The stone bleachers were half-shaded beneath the sprawl of the towering trees above, branches interlocking to form a canopy of pale green and gold. The breeze carried the scent of earth and bark, mingling with the occasional flash of ozone as spells cracked against defensive barriers below.
Alaric sat alone.
Not by accident – but by the simple fact that he remembered that having a walking golem that could independently speak and do actions wasn't really something to be introduced into this currently backwards world.
The viewing platforms around the dueling ring weren't full to begin with — this wasn't a formal competition, merely open sparring sessions among junior Spirit Masters. Students, most barely older than himself, gathered to prove something. To win, to impress, to learn the hard way.
He sat on the highest step, knees drawn up slightly, cloak folded neatly beside him. James was absent — by design. Alaric needed silence today.
His eyes weren't on the fighters.
They were on the flow.
Each clash was a display of personal strength and prestige to most. Energy flaring, bodies moving, martial souls bursting to life in dramatic flourishes. But Alaric wasn't watching the flash — he was tracking the structure beneath it. The timing between soul rings activating and their skills. The delay between thought and motion. The invisible stiffness of energy when a soul skill was overused.
Two teenagers below squared off — one with a flaming spear martial soul, the other with a pair of mirrored daggers. They charged each other, wild and reckless. The crowd murmured in anticipation.
Alaric only blinked.
"Too slow on the feint," he murmured. "And she steps too wide with the right foot. Soul ring number two should activate now… there it is."
A burst of fire swirled outward in a poorly controlled arc. The dagger-wielder dove back, rolling gracelessly, breath knocked out of him.
Alaric scribbled something on sheet of enchanted paper, one that kept it hard to write on it without it being laid down, balancing it carefully against his knee.
Note: Most junior combatants activate skills at emotional peaks. Predictable. Reactivity over rhythm. Observe more cases.
Another duel began. Two boys, both with beast-type souls. One being a bull type martial soul – the other being a gorilla type. More muscle. Less thought. He watched anyway.
He wasn't here to learn how to fight like them.
He was here to learn how they fought. And more importantly, how they would probably fail against an experienced fighter. Something he was sure to encounter in the future.
Some of them glanced his way now and then – his hair color standing out. The small, white-haired boy seated quietly above them all. He didn't cheer. Didn't call out attacks. Didn't offer advice. Just watched. The kind of gaze that made them feel like they were being looked at from a far distance that was unsurmountable.
That was fine. Alaric didn't care what they thought of him. He treated them like air.
What mattered was extracting patterns that probably spanned across the multiverse – human beings always acting the same more or less.
He leaned forward slightly as the third match began — two girls this time. One used a plant-type soul that bloomed into thorny vines; the other was a wind-based fan, her robes shifting with unnatural current.
The vine-user smiled too early. Mistake.
Wind beats plant in the open ground. Even when the caster hesitated after every action, expecting retaliation rather than planning ahead.
Alaric didn't write. He didn't need to. That one was obvious.
But he watched the wind user closely. Her control was decent. Not exceptional, but consistent. There was a moment — only a flash — where her focus shifted between soul skill use and her own positioning.
That was worth noting.
A flash of excitement flickered behind his eyes, but his expression didn't change.
Down in the ring, the wind user won with a downward pulse of air pressure, slamming the vine-caster to the ground with an audible thud – her second soul skill. The crowd clapped. Some laughed in delight of witnessing the spectacular display.
Alaric was already replaying the pulse diagram in his head.
"That could be refined," he murmured, "into a precis air pressure stream…"
He stared at the girl. She was talking to friends now. Her soul ring pulsed faintly with her breath — her second one. Yellow. Nothing impressive, but earned. Alaric wondered how she had gotten it. Had she fought the beast? Was she part of a team? Was it chosen for symbolism, function or experiences of past spirit masters?
"Too many variables," he whispered. "I will ask her later, maybe. No assumptions."
Time passed.
More matches. More data.
Then — silence.
The arena was empty now. Just the fading remnants of energy on the ground. The crowd was dispersing, and the sun had shifted lower behind the canopy.
But Alaric didn't move.
