The clang of wooden blades vibrated through Elian's already throbbing forearms. Sweat trickled down his temple, stinging his eye, but he barely noticed. He was locked in a dance of offense and defense with Drake, a dance that felt oddly unfamiliar.
Professor Falion, a wiry man with a perpetually furrowed brow, circled them like a hawk, his every grunt a critique. Elian, usually a blur of controlled movements, felt sluggish, his practiced footwork thrown off by Drake's unorthodox style.
He'd expected the usual rookie mistakes - slow reactions, predictable swings. Instead, Drake was a whirlwind of barely controlled energy, his movements a chaotic mix of what looked like brawling and some kind of Eastern martial art Elian vaguely recognized from Earth.
Elian parried a wild overhead swing, the wood groaning under the impact. But the deflection left him open. Drake, quicker than Elian anticipated, seized the opportunity. He lunged forward, not with a sword thrust, but with a flying kick aimed at Elian's knee.
The movement was telegraphed, a move straight out of a drunken bar brawl. Elian knew he should have dodged it easily. But his body, heavy exertion and the unfamiliar rhythm of the fight, betrayed him. The kick connected with a sickening thud, sending a jolt of pain up his leg.
Before he could react, Drake's momentum carried him forward. Elian stumbled back, his foot twisting at an unnatural angle. A choked gasp escaped his lips as he crumpled to the dusty ground. The wooden practice sword clattered beside him, useless.
Pain lanced through his ankle, a searing white-hot fire that stole his breath. Shame burned hotter. He'd been beaten, not by superior skill, but by a lucky, unorthodox move.
Professor Falion's whistle pierced the shocked silence. He rushed over, his weathered face grim as he knelt beside Elian. "Easy there, Aetheris. Looks like a sprain, nothing too serious. Let's get you to the infirmary."
Elian gritted his teeth, a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. It wasn't the pain, it was the humiliation. He looked up to see Drake hovering awkwardly beside them, his face a mask of concern.
"Dude, I… I'm so sorry, Elian. I didn't mean to…" Drake stammered, his voice laced with genuine worry.
Elian forced a weak smile. "It's… fine, Drake. Just a stupid mistake. Happens to the best of us."
His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. Professor Falion helped him to his feet, a silent promise of ice and bandages hanging in the air.
As they limped away, Elian stole a glance back at the training grounds. The other students were gathered around Drake, their faces alight with a mixture of awe and excitement.
A wave of nausea washed over him. Drake, the once prideful boy, was now the center of attention. The lucky underdog who'd taken down the school's golden boy. Elian's stomach churned, a bitter cocktail of envy and self-loathing.
Reaching the infirmary, Elian slumped onto the cot, the throbbing in his ankle a dull counterpoint to the storm of emotions raging within him. He needed to clear his head, to process what had just happened.
This wasn't just about a lost duel. It was a stark reminder that even the most practiced skills could be disrupted by the unexpected. He needed to adapt, to evolve his fighting style, to incorporate the unorthodox into his repertoire.
As the ice pack numbed the pain in his ankle, a spark of determination ignited within Elian. He wouldn't let this defeat him. He would learn from it, grow from it, and come back stronger. Drake might have won this round, but the fight was far from over.
The sting of defeat lingered on Elian's tongue even as he limped towards the infirmary. Every jolt of pain shooting up his ankle was a harsh reminder of the unorthodox kick that had taken him down. Shame burned hotter than the ache, a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
Pushing open the infirmary door, he was greeted by the sterile scent of disinfectant and a waft of lavender that always seemed to cling to Ms. Amelia. The kind-faced healer looked up from her book, her brow furrowing in concern.
"Mr. Aetheris? What seems to be the trouble?" she asked, her voice a gentle rasp.
"Ankle," Elian grunted, hopping awkwardly onto the nearest cot. The throbbing in his joint made him grit his teeth.
Ms. Amelia wasted no time. Her touch, surprisingly strong for a woman of her age, was firm as she examined the swollen joint. A low whistle escaped her lips.
"Looks like a nasty sprain," she muttered, her voice barely audible. "No breaks, thankfully. But it's going to be a while before you're back on your feet."
Elian winced as she gently pressed around the swollen area. "How long?" he mumbled, the question laced with a desperate hope to return to training soon.
"Hard to say definitively," Ms. Amelia replied, her gaze steady. "Ice and rest are key. Maybe a day or two before you can even consider putting weight on it. Then, we'll see about some light physical therapy."
Disappointment gnawed at Elian. A day or two off training felt like an eternity. He envisioned Drake, basking in the unexpected victory, honing his unorthodox style while Elian was sidelined, a glorified spectator.
As Ms. Amelia rummaged through a cabinet for bandages, the distant sound of excited chatter drifted in through the window. Elian's gaze flicked towards the source - a gaggle of girls gathered around Drake near the sparring grounds. Drake, looking slightly overwhelmed by the attention, was trying to answer their questions with a hesitant smile.
A surge of jealousy, sharp and unwelcome, twisted in Elian's gut. He knew it was petty, but the sight of Drake – the once prideful boy – suddenly the center of attention after a lucky shot, rankled.
Ms. Amelia's voice, warm and calming, cut through his brooding. "Here we go," she said, approaching the cot with a roll of bandage and a bucket of ice.
As she expertly wrapped his ankle, the ice sending a dull ache through the joint, Elian forced himself to relax. There was no point dwelling on what-ifs. He needed to focus on healing, on figuring out how to counter Drake's unorthodox style.
"Listen, Mr. Aetheris," Ms. Amelia said, her voice gentle but firm. "Sprains are nothing to mess with. Take it easy, follow my instructions, and you'll be back on the training grounds in no time. But try to push it too soon, and you could end up with a much longer recovery."
Elian nodded, a flicker of determination replacing the self-pity. He wouldn't let a sprain break him. He'd use this time to analyze his weaknesses, to strategize. He'd come back stronger, ready to reclaim his place as the top swordsman.
Later, as he hobbled out of the infirmary, the image of the girls fawning over Drake still lingered. He forced a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. He wouldn't let it get to him. Drake might have won the battle, but the war was far from over.
Elian glanced down at his bandaged ankle, a dull throbbing a constant reminder of his defeat. But there was also a new sensation – a quiet resolve, a burning determination to prove his worth. The path ahead might be slow, but he was ready to walk it, one careful step at a time.