Adyr and the priest continued to trade moves, with Adyr using basic workman's tools that had no place in an arena and the priest wielding twin short blades designed for bloodshed.

The priest was constantly active and aggressive, moving his arms, legs, and entire body in a wild, fluid dance that left no opening at all. Each step led to the next, each feint became a strike, and every shift of his shoulders threatened a cut. Adyr, meanwhile, remained on the defensive, absorbing blows on steel or slipping aside at the last second, always surviving by a hair's breadth.

"Isn't he really good?" A woman stood at the edge of the arena and said, "I've never seen anyone last this long against Priest Alvion." She was watching every move with wide eyes.

Though Alvion wore a priest's robe, he was no ordinary clergyman. He was a renowned fighter in the kingdom, and the deeds he had done on countless battlefields were the reason people called him the crazy priest.

Everyone knew Priest Alvion's two reasons for living. The first was his devotion to God Ignivar and his unwavering determination to spread the teachings to everyone. The second, only slightly behind, was his desire for combat and blood.

It was rare to see anyone truly challenge him because there weren't enough skilled people around to serve as worthy opponents. However, whenever someone did, the outcome was always the same: death or crippling injury, because the priest rarely showed mercy in the arena.

And none of those challenges had ever lasted this long, which made the crowd wonder if the priest was growing old or if his opponent was simply that capable.

But as the fight progressed, they started to believe the latter.

Even though no blood had been spilled, the clean clash of metal and the advanced footwork piqued the interest of those watching. The rhythm of strike and answer, advance and retreat, tightened everyone's hearts, leaving them eager to see how the fight would end.

Soon, some in the crowd actually began to cheer for the stranger, wanting nothing more than for the duel to continue.

"Keep it up, Metalbender!" An older man shouted, clutching the hilt of his sword at his belt and leaning forward to call out to Adyr.

Nobody gave the old man a sideways glance or frowned because he supported the outsider. Instead, additional voices joined in. They even started offering pointers.

"Nice defense, stranger! Tire the old man out and finish him!"

"You've got better footwork than that crazy priest! Keep going like this, and the match is yours!"

Even Adyr was taken aback by the surge of attention and support. Just by dodging and blocking, he had gained the respect of over half of the audience.

"I have to admit, you are a talented fighter." Priest Alvion joined in the cheering with his own compliment, while driving his knife toward Adyr's head with a sharp, direct thrust.

But as always, Adyr tilted his head a fraction, letting the blade slice past, then sprang backward to open space again, refusing to allow a chain of follow-up

strikes.

"I have to say the same thing about you," he replied, raising the sickle and hammer back to chest level and maintaining his defensive stance.

Throughout the fight, Adyr was genuinely enjoying himself... and more importantly, learning.

He was constantly watching the priest's footwork, the way his hands choked up or relaxed on the hilts, the timing in his joints, and even the set of his jaw before a lunge. Every detail provided a hint that he could incorporate into his own fighting style.

He started to experience the changes gradually. Each exchange gave him a small boost and a little more clarity. He believed his Sword Art of Existence was just shy of Level 3.

But as time passed, and after nearly an hour of nonstop sparring, he realized that, while the insight felt close, it remained out of reach, close enough to sense but too far to grasp.

Improving bloodline talents truly has its own mysterious ways, he thought, sliding his feet and letting another strike pass.

The system was very straightforward with normal talents. As long as a Player, locally called a Practitioner, showed enough skill in one field, the system evaluated it by its own criteria and sent a message to register that talent at the level it deemed appropriate.

If this had been ordinary swordplay talent, Adyr was sure the system would already have assessed his mastery as Level 4, maybe even Level 5, and sent a system message to register it.

However, this was no longer simple sword mastery. For the Sword Art of Existence, he had to prove himself differently. He needed a unique approach

that would make the system acknowledge it and raise the level.

Reaching that conclusion, Adyr chose to twist the course of the fight. Continuing like this to observe and learn-or even winning-no longer

mattered, since those approaches would not help him. He decided to lose the fight, believing this unorthodox choice might be the missing key the system required to advance his talent.

This time, Adyr chose to strike first instead of waiting to slip away from Priest Alvion's next attack.

Seeing the stranger finally stopping his steady defense and deciding to go on the attack, the crowd went crazy. With their hands tightened on their belts and hilts, everyone leaned forward, their eyes fixed on the impending clash.

But unlike the spectators' excitement and approving shouts, Priest Alvion let out a disappointed sigh. "You should have kept doing what you were excelling at, young man," he said, visibly displeased. While the others celebrated, he saw only a mistake. In his view, after holding out for so long, Adyr had finally lost patience and rushed in, full of openings.

Yet despite the disappointment, the priest wasted nothing. As the sickle swept in sideways toward his head, he bent his knees and ducked, letting the blade skim overhead. In the same breath he surged up and drove both knives toward Adyr's neck, aiming to tear open his throat.

But before the blades could pierce flesh, Adyr's voice cut the moment. "Mercy!" He shouted it with a sudden, frightened urgency as the twin tips hovered a breath from his skin, one push away from drawing blood.

"You said what?" Priest Alvion looked both shocked and irritated by what he heard, stopping the sharp edge of his blades just short of touching Adyr's

throat.

"I admit defeat. Please, spare my life," Adyr pleaded, letting his weapons drop onto the sand. His expression stayed tight with fear, and even a bead of sweat could be seen forming on his forehead, making his tension plain and

convincing,

"Pathetic," Priest Alvion muttered, disgust twisting his features. He pressed the knives harder, as if he truly meant to end it, then drew them back and stepped

away.

He wasn't alone in feeling angry and disgusted. Anger also erupted in the

stands.

"Mercy? Where is your pride as a warrior?"

"I can't believe I wasted my time cheering for this coward!"

"Priest, why did you stop? Just kill him! I can't watch this shame!"

For any Lunari, dying in battle was far preferable to pleading for mercy as their

rage spilled into their voices, and some even advanced toward the arena to kill the coward who dared to call himself a fighter-only to be stopped by Priest

Alvion.