Spirit's Awakening: The Path of Lightning and Water

Jiro.

Lassim leaned forward slightly, his eyes' storms flickering with curiosity. It had been nearly two years since he last saw Jiro, back when he was still a servant-ranked disciple for his first month, struggling with the punishment of fighting against the guards after trespassing into the Lightning Tempering Fields.

He remembered him as a bit lazy, content to drift along with the bare minimum effort and that's precisely what he'd explained as having landed him in the demoted position of Sect Servant. But things had clearly changed. Jiro now stood among the sect's Personal Disciples, clad in the standard violet-and-gold martial attire, his posture steady, his presence noticeably stronger.

Lassim's brows furrowed slightly. He had expected Jiro to eventually finish his required punishment time and climb out of servant rank, but he hadn't anticipated this level of improvement. He recalled how Jiro lamented back then about how he wasn't at peak Spirit Transformation, roughly only Spirit Transformation stage 6 or 7—Lassim never saw him fully circulate his cultivation so his interpretation of his level was a bit fuzzy. However, that had been a crucial part of why he was so easily bullied by Kaito at the time—yet, here he was now. Just what had he'd gone through since then and what made him change?

But, as Lassim's enhanced mind thought more about it… There was one logical possibility. Lassim's influence. After saving him from the bullying of Kaito and sticking up for Jiro, it probably caused Jiro to want to change his ways. If that was so, he was immensely proud of him and he hoped they'd get a chance to talk later.

As Jiro stepped onto the stage, drawing his Elemental Weapon, Lassim's thoughts drifted for a moment. He wondered about Mirana, the girl who had been closest to Jiro back when they were Sect Servants together. Had she advanced as well? Were they still together? It was hard to say. He hadn't seen or heard anything about her yet.

Still, he put the thought aside for now. Jiro's match was beginning.

Jiro's opponent was a towering—nearly double the height of Jiro's 170 cm—broad-shouldered disciple. His heavy lightning-infused greathammer rested against the stage floor, arcs of electricity crackling along its dense surface. Unlike Jiro's sleek, but simple silver sword. This was the first time Lassim had seen it, and it radiated such a strong intent that he could feel all the way up in the Sect Master's box—speed.

Elder Baruun raised his hand as all five stages' disciples were ready for the 10 minute timer to begin. His voice cut through the static hum of the crowd's discussions. "Begin!"

The moment the words left his mouth, Jiro's opponent exploded into motion.

The greathammer-wielder grabbed his hammer's long pole-like handle with both hands before he slammed his weapon against the ground, sending a shockwave rippling outward. The stage was incredibly sturdy, but tiny hairline cracks spread across the stage as arcs of violet lightning surged through the stone, seeking to unbalance Jiro before the fight could even start.

Jiro reacted instantly, recognizing his opponent's [Lightning Quake] skill. It was a common one for heavy weapon wielding disciples amongst the sect that he saw frequently being trained at the training grounds across the sect.

With a swift push off his back foot, he activated his standard movement technique [Lightning Step], his body flickering with lightning mana as he narrowly avoided the surging shockwave that had nearly reached his position. His movements were smooth—measured, not rushed and had confidence in them. Lassim noted the difference immediately.

It seemed he wasn't one to be easily bullied anymore.

Jiro's opponent wasted no time after the shockwave had gone out, already gripping his greathammer with both hands, he charged forward. Following behind the shockwave in practiced anticipation, he once more lifted the greathammer in a backward swing. It swung in a wide, upwards arc before reaching its peak and then crashing down, aiming to flatten Jiro with the sheer force of a technique Jiro recognized. [Lightning Crash], a battle art designed to break defenses and something incredibly similar to Lassim's own [Slam] that he'd seen used, but instead of the weight of an ocean behind Lassim's blade, this technique just uses lightning to speed up the innate heaviness of the user's weapon.

Jiro didn't dodge.

Instead, his sword flickered. A fast, clean strike.

"[Lightning Fang]!" He called out.

The silver blade met the hammer's edge mid-swing, parrying the force rather than blocking it outright. Sparks exploded from the clash, and the redirected energy sent Jiro sliding backward instead of being outright overpowered. It was a well executed exchange.

His opponent surprisingly grunted in reply, adjusting his stance, clearly shocked that his attack hadn't landed cleanly and instead was repelled. He exhaled sharply, lightning surging through his weapon again as he adjusted and gave Jiro some respect. "You're a lot stronger than you look."

Jiro gave a small smirk, shifting his weight slightly, his grip on his sword firm. "And you're about as slow as I expected."

