He rolled, and rolled again. One connection from that sword and Tyr would be compacted into a form small enough to store in a rucksack. This paladin hadn't been lying, he was far ahead of the younger man, and the power that had infused his body was tyrannical. Completely unrealistic, bursting from him in waves hot enough to scald the grass, as if he were in a constant state of the fire dance. It was akin to enchantment, but not quite the same. These 'prayer' based infusion spells were alarmingly similar to shaper magic. It gave him the ability to use spira, but based on his reaction to Tyr's small spells, he doubted the paladin knew how to actively use it.

Okami was nowhere to be found. On some hunt, conveniently. If Tyr had him now, this would have been incredible easy. Then again, maybe it was good that he wasn't here, this paladin may very well be able to kill the wolf, and Tyr's partner wasn't one to run away from a fight against an 'ordinary' man.

Combining that power with the lithe dexterity and fluid strokes blademasters were known for, every swing carried the promise of death and it was all Tyr could do simply to avoid them. A barrier hung about the paladin making magic worthless, blade flickering through the twilight with such great speed that catching it with his hands would've been an obvious mistake. Even at the peak of his ability to infuse himself with his own fire – Tyr wouldn't be able to muster half the strength necessary to arrest the momentum of the blade. It was like Mustache was wielding five instead of one, energy extending his blade beyond its normal length and turning a close quarters brawl into a mid-ranged struggle for survival. A cracking of the ground sending Tyr straight to his back, frantically rolling to the side to avoid the return stroke.

Aura control... A proto-domain...? If he hadn't been so busy, Tyr would have cursed aloud. All of the work to walk the path he'd chosen for himself and he was no closer to a proper aura. While this mortal was able to do so much more. Powers from a god, something Tyr couldn't believed was earned through honest effort but rather the contrivance of praying to a god.

Without his training from Varinn that allowed him to sense the spira, Tyr never could've avoided those strikes. Still, he was running out of time, waiting for the paladin to tire simply wasn't an option – and Tyr was confident that the older man would outpace him in a footrace now. Only avoiding imminent destruction by following the path of the spira before the blade struck, giving him some kind of prescience on where and how to step before being crushed. Every stomp of the plated boot made the ground quake, every missed swing shattered the earth, recovered more swiftly than physics should allow for...

Shit... He frowned, gritting his teeth. Daito remained watching, arms crossed in a hug over his lute. Still not concerned with helping the boy. Instead, following his movements and coming to one of the many conclusions he'd been waiting for. Unlike Tyr, Daito couldn't 'see' ki, as his people called the spira. Daito could 'hear' it, but it wasn't so real as to literally see it before it came. This was the gift of the blade singer, but Tyr had no song within him – and failed consistently in manifesting one – he lacked the mental discipline to clear his mind. Form and kata were all well and good but the 'song' was predicated on instinct and base emotion, not this jumbled up, half-assed attempt at doing everything at once.

Well... Daito grimaced. At least he's got the gymnastics part down. Considering the weight of his armor, he is quite agile.

“Pick up a weapon and fight me like a man, whelp...” Mustache was good, he'd always been one of the best in his school, during his time. But now, he was old. Middle-aged and worn down from years of hard training. All magic, regardless of where it came from, carried a price. Paladins most commonly fought as adepts, infusing their limbs with mana, faith, sometimes pure will – but activating that power to the level he had would sacrifice their trademark sustainability in lieu of great and temporary strength. Two minutes of incredibly power for five minutes of exhaustion. Something he doubted the boy was aware of, so he broke away from the combat and kicked his own fallen warhammer toward his opponent.

A badge of office and bluff all in one, he'd never taken to the use of a hammer. Another strategy blademasters might use to throw a calculating opponent off, a handy switch if he'd needed a lick of duplicity to defeat a similarly skilled opponent. Using both at the same time or swapping in the midst of a feint, few expect to get stabbed with blunt instruments, and a swordsman aware of the artificio would adopt a flat guard to avoid getting 'hooked' rather that preparing for the parry between bladed implements.

Tyr stared at him, covered in sweat but relatively fresh. His strength might not be equal to the paladin, but his stamina was far beyond that of a normal man. With the spira drawn through him at all times, he could do this for days – but knowing and doing were two very different things. He was impatient and embarrassed at being caught so off guard by a 'normal' human. Was Kael this strong in the martial? The professor was practically a living legend, but Tyr was unsure. Mustache was sublime in his movements, perfect in footwork, and his defense was impeccable. Even with his advantage of seeing the spira in advance, he couldn't counter or capitalize on it. Kael on the other hand was a mage first and swordsman second. Fighting with scripted movements might seem like a massive disadvantage, but it was subjective.

A blade dancer calculated and changed their approach as a fight went on. Everything was math and strategy. A good one made it an advantage rather than the opposite, and this paladin was certainly well practiced. He might even be the best in his order. Men like this couldn't be common... Tyr hoped, at least. He lifted the warhammer as he was bid. It was a bit long, and the head was over-sized, form over function. What only needed to be a cube of steel fit with a spike on the reverse side was a finely wrought and moderately enchanted sculpture of a comet, with a rippling twin-tail serving as the plate-piercing spike.

