one arm was still one arm.
His body still sluggish, slow, screaming from exhaustion.
But he kept watching.
One strike at a time.
At this point he had given up trying to sneak a punch of his own in.
None of them had even been close to hitting.
Instead his arm stopped being an offense.
He used it exclusevily for defense..
At this point, he'd given up trying to sneak a punch in.
None of them had even come close to landing.
Not one.
Yel read every attempt like a bored scholar flicking through a book he'd already memorized.
So Riven stopped trying.
Stopped wasting energy.
Stopped pretending his right side was anything but a liability.
His arm became defense, and defense only.
He shifted his stance. Dropped lower. Used his legs for attacks instead.
That's where his reach was. His speed. His only real shot.
It didn't turn the fight — not right away.
But something in him stabilized.
He wasn't flailing anymore.
He was enduring.
And that pissed Yel off.
The outer disciple's face twisted with each failed knockout, each dodge that barely slipped past his fist.
He'd stopped smiling.
Now he just looked irritated.
Riven caught his breath between steps, blood on his lip, mud on his sleeve.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"You sure you're still earning those merit points?"
He was taunting him on purpose. He needed an opening.
Yel's eyes flared.
"You piece of—"
He lunged.
Same move. Same angle. Same damn punch.
And this time—
Riven was ready.
He ducked just low enough — timing tight, breath sharp — and his leg snapped up in a brutal side kick.
Crack.
Idiot.
It landed clean. Full extension.
Right in Yel's side.
The older boy's body arced mid-air like a ragdoll and launched across the ring.
Not a stumble. Not a stagger.
He flew.
The impact rang like a thunderclap as he crashed into the stone wall at the edge of the training field.
And didn't get up.
Dust fell from the impact point. A few loose stones tumbled free.
Silence stretched.
Riven stared, chest heaving, stunned by how far the kick had sent him.
He'd expected it to hurt. Maybe knock the guy off balance. Afterall that was the most Yel had been able to do to him.
But that?
That looked like it broke something.
He turned slowly. Vaern was watching from the edge of the ring, golden eyes narrow, unreadable. His gaze slid from Riven to the fallen form against the wall.
And something in his expression shifted.
"How did you do that?" Vaern asked.
Riven blinked. Wiped a smear of blood from his lip. "I... kicked him?"
Vaern didn't respond at first. Just stood there, staring, like he was working something out in his head.
Then he said, very calmly: "Kick me."
Riven squinted. "What."
"Kick me," Vaern repeated.
"Why?"
"Just do it. Don't worry. Nothing will happen to me."
There was a beat of silence.
Riven sighed. Shrugged. "Okay, fine."
Does this guy like pain?
He stepped forward, drew his leg back — and kicked.
Vaern didn't move.
Nothing shifted. Nothing cracked. No impact damage, no blood.
But Riven's foot felt like it had just slammed into a boulder wrapped in robes.
He staggered back a half-step, barely hiding the grimace.
What the hell is he made of? Reinforced steel?
Vaern, meanwhile, hadn't flinched. But his brows were furrowed now.
He spoke slowly. "That kick. It was too strong. You shouldn't be able to generate that kind of force without channeling qi."
He looked Riven up and down, muttering something under his breath.
Then, sharply: "Riven. Do you have beast blood?"
Riven blinked. "Uh. I think so? If you mean bloodline stuff — yeah. My mom was a kun, if that counts. And—"
Vaern's eyes narrowed instantly.
"Wait. Don't say any more."
He raised a clawed hand, voice low but firm. "Why are you telling me this so easily?"
Riven tilted his head. "Why? Isn't that normal? I mean, back home, there were lots of—"
"No," Vaern cut him off. "Not here. In Venomthread, having beast blood is rare. You're one of the few with an active beastkin bloodline in the whole sect."
"But what about you?" Riven asked.
"I'm an exception," Vaern said, folding his arms. His expression turned unreadably serious. "But this explains the strength."
Riven scratched the back of his neck. "Isn't this just… normal?"
He'd never fought anyone before, not seriously.
But he remembered a cousin once carrying a full-grown bear up a slope like it was firewood.
Vaern shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath, "Where did he even grow up? And what in the hells is a kun, anyway…"
Then louder: "We need to test your actual strength. Follow me."
Cough.
Before Riven could respond, a noise interrupted them. A groan. Wet. Low. Full of pain and rage.
Yel.
He was moving.
Riven turned.
Yel twitched on the ground, blood pouring from his mouth. "You… freak… I'm not done yet…" he coughed, dragging himself up an inch. "I will get those merit points… I swear it—you halfbreed bastard!"
Riven hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly, unsure what to do.
But Vaern didn't pause.
He was already walking toward the edge of the ring. "Come on," he said, calm as ever.
"Don't you dare walk away, you crippled bastard!" Yel snarled, blood bubbling in his throat. "You think this is over?!"
He wasn't thinking straight anymore — mad that his crippled prey had made him look like this in front of Vaern, and he hadn't even earned a single merit point.
"Quiet."
Vaern didn't even turn as waved his hand.
There was a sound — sharp, compressed — like air folding in on itself. A sonic boom cracked through the field. Wind rushed past Riven, slapping against his skin.
By the time he turned back, it was over.
Yel's upper body was gone.
Only his lower half remained, twitching once before collapsing in a heap.
Blood spread across the stone like spilled ink.