He sat, alone again, in the fading gold of afternoon. The duels were over. But the work — the work was just beginning.
His eyes narrowed.
One day, he would enter that ring. Not this one – the metaphysical one called battle. Not this month. Probably not even this year. Maybe not even this coming decade. But he would step into it with more than muscle, more than soul skills and flashy declarations.
He would walk in with the sure knowledge that he was better in every single way.
And win not because he could, but because he had already known how to long before the duel began.
Alaric rose only after the last person left the arena, lingering just long enough to finish his thoughts.
"Boring," he muttered," then again it would be a surprise if the lower-level spirit masters could keep up with the grand scenes of Hollywood Blockbusters in his past life."
He descended the steps slowly, not out of weariness, but deliberation — each pace measured, as though counting the cadence of thought. As he walked, he reached into his cloak and retrieved the piece of paper – his notes. He inscribed a new heading at the top:
Combat Field Analysis – Douluo Entry Level Trends
Below it, line by line, he began to write.
Most duels lasted between 60–120 seconds.Average soul ring usage: 3 skills per fight.Positioning decisions were reactive rather than anticipatory.Rarely any use of feints or layered casting structure.Too much flash. Too little function.No consideration of stamina usageToo rigid use of soul skills
At the bottom, he paused, then added:
Conclusion: Tactical maturity of junior combatants is beneath Silver City spellcraft students — even without cultivation. Physical capability is wasted by lack of systemized battle logic. Spirit-based combat = still a system worth stealing. General fighting is mostly decided on brute forcing the fight via spirit skills.
He tucked the paper away and made his way to the outer walkway surrounding the arena — a wide, vine-draped path that overlooked a shallow ravine filled with murmuring wind and fading light. It was quiet here. Ideal. Far enough from the near village for peace in the absence of the fights here, yet close enough to enjoy its benefits.
He reached into his inner robe and drew out a thin glass vial with a weirdly shaped cork. It would take a precisely calibrated amount of it and mix it with water to produce smoke. It pretty much worked like a vape.
Inside, Spice — properly filtered, precisely dosed for mental clarity rather than expansion. He inhaled a slow, practiced breath from the enchanted steam generating device.
His mind unfolded.
Not into visions. Not into dreams. But into analysis.
Names. Faces. Soul rings. Skill delays. Soul power rhythms. Movement types.
He folded his arms, eyes distant. A tree rustled overhead. The scent of ironbark and dusk.
"Most people don't stay after the fights are over," a voice said. Young, female, curious.
Alaric didn't turn immediately. "Most people miss the important part," he replied.
He glanced sideways.
The wind user.
Up close, she looked even younger than he expected. Her robes were rough-spun, dyed a faded green. Her spirit rings flashed back into his mind — two yellow glows, low-grade, but optimal for this period of the douluo continent.
"You watched my match."
"I watched all of them."
She didn't seem bothered. "Thoughts?"
Alaric tilted his head.
"You win because your opponent flinched," he said. "But you don't aim beyond that. You strike once, then wait. That pause will get you killed one day."
The girl blinked, taken aback — not insulted. Intrigued.
"And you?"
"I haven't fought yet."
"Why?"
"Because I'd rather win before anyone draws a weapon."
That earned a short, surprised laugh.
"I'm Lien," she said.
"Alaric."
She opened her mouth to say something else — but a bell rang in the distance. Late class signal. The sun was dipping into the forest's edge now.
Lien turned. "I hope I see you in the arena sometime."
Alaric didn't answer.
He waited until her steps vanished into the foliage, then stepped toward the edge of the balcony and sat, pulling out his paper again.
He added her name to the bottom of his observation list.
Lien – Wind Soul. Tentative Pattern: Pulse User. May be molded into future variable analysis. Potential: Moderate. Instinct present. Trainable under the right pressures.
Another name.
Another step.
Another line in the private compendium of this world's logic, its inconsistencies, its weaknesses.
He looked up one last time before the sky darkened fully.
"I will not lose in this world," he whispered to the wind. "I will not lose in any other."
And the wind carried his vow away.
Quietly.
Unquestioned.
Unbroken.