BAM! BAM!
Both attacks struck true.
Swoosh! Nerissa flew through the air like a broken kite, crashing hard. Rovan slammed face-first into the stage with a brutal thud.
Dust billowed into the air like slow-rising smoke.
The entire arena froze. Spectators stared without blinking, terrified they'd miss even a fraction of what came next. The duel — expected to be a walk in the park for Rovan — had turned into a breathtaking spectacle.
Now, silence ruled.
Who had emerged victorious?
No one moved. Not a single cheer, not a single breath.
In the viewing box, Marquess Donald Yale stared at the stage, every muscle in his body taut with tension. His fingers clenched his wine glass so tightly that it cracked — a droplet of red trailing down the stem.
Across the field, Zephyr Albrecht and Prince Rowan stood motionless, their gazes locked onto the battered stage. Even Lilith Starwind — so often disinterested — was leaning forward, arms folded, watching with rare attentiveness.
Then — movement.
Rovan's fingers twitched.
A collective murmur rippled through the gallery.
"Rovan is moving."
"So… he won?"
"Maybe. He's still conscious…"
"Yeah, but barely. That girl — she nearly took him down."
Audience members leaned in.
In the noble balconies, whispers spread like wildfire. Even those who had dismissed the green-robed girl as a no-name weakling now spoke her name with respect.
"She almost beat him…"
"She's only Tier One, right?"
"Gods, she's insane."
On the field, Rovan groaned, slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position. His vision blurred, breath ragged. Nerissa's final attack had struck the side of his neck — he was one inch from blacking out.
But she wasn't moving.
A hush deepened. Then came a strained cough.
Nerissa stirred.
Her body trembled violently as she forced herself up to her elbows. Blood stained the front of her robe. She clutched her chest, gasping, but the fire in her eyes had not dimmed.
Even injured, even broken — she wouldn't back down.
Kuhn! Kuhhh! She coughed, the sound scraping from her throat like sandpaper. But she rose — slowly, painfully — and sat upright.
The crowd watched, stunned.
Both were near collapse. Mana depleted. Bodies broken.
Only one thing remained.
Will.
"I've come this far," Nerissa whispered to herself, biting down on her lower lip until it bled. "I won't lose now. I can't."
She braced her arms and pushed forward — inch by inch, her legs trembling as she rose.
In response, Rovan's eyes widened. A flicker of disbelief passed through him. Then, gritting his teeth, he rallied what strength he had left and struggled to rise as well.
But then — a sharp thump echoed.
Nerissa's body gave out. Her legs folded beneath her. She collapsed, face-first onto the stone stage.
The audience gasped.
Rovan, swaying like a candle in the wind, finally stood. Barely.
A long silence stretched.
Then the referee raised his hand and announced, voice steady and clear:
"Winner: