“Instructor Feng,” said Jova, voice quiet, her liquid black eyes holding his gaze calmly. “If Kuragin doesn’t object, I would accept Scorio’s challenge.”
Kuragin frowned, his huge arms crossed over his chest, his whole body radiating an eagerness to fight. But then he inclined his head stiffly. “I’m happy to accommodate Jova’s request.”
Feng paused, turning around to face them both. “This is highly irregular. These are informal sparring matches, and not meant to reflect any outside grudges or attempts to acquire glory. However, that being said…” He paused, considered them both, then shrugged. “There’s also nothing against allowing it. If Jova is amenable, then so be it. Scorio, in the circle.”
“What are you doing?” whispered Lianshi as he left her side, his mouth suddenly dry, his pulse racing, a strange, light sensation filling his chest. He placed a palm on the edge and vaulted up. Rose and stepped forward to face Jova, who’d moved to her spot on the other side of the ring.
Feng had climbed up onto his raised chair, and now sat back and crossed an ankle over the other knee. “A quick reminder: this bout is informal, and points are scored through strikes that touch the chest, back, or head. You may ignite your Hearts but not use any powers or abilities. Failure to cease sparring on my command makes you liable for disciplinary action. The first to reach three strikes wins. Am I clear?”
Scorio nodded, his gaze never leaving Jova’s. He felt at once faint and energized as he lowered himself into a three-quarters combat crouch, hands raised, his stomach fluttering, his skin prickling.
Jova crossed her arms and pursed her lips, making no attempt to enter a crouch of her own.
No powers or abilities. That meant she could lean on her natural Emberling strength and speed, but not engage her resistance to damage.
“Begin,” barked Feng, and Scorio felt the crowd inhale as one.
Jova gazed at him contemptuously, weight on her heels, hips subtly thrust out, shoulders back.
Provocation? No matter. Scorio purposefully forced himself to relax, to deepen and slow his breathing, and again he heard Naomi’s words in his mind, instructing him to calm down and focus and to allow his instincts and training to do the heavy lifting.
“You have to attack me,” said Jova, sounding bored. “This isn’t a staring match.”
Scorio flushed as light laughter rippled across the crowd, but then grinned and advanced, feeling predatory. He swept a great mass of Iron mana into his Heart, forcing it in, packing it tight, and then as he drew close, he flexed his will and caused it to ignite. It took a moment, but then steel flames erupted from his Heart, and immediately he felt mana began to vent from the many cracks that fissured its surface.
Victory would come quickly or not at all.
Jova watched him approach and didn’t even react to his first feint.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Scorio heard himself think, By the ten hells, I’m fighting Jova Spike. This is… awesome.
But that was the last thing he thought, for he threw a jab that caused her head to sway aside, and followed with a flurry of crosses and hooks.
As if awakening from a reverie, Jova floated back and away, circling as he came after her, dodging adroitly, eyes narrowed, her gaze passing clear through him. Scorio reined in his excitement; he fought cautiously, aware that she was trying to goad him into a wild attack, to open himself to a vicious counter.
Still, when it came, he wasn’t ready.
He threw a couple of quick jabs then glided forward with another powerful cross. She simply bowed back and away and simultaneously flicked out a neat roundhouse kick that cracked him in the ribs under his outstretched arm.
The blow nearly broke bone. Scorio hissed and bounced back, lowered his elbows to cover his sides, and in Jova’s face, he saw the first hint of emotion, a contemptuous upturn of the corner of her mouth.
“Come on, Scorio!” he heard Leonis shout off from the side. “Stave her head in!”
“Silence,” snapped Feng, but the words combined with Jova’s smile pricked Scorio into action. For a second there he’d begun sliding into a defensive panic, but that was exactly what she’d expect; instead, he moved forward once more and unleashed a flurry of tight blows, elbows kept close, along with a high kick to her side that almost caught her by surprise.
She blocked them all, then hopped away, moving around once more in a sideways skipping motion. Her black-painted lips were pursed, and her eyes narrowed as she stared right through him again.
Had she even ignited her Heart yet?
Scorio gave her no breathing room. His mana was running out. He pursued, shoulders raised, chin tucked in, elbows tight against his ribs, fists hovering just before his chin. Tight front kicks, jabs, the occasional follow-up elbow.
Jova gave ground, light as mist upon the sparring circle floor, unconcerned, not interested in standing firm—until she was.
With a burst of pressure, he felt her ignite her Heart, the sensation like an oven door swinging open, and then she reversed her trajectory, pushing off the ball of her foot to dart in and low, ducking and weaving to the side to slam a hook into his elbow where it was pressed against his side.
The power behind the punch nearly lifted him off one foot, but was immediately followed by a second hook from her other arm so vicious and swift that it was all he could do to bring his forearms together to block it.
One, two, and the third punch was a pure uppercut, launched from the hips, her entire torso swiveling behind it, coming in so low it slipped right under his guard and slammed into his stomach, pounding up and into his ribcage as he felt his innards jelly and the breath explode from his lips.
“Second point,” Feng said clinically from somewhere to the side, and Scorio staggered back, unable to breathe, his whole chest locked up. No expression from Jova this time, no smile, no taunts. Her gaze was flat and direct as she followed, her burning Heart still giving off a terrible heat, her intent to finish him off plain as the fact that he was horribly outmatched.
Scorio heard a great pounding in his ears as he realized he was going to be defeated within the next few seconds, and the very thought of such ignominious schooling caused a flush of strength to flood into him, subsuming the pain, his vision narrowing to a tunnel with only Jova at the end of it.
He couldn’t breathe, his core was spasming, but he crushed the pain with a ferocious will. He eschewed the stubborn Iron mana that was all around them, and instead reached for Coal, filthy and turgid, heavy and scorned. Swept a great mass of it into his Heart, and willed it to burn.
A rough, crude power flowed into him, and with a cry he threw himself forward into a hopping forward kick, thrusting from the hips and leaning back, the kind of blow that would shatter a door or, as Leonis had put it, stave in a head.
It caught Jova completely by surprise, and she leaped aside, batting his leg away, but Scorio pivoted on his foot, going from heel to the ball, revolved his hips up and around, chambered his calf back to his hamstring, then snapped out a follow-up roundhouse right at her face—once, twice, three times.
Jova’s eyes widened further, and she brought both arms up to block, taking the shuddering blows full on.
Enraged, not thinking, Scorio thrust his leg back in one fluid motion and kicked out behind himself, the motion propelling his upper body forward as he threw a cross at her with all the strength his Coal-burning Heart could muster.
His punch crashed through Jova’s defenses, blasted right past both raised arms, and slammed into her sternum like a sledgehammer.
With a cry, she staggered back, eyes flaring wide in shock.
“Point to Scorio,” said Feng, his dry voice registering just a flicker of surprise.