As soon as he picked it up, the paladin was on him. A new chapter to this duel of theirs, greeted by another round of Daito strumming at his lute. His eyes never left Tyr, waiting to see what would happen. After all, reportedly, the boy could not die and he'd seen him heal from a slash to the jugular in seconds. It was worth seeing how he responded to the varied stimuli of the song.

Tyr felt the music grab him again. Far less spira infused the strings than before. This time, it was more like a guide. A song for singer and dancer alike, even if his use of the forms taught to him by Varinn were sloppy. He'd spent thousands of hours training them, only to find that in a real fight against a real opponent – he wasn't as prepared as he'd thought.

Lighter, but easier to feel, beating color bursting in his breast with every turn of that mourning melody. The tinny sound of plucked strings rippled like a pebble skipping over water. A softness to it all that was sharped with hot, violent, energetic strikings of the pick. It gave Tyr the peace of mind to move more smoothly, but it did the same for the paladin who adjusted his approach. But he was just a dancer at best, to be a singer was not to adjust to the rhythm, but to become the rhythm itself, as Varinn had said.

Tyr had never been much for the arts... Easier said than done, a stray strike of the broadsword clipped his shoulder and sent him slamming into the paved stone. Tyr rolled and lifted himself, letting the limp arm hang for the time being while it went through the process of regeneration. Mustache must've seen that as an invitation to push forward, snorting like a bull and swiping at Tyr again.

This time, he was ready for the counter. His movements were smooth, body flowing like water as the fire dance enveloped him. After a handful of exchanges, his wrist shattered, forcing him to switch his dominant hand... He saw the light of the spira glistening in the air like a wisp of smoke, ducking the overhead strike and managing to hammer his fist into the flank of the paladin. His first successful strike, though it didn't bear much of an effect. There was no opportunity to remain consistent in a single dance, and he kept losing his surplus of energy when forced to pivot out of the way.

Under the song it all became so easier. Like a film being removed from his eyes, allowing him to truly feel the world around him.

I see. Varinn had always been right, and Tyr understood why he had spoken so cryptically. To be a blade singer was to feel, and you couldn't teach emotion. To feel it, but not be consumed by it – the opposite of the cold mind necessary of a blademaster. As for Mustache, he was at the end of his rope. Only a thread of power connected his core to the array infusing him. He had to end this, and fast. The only way to do so... Capitalize on the fragile emotions of a young man. There was strategy in that.

“You're not bad, kid.” Mustache sighed with a scornful smirk. It stung at him to stoop so low, he was a knight and a paladin over all things – but this was for Her. He had no choice but to throw his honor to the wayside. “It's really too bad your whore of a mother couldn't keep her dirty laundry a secret. Even worse that you survived when judgment finally came for her. Do you think the men had their fun before ending it? Or did they lay a lifeless body instead? We've all heard the tales of what a beautiful woman your late empress was, a shame I was not there myself--”

Daito watched on as the paladin continued his insult. Bizarrely, the boy stilled himself, ceasing his footwork but not so for the motions of his arms. His expression was hidden beneath that horned, tailed helmet of his. A brutal, northern thing. But Daito could feel something wild pop, a string breaking in the young man just as the paladin began to pick up the pace of his verbal lashing.

Tyr didn't respond. Didn't hiss or snarl or throw himself wildly at his opponent, opening himself up for the obvious counter. He simply... Disappeared. Into thin air, leaving no sign that he'd been standing there at all. No reaction from the ground, no movement of the air... Daito's brow furrowed, observing his surroundings with more than just his two eyes. There was nothing. No Tyr to be seen, no taste of spatial magic either – not that it could be used so near a city in the republic...

What in the world...? Seeing him live in the song and sensing his spira react to the music was enough to answer many questions about the boys nature. He was, at the very least, not some creature. His song had been one of war and man, no other race could've benefited from it. Any non-humanoid essence would've been greatly weakened. Hence, why he'd chosen it. There were easier ways to obtain this information, of course, but life was fleeting and incredibly boring.

“...?” Mustache froze in his motions, feeling a bead of cold sweat roll down his back. There was magic that could shroud one from sight, but it wasn't perfect. Dimensional magic was impossible here, which is why they'd chosen to strike at this precise location. He could not flee, and others could not arrive to assist. Leaving only illusion magic as the alternative. Except, the magic of assassins left signs. Every trace of him had disappeared – even his footsteps. The warhammer as well, which was enchanted to glow in the presence of an illusion. Even had it been at a level four standard, that rule should hold true. Nothing in the reports had indicated that this boy was capable of archmage level magic. “Where did he go?”

“I've no idea.” Daito replied with a shrug. He was similarly nervous. One could shroud their steps and cast all manner of illusions, but hiding the presence of such dense spira shouldn't be possible. He could smell nothing on the wind, feel no warmth of world energy beyond that which was possessed by the two left standing. And then, they heard it. Not something so mundane as 'heard'.

It was like... Thunder? Something of the soul, a heartbeat interlaced with the dull racket of a bell tolling. Reverberating all around, making the pebbles upon the road jump. A pressure in the air, full of wrath mixed with something else. Tyr was in incredible pain, wherever he was, and it was no longer in the physical world. Something, not the boy himself, had taken him away from his place here.

“Ah, I see. Well... Good luck.” Daito furiously began strumming his lute until he was surrounded by a dozen of opaque barriers. Mana shields equivalent to that which might enchant castle walls against the attack of siege engines.