As Shawn and Makara ventured westward from the harbour toward the Citadel, the grandeur of Atlantis continued to captivate them. The city was a mesmerising blend of shimmering canals, lush terraces, and towering architecture, each step revealing a new layer of beauty and sophistication. The dazzling environment proved to be a delightful distraction, with the vibrant marketplaces and intricate districts drawing their attention at every turn. Yet, their mission remained clear: find General Kelathor and convince him to meet the king and deliver their urgent message.

  Their journey took them through a series of bustling streets and lively squares until they reached the west side of the Citadel. Here, the atmosphere shifted to one of formality and order. The streets were quieter, lined with stately buildings that spoke of the city's administrative and military significance. Attentive sentries stood guard, their presence underscoring the seriousness of the area.

  After seeking directions from locals, Shawn and Makara arrived at the imposing headquarters of General Kelathor. The building itself was an architectural marvel, combining military precision with an elegance that mirrored the strength and sophistication of Atlantis. Its clean lines and robust design conveyed both authority and grace.

  They were met by stern-faced guards who eyed them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "What do you want?" one of the guards asked, his voice firm and authoritative.

  Makara, still feeling the lingering effects of his earlier indulgence but determined, stepped forward and replied, “We’d like to meet General Kelathor.”

  The guard’s expression softened into a knowing grin. “Looks like you’ve come at just the right time. General Kelathor is in the back of the garden. I’ll take you to him.”

  Shawn and Makara exchanged puzzled glances but followed the guard as he led them around the building. The path took them to a serene grass field, a garden area that contrasted sharply with the formal surroundings they had just left. The garden was a vast expanse of well-manicured grass, with neat rows of flowering shrubs adding splashes of colour to the otherwise green landscape.

  In the centre of this tranquil setting, they saw General Kelathor, his chest bare and glistening with sweat. He was surrounded by a group of fifteen individuals dressed in black attire, their faces hidden with black cloth, and only their eyes could be seen. Each of them wielded a long wooden stick, and they were engaged in what appeared to be an intense training session.

  General Kelathor moved with a blend of fluid grace and raw power. He dodged and weaved through the attacks, his movements precise and calculated. At times, he would catch an attacker mid-strike, expertly disarming and tossing them to the ground. Despite their repeated attempts, the trainees seemed to rise and return to the fray, their resilience evident in their relentless efforts.

  Seeing this, Shawn tensed, ready to step in if needed, but the soldier guiding them spoke in a calm, reassuring tone. “That’s General Kelathor. It looks like he’s training the newbies.”

  General Kelathor's intense training session filled the air with the rhythmic sounds of wooden sticks clashing and the soldiers' grunts of exertion. His movements were a master-class in discipline, each strike and block perfectly executed with precision and purpose. His towering frame and commanding presence spoke of a leader who had seen countless battles and led many men. Noticing Shawn and Makara approaching, the General signalled for his trainees to pause. Instantly, the soldiers retreated and formed a line, their posture rigid, a testament to the discipline instilled by their leader.

  “General Kelathor,” Makara began, his voice steady despite the lingering effects of his earlier drinking, “we’ve come from the eastern regions and….” Before he could finish, General Kelathor, without turning his gaze, cut him off. “So, you wish to have an audience with the King,” he stated flatly, his tone conveying both authority and certainty.

  Shawn and Makara exchanged puzzled glances, whispering to each other in confusion. “How does he know we want to see the King?” Shawn muttered, his curiosity growing with every passing second.

  General Kelathor, now facing them fully, allowed a small, knowing smile to spread across his face. “In Atlantis, we value both skill and perseverance,” he began, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the whispers. “If you wish to meet the King, you must first prove yourselves worthy. I will grant you an audience if you can best one of my finest trainees.”

  Makara’s eyes lit up with a sudden spark of determination. “Alright, General. We accept your challenge. Shawn here will fight.”

  Shawn turned to Makara, his expression one of surprise and disbelief. “Wait, what? I’m supposed to fight?”

  Makara, stepping aside and giving Shawn a confident pat on the back, grinned. “You’ve got this. Besides, you should take this on. I’m not exactly in the best shape for a fight right now, given, you know, the whole being drunk thing.”

  General Kelathor’s eyes gleamed with interest as he observed the interaction. “Very well,” he said, addressing Shawn directly. “Come forward and face your opponent.”

  From the group of soldiers, a figure stepped forward, dressed in a black training uniform with a mask that concealed all but their eyes. The trainee's appearance was intimidating, and the dark attire only added to the air of mystery surrounding the challenger. With a fluid motion, the trainee brandished a long wooden stick, taking up a ready stance.

  “There will be three rounds,” General Kelathor declared. “If you win two of them, I will personally take you to meet the King.” As he spoke, he tossed a wooden stick toward Shawn, who caught it and took a moment to examine its weight and balance. The stick was well-crafted, solid but light enough for quick manoeuvres—a true warrior’s weapon.

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  Shawn and the masked trainee stepped into a circular pit, their eyes locked on one another, sizing each other up. The atmosphere grew tense as everyone watched in anticipation. Makara, who had positioned himself next to General Kelathor, leaned in with a mischievous grin. “How about a little wager?” he suggested, his tone sly.

  General Kelathor raised an eyebrow. “And what do you have in mind?”

  Makara smirked. “If your trainee wins, I’ll give you my sword—crafted from the finest steel in the eastern regions. But if Shawn wins, I want two bottles of your premium wine.”

  The General Makara up and down sized him for a moment and thought what kind of person Makara is, then nodded, a grin breaking through his stern demeanour. “You’re on,” he agreed, his voice low and confident.