His opponent scowled and surged forward again, this time incensed and faster, more aggressive.

The greathammer-wielder planted his feet and twisted his core, generating a full-body swing as violet lightning coiled around the greathammer's head. This was a stronger attack than before.

Jiro didn't retreat.

He stepped forward with a flash, into the strike and beating its pace by a large margin, his sword flashed in a clean, fluid counter before his opponent was even able to react.

Jiro's blade bit deep into flesh, carving across the greathammer-wielder's exposed side that was mid-swing. The strike was swift—almost imperceptible—but the aftermath was immediate.

A spray of crimson splattered onto the stone stage, the metallic scent of fresh blood rising into the air as it seeped into those previously created hairline fractures. The wound was deep and clean, where the lightning-enhanced steel had sliced through layers of muscle with surgical precision.

The hammer-wielder's body flinched from the pain, his momentum faltering, but Jiro was already swinging once more.

The second cut came without pause. A diagonal slash, arcing from the shoulder down to the ribs—fast, merciless, efficient. Blood burst from the fresh wound, spraying as Jiro pivoted fluidly, using his own momentum to carry the motion into another strike.

The third cut found his opponent's thigh, severing flesh with a sickening schlk as the greathammer-wielder swing was fully interrupted now and staggered backward. His balance failed.

Blood leaked freely down his legs, staining the stone beneath him. His breath came in sharp, pained gasps as his hands gripped his weapon tighter, trying to steady himself despite the rapidly accumulating injuries.

But Jiro wasn't finished.

His blade moved like a silver phantom, gaining speed with every successive strike—a fourth cut, this time a shallow but precise slice across the forearms that moved to raise the greathammer up in a parry, adding to the growing tally of wounds.

A fifth flicker of steel. Another burst of blood.

By the time the greathammer-wielder attempted his counter, Jiro had already cut him half a dozen times. His movements were relentless, each slash faster, each step smoother. It was like he was building momentum.

He was getting faster.

The hammer-wielder's expression contorted into a grimace as he forced his body to move, his wounds already draining his stamina. His personal disciple robes were now soaked with blood, dark red seeping into violet fabric. His grip trembled, knuckles whitening as he summoned the last of his strength.

This was his only chance.

With a roar, he planted his feet, lightning erupting from his battered frame as he swung his warhammer overhead with every ounce of power he could muster. The sheer weight of the weapon created a small vacuum in the air, the static electricity crackling in the wake of its downward trajectory.

"[Thunder Ruin]!" He roared as he used his most powerful, secretly trained, battle art.

The battlefield exploded with overcharged lightning mana, causing the air and clouds above to tremble slightly as the colossal hammer came crashing down, raw force and lightning compressed into a single earth-shattering blow.

But Jiro was already gone.

A silver blur. Another streak of blood in the air.

He had stepped beyond the hammer's reach before the swing even reached its peak.

The impact of the hammer continuing forward shook the stage, sending debris flying, but Jiro had already reappeared out of the way and behind his opponent.

His sword, still freshly dripping with blood, hovered in the air, its edge gleaming ominously.

A final cut.

A precise, perfect thrust aimed straight for the throat—

And then everything stopped.

A crushing, suffocating force descended upon the battlefield. The same thing that happened to every competitor when Elder Baruun subtly twitched as he glanced at one of the five stages for each battle's final moments.

Jiro's blade froze inches from piercing flesh.

His opponent, still mid-motion to try and defend his neck, was locked in place too.

A single moment of stillness. Not even a full second passed.

Then—the weight vanished.

Above them, the projection screen flickered.

Winner: Jiro.

The coliseum erupted into cheers for the completion of the fastest match of the day.

From the highest platform, Lassim watched as Jiro slowly lowered his sword, his breath steady despite the intensity of the battle.

The stage was splattered with blood, red streaks painting the stone in the wake of Jiro's relentless assault. The greathammer-wielder remained frozen for a moment longer before collapsing onto one knee, his body trembling from blood loss before a healer came to administer a healing potion and seal the wounds.

Lassim's gaze lingered on him for a beat longer. His swordsmanship and even the intent he'd mistaken for speed was instead more like he was chasing something or trying to be so fast he'd prevent something. That was the innate feeling he perceived, that desperation, when his spirit sense felt the lightning imbued in his attacks.

A need to be faster.

Lassim's fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. Why?

Had he been training like this ever since he left servant rank? Had something happened?

He exhaled slowly, deciding to find out later. The Spirit Transformation tournament was moving forward regardless, and with each battle, only the strongest remained.