The Divine Legion sparring tournament was not optional.
"Every new member demonstrates capability in front of the full Legion," Ryn explained at the morning briefing. "It's political. The other squads need to see what Squad 7 brings to the table."
"They could read our mission reports," Voss said.
"Mission reports don't bleed." Dex was grinning. The wrong grin again — too wide, too sharp. His hands were in his pockets, hiding whatever they were doing. "Come on, Ghost. When's the last time you hit something that hit back?"
"Yesterday. In the Port Vael barrier."
"Something human-shaped. With opinions."
The tournament was held in the Legion's underground training facility — a concrete amphitheater with reinforced walls, mana dampeners along the ceiling, and tiered seating for the seven squads. The rules were standard military sparring: no lethal techniques, medical staff on standby, yield or incapacitation ends the match. Weapons allowed. Abilities allowed.
Rank restrictions: none. An F-rank could be matched against an S-rank if the roster demanded it. The tournament wasn't fair. It was a demonstration.
Squad 1's Captain Vorn Galeth was in the stands. S-rank Swordsman. The best blade in the Legion outside of Yara herself. He watched the arena with the proprietary air of someone who considered every match his to judge.
Voss was matched against three opponents in the opening rounds. Standard bracket format — win and advance, lose and sit.
First match: B-rank Striker from Squad 3. Young. Fast. Confident in the way that people who had never fought something genuinely dangerous were confident — all technique, no improvisation.
The Striker opened with a textbook combination. Three strikes — jab, cross, hook — each one accelerated with mana-enhanced speed. Clean form. Good footwork.
Voss Shadow Stepped behind him.
The Striker's third punch hit empty air. His eyes went wide. He spun, found Voss, and Voss was already inside his guard — not with a punch but with a blade pressed flat against the side of the Striker's neck. The edge wasn't active but the message was clear.
"Yield," the referee called. "Point to Dren."
The Striker stared at Voss. "What — you teleported."
"Shadow Step. Short-range." Voss withdrew the blade. "You telegraph your hook. The shoulder drops before the fist moves."
The Striker blinked. Looked like he was going to argue. Didn't. Walked back to his squad, rubbing his neck where the flat of the blade had pressed.
Second match: B-rank Mage from Squad 5. Ranged attacker with force bolts — concentrated mana projectiles that hit like small-caliber rounds. The mage stood at fifteen meters and opened up.
Voss Phase Shifted through the first volley. The bolts passed through the space he'd occupied a fraction of a second before. He emerged three meters to the left, Shadow Stepped into the mage's casting shadow, and placed his blade against the back of her hand.
"Yield."
"You moved through my barrier," the mage said. Her voice was more curious than angry. "Phase ability?"
"Phase Shift. Through solid objects at close range."
"Fascinating." She studied her own barrier construct, checking for gaps. There weren't any. He'd gone through it, not around it.
Third match: A-rank Berserker from Squad 2. Bigger than Dex. Heavier. Not as fast — which was still very fast — but built like a wall with fists.
This one was different. The Berserker didn't open with a combination. He charged. Full commitment, maximum speed, closing the fifteen-meter gap in under two seconds. No technique. Just mass and momentum and the absolute confidence that if he connected, the fight was over.
He was right. If he connected, the fight would be over. Voss was enhanced but he wasn't tank-grade.
Shadow Step. The Berserker's charge carried him through Voss's afterimage and into the arena wall. Concrete cracked. The Berserker pulled himself free, turned, and charged again.
Phase Shift wouldn't work against a living target — Voss hadn't tested it, but the ability was designed for inert matter, not mana-reinforced muscle. He needed a different approach.
Voss activated the Wolf King bloodline.
Not full transformation. A partial shift — claws extending from his fingertips, senses sharpening, the wolf's predatory awareness overlaying his own perception. His muscles swelled. His speed doubled.
The Berserker saw the change. Hesitated for the first time. That hesitation was a gap — a seam in the charge's momentum, a fraction of a second where the unstoppable force paused to reassess.