  Shawn and the trainee squared off, the tension between them palpable. Shawn was unsure of how to proceed—his experience with the staff was minimal, and he hesitated, unsure of what stance to take. His opponent, on the other hand, stood with unwavering confidence, a seasoned warrior’s poise in every line of their body. The atmosphere grew heavy, the air thick with anticipation, and neither combatant moved. The crowd watched with bated breath, waiting for the first strike.

  Shawn closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to calm his racing heart and steady his nerves. As he opened them, he found himself suddenly sprawled on the ground, his head spinning. The trainee had seized the opportunity, beginning the first round with a swift, shadow-like attack that caught Shawn completely off guard. Moving with almost supernatural speed and agility, the challenger had struck low, sweeping Shawn's legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring, and before he could recover, the trainee’s staff was pressed against his throat—a silent, undeniable declaration of victory.

  Makara winced at the sight with his mouth open, while General Kelathor remained impassive, his face a mask of calm. “One round to my trainee,” he declared, his tone neutral but laced with a hint of pride at the display of skill.

  Makara hurried over to Shawn, reaching down to help him up. “Don’t play around, Shawn. Too much is riding on this match,” he muttered urgently.

  “What? Why?” Shawn grunted, still dazed from the fall.

  Makara brushed the sand off Shawn's shoulders and arms, his expression serious. “Yeah, I made a bet on you, so make sure you win,” he replied with a grin.

  Shawn blinked at him, caught between frustration and disbelief. “You bet on me?”

  Makara shrugged nonchalantly, dodging Shawn’s question as he stepped back out of the fighting pit. “Just do your best. I have faith in you!” he called over his shoulder.

  Taking a deep breath, Shawn adjusted his grip on the staff and rotated it in his hands, trying to get a better feel for the weapon. He took a ready stance, the wood solid and comforting in his grip, while the trainee stood across from him, completely unfazed, eyes fixed on him with a steady, calm gaze.

  The second round began with a more cautious approach from both fighters. This time, Shawn decided to rely on his natural strength and instincts, drawing from his bloodline knowledge. He watched his opponent closely, reading the subtle shifts in their stance, and anticipated the trainee's movements. As the masked fighter lunged forward, Shawn matched each strike with a well-timed block, the sound of wood striking wood echoing through the garden. Their sticks clashed repeatedly, and the crowd was captivated by the rhythmic back-and-forth, the dance of combat unfolding before them.

  Gradually, Shawn’s determination and strength began to show. He started to push the trainee back, step by step, his movements growing more confident and powerful. Sensing an opening, he delivered a strong, sweeping strike that forced the trainee to stumble backwards. Seizing the moment, Shawn advanced, shoving his staff between the trainee’s hands and twisting sharply. The manoeuvre disarmed his opponent, the trainee’s grip faltering as the staff was wrenched from their grasp and sent flying across the pit, landing several feet away.

  A cheer erupted from the gathered crowd of soldiers, their excitement palpable. Makara clapped his hands enthusiastically, his face breaking into a broad grin as he looked over at General Kelathor. “That’s more like it!” he shouted triumphantly.

  General Kelathor glanced at the cheering soldiers as they became silent, his stern expression softening slightly. He nodded approvingly at Shawn. “One round to you,” he acknowledged. “This will be decided in the third round.”

  Shawn, feeling a surge of adrenaline and confidence, walked over to the fallen staff and used his own to skilfully flick it back toward the trainee. The trainee caught it effortlessly, twirling it once before settling into a more aggressive stance. The final round was about to begin.

  The third and final round commenced with an intensity that surpassed the previous two. The masked trainee, no longer holding anything back, attacked with a newfound ferocity, their strikes swift and precise. Shawn, still riding the high of his recent victory, met every attack head-on, matching the trainee’s ferocity with his own. The two combatants became a blur of motion, their staffs whirling through the air in a deadly, beautiful dance. Each strike was met with a counterstrike, each dodge followed by a retaliatory blow, the sound of their combat echoing in the stillness.

  They circled each other, eyes locked, their movements almost mirror images. The midday sun cast long shadows on the ground, and the intensity of the fight seemed to grow with each passing moment. Shawn’s mind raced, searching for a strategy, an opening that would give him the upper hand. He could see the fierce determination in his opponent’s movements, a resolve that matched his own.

  Then, with a sudden burst of speed, the trainee spun, their staff sweeping low in a wide arc. Shawn leapt over the strike, twisting his body in mid-air. As Shawn landed, he brought his staff down in a powerful forward slash. The trainee saw the attack coming and raised their stick to counter, but there was a sharp cut as Shawn's staff connected with the trainee’s, splintering the wood in half. The force of the strike split the trainee's staff into two and sliced through the black mask that covered their face. The fabric fluttered to the ground, and the trainee fell backwards, landing on the ground with a soft thud.

  As the mask fell away, it revealed the face of a young woman with fierce, dark, pearl blue eyes and long hair cascading down her shoulders. She lay on her back, momentarily stunned by the outcome, her expression one of surprise.

  Shawn froze, his eyes widening in shock at the revelation. The gathered soldiers gasped, and in a show of respect, they all knelt, their heads bowed. A hush fell over the training ground, the air thick with the weight of what had just transpired. Shawn and Makara were clueless about what was happening around them.

  The girl quickly covered her face, her expression a mix of embarrassment and shock, before darting away from the training ground. She disappeared through the garden gate, her footsteps fading into the distance. General Kelathor watched her retreating form with a hardened expression, then turned to face his trainees, his voice commanding and firm. "Never speak of what happened here. Training is done for the day. Disperse!"

  The soldiers, still kneeling in respect, responded in unison, "Yes, General," before standing up and marching off in an orderly fashion. They cast curious glances at Shawn and Makara as they departed, but no one dared to utter a word. The tension in the air slowly dissipated as the training ground emptied, leaving only General Kelathor, Shawn, and Makara behind.

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