Not Bad

Mian stood there stunned for a while, but Aise did not come out to take over his body either.

"Mr. Xia Lun... You want to spar with me?" Mian asked again weakly, his tone laced with uncertainty.

"If you don't mind," Xia Lun shrugged, his posture as relaxed as if he were taking a casual stroll, a subtle, unreadable glint in his eyes.

"No... I mean... I'm definitely no match for you," Mian stammered nervously. How could he, of all people, possibly contend with this legendary hero?

But soon, he gritted his teeth again and said firmly, "But I can try! I want to spar with you!"

To cross swords with the living legend standing before him was a dream opportunity countless warriors craved, and Mian had no intention of letting it slip away. He could even feel his cheeks flushing with excitement.

Xia Lun smiled. "Don't worry, I won't let you get hurt... Magic, martial arts—whatever you've got, just use it all."

Xia Lun's tone was calm, yet carried an unshakable, commanding confidence.

Mian took a deep breath, his expression turning serious.

He was naturally far too humble to think he could possibly injure Xia Lun. Holding anything back would be an insult to this hero... So he had to go all out from the start.

With a flick of his hand, Mian produced a fine iron longsword.

It was the kind of sword you'd find in any blacksmith's shop—the most common model, forged through countless hammer blows by an ordinary smith. The blade bore no magical luster; its only virtue was the razor-sharp edge Mian maintained daily, which gleamed with a cold, biting light under the rising morning sun.

Mian raised his hand again, and several fireballs coalesced beside him, trembling slightly as they radiated waves of scorching heat. He hurled them toward Xia Lun... then, with a powerful push from his feet, shot forward like an arrow released from a bowstring, his longsword held level, the tip aimed straight at Xia Lun's chest.

Part mage and part warrior—unexpectedly, Mian's fighting style resembled Aise's quite a bit.

Xia Lun unhurriedly raised his right hand, spreading his fingers to catch the incoming fireballs. The explosion Mian anticipated never came. The fireball seemed to have no heat at all, like catching a falling apple—Xia Lun simply crushed it with a squeeze, scattering it into trails of sparks and fire elements, leaving behind a faint, sharp scent of scorched air.

At the same time, a wooden sword had somehow appeared in Xia Lun's hand, and he effortlessly parried Mian's attack.

The wooden sword was forged by Xia Lun himself, merely a plank reshaped by brute magical force. It was slightly denser than ordinary wood, but overall not much different from a toy in the hands of a country boy.

A wooden sword couldn't withstand the chopping of an iron blade. If it met head-on, it would surely shatter in an instant.

And so, Xia Lun's wooden sword precisely deflected Mian's strike from the side.

Clang, clang, clang—

The crisp sound rang out, like hammer striking iron in a forge.

Every slash, chop, thrust, and upward cut from Mian was precisely diverted by that seemingly fragile wooden blade.

With each collision, Mian felt a lateral vibration shoot through his arm, numbing his wrist until the iron sword nearly flew from his grip.

The rhythm of the fight had instantly fallen into Xia Lun's control.

Mian winced inwardly but wasn't surprised.

Though Xia Lun merely defended, never launching a single offensive move, he still pressed down on Mian until breathing became a struggle—it was as if Mian were swinging his sword at an imposing mountain...

Of course, in reality, even a mountain could be blasted apart with a single punch from Xia Lun.

With a backward step, Mian put distance between them. Throughout, Xia Lun had stood firmly in place, not moving an inch.

Mian tried to find an opening... Though, even he knew that spotting a flaw in Xia Lun was nothing short of wishful thinking.

Uh... Found one.

With no time to think, his body moved before his mind. Mian lunged with his sword. Xia Lun's wooden sword thrust out, its tip meeting the iron blade, then slithered along it like a snake.

Clearly, it was a deliberate trap set by Xia Lun.

Mian felt a tremendous pulling force from his hand, as if caught in a whirlpool intent on wrenching his sword away.

He refused to yield. His fingers locked tight around the hilt, veins bulging on the back of his hand, terrified the longsword would slip free.

But then, the force shifted abruptly. The suction transformed into a pushing power—like opposite poles of a magnet repelling each other. Mian was flung backward, landing ungracefully on his rear.

He scrambled to his feet.

Xia Lun didn't press the attack. If he had, his sword would already be at Mian's throat.

"Very good," Xia Lun said. "An ordinary person would have lost their sword by now. It surprised me that you reacted in time, so I had to change my approach."

"Really?"

To receive praise from Xia Lun clearly lifted Mian's spirits.

"Continue?" Xia Lun chuckled, seeing the spark of battle in Mian's eyes. His goal, it seemed, had not yet been achieved.

"Of course!" Mian took a deep breath and nodded firmly. Crossing blades with a master like this was a joy he was clearly relishing.

Fire element swirled around Mian, gathering, ready to burst. The air warped and crackled with the heat.

As a mage, Mian wasn't lopsided in his studies—after all, fitness was just his hobby, much like Musen. Behind all those rippling muscles, Musen was also a remarkably skilled priest.

Mian never considered close combat his primary offensive means. His reputation at the academy was hardly built on brawling.

Because Xia Lun had initiated the spar, Mian hadn't relied solely on magic at the start.

After all, he was the sort of bookworm that warriors in taverns ribbed for spending day and night buried in grimoires.

Mian was an outstanding student at Olifund.

Now, a staff appeared in his left hand, pointed at Xia Lun from a distance. The red magic crystal embedded in its tip blazed with light, and a crimson magic circle ignited beneath Xia Lun's feet. A dense surge of magical power began to gather like a rising tide.

The temperature at the center of the formation spiked violently. A flame-formed hand, as tangible as flesh, engulfed Xia Lun.

"Grasp of Cinders!"

...

In the room, Aina curled up like a contented cat among the rumpled sheets, reluctant to leave yet.

After all, the warmth and scent of Xia Lun still lingered.

Sensing the magical fluctuation, she lazily rolled over and buried her face in a pillow still carrying the scent of sunlight, mumbling drowsily:

"A fire-magic fluctuation..."

Nestled in the soft bed, Aina closed her eyes and stretched. "For a human, that's not bad talent."