But inside the dueling arena, the sounds of bodies colliding and structures breaking filled the air.
The wind swept dust across the arena and over Sparta's head.
He paced along the edge of the stands, his fingers brushing a slightly rusted metal railing. His gaze passed through the dust and settled on a familiar figure at the center of the arena.
Clayton turned at a tricky angle to evade his opponent's charge, then drove an elbow into his ribs. The movement was clean and decisive.
His opponent was one of his many sons. He had turned eighteen today, stood 1.87 meters tall, and was a size smaller than Clayton. Now Clayton's blows were driving him back step by step.
Sparta had changed the Coming-of-Age Trial, but what he had done away with was the fight to the death, not ordinary sparring.
So eighteen-year-old Viltrumites no longer had to fear dying in the trial, but they still had to take a beating.
After all, Sparta had taken his share of beatings in the past. Everyone else ought to know what that felt like.
Sparta narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
Leaning against the railing like an ordinary passerby, he watched the fight.
"With skills like that, how are you supposed to beat that damned Sparta for your father?"
Clayton stood his ground with his fists clenched, speaking with the frustration of a father who expected better.
Blood ran from the young man's nose. He held his aching ribs with one hand, his face twisted in pain.
Do you even hear what you're saying?
He had never seen Sparta fight, but stories of the Marshal were told everywhere in the Empire.
He had only just turned eighteen. How could he possibly defeat the legendary Marshal?
"Again!" Clayton said evenly, sounding every bit