Voss was through the gap before it closed. He moved under the Berserker's guard — low, fast, a predator's crouch — and his clawed hand found the nerve cluster in the Berserker's inner thigh. Not a cut. A press. Precise, targeted, using the anatomical knowledge of twelve years of monster carving applied to human anatomy.
The Berserker's leg buckled. His knee hit the arena floor. His face went from confusion to pain to surprise in a two-second sequence.
Voss placed his blade against the Berserker's throat. "Yield."
The Berserker yielded.
The arena was quiet. Not the respectful quiet of an audience watching a skilled performance. The uncomfortable quiet of people recalculating assumptions. An F-rank Carver with short blades had just defeated an A-rank Berserker using abilities that no Carver should possess and anatomical precision that no fighter had ever demonstrated in a sparring match.
In the stands, Captain Vorn Galeth was no longer sitting with proprietary confidence. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching Voss with the focused attention of someone who had identified a threat.
Ryn met Voss at the arena's edge. "Three matches. Three yields. No damage taken."
"The Berserker was slow on the pivot."
"You used the bloodline."
"Partial. Two seconds. Enough to close the speed gap."
"You used claws on a human opponent."
"I used targeted nerve compression. No penetration. He'll walk normally in ten minutes."
Ryn processed this. Her jaw tightened — the scar pulling — and then released. "The Legion knows about you now."
"That was the point."
"The point was a demonstration, not a debut. You were supposed to show competence, not dominance. Now Vorn is going to want to test you himself."
As if summoned, Captain Vorn Galeth descended from the stands. He moved the way his reputation suggested — fluid, precise, each step placed with the deliberate grace of someone who considered movement itself a weapon.
He was tall. Six feet, lean, with angular features and dark hair pulled back in a knot. His eyes were cold and intelligent and focused entirely on Voss.
"Interesting," Vorn said. "An F-rank with A-rank mobility and surgical targeting. I didn't know Carvers trained in combat anatomy."
"We train in anatomy. The combat part is new."
Vorn smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'd like a match. Unofficial. No bracket consequences."
"Respectfully, I decline."
The smile didn't change but the temperature behind it dropped. "You decline."
"You're an S-rank Swordsman. I'm an F-rank Carver with some party tricks. The demonstration served its purpose. A match with you would prove nothing that hasn't already been shown."
"It would prove whether your tricks work against someone who doesn't charge blindly."
Ryn stepped forward. "Captain Galeth. My Carver has completed his required matches. If you'd like to schedule an unofficial bout, submit a request through standard channels."
Vorn looked at Ryn. At Voss. Back at Ryn. The political calculation was visible — pressing the issue would create friction with a fellow captain. Letting it go would cost face.
"Standard channels," he said. Turned. Walked back to Squad 1.
Ryn watched him go. "He'll push this. Vorn doesn't handle being told no."
"I know."
"Can you beat him?"
Voss considered the question honestly. Vorn Galeth was an S-rank Swordsman. His speed, strength, and technique were in a class that Voss's thread-enhanced stats couldn't match. Shadow Step and Phase Shift gave him mobility advantages, and the Wolf King bloodline offered a temporary power surge, but in a sustained exchange against someone with Vorn's skill level, Voss would lose.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
Ryn nodded. She'd expected that answer. "Then we make sure the request never gets approved. You have more important things to do than feed a swordsman's ego."
They left the arena. Behind them, the tournament continued — standard matches, standard demonstrations, the normal business of a military unit establishing its hierarchy. But the whispers followed them into the corridor.
The F-rank Carver who moved through shadows and walked through walls. Who fought with claws and targeted nerve clusters with the precision of a surgeon. Who had appeared from nowhere and demonstrated abilities that didn't fit any known classification.
The Divine Legion was watching.
And somewhere in the arena's shadows, Voss felt a gaze that wasn't human. A flicker of awareness — there and gone — like a memory thread from something that was still alive.
The enemy was watching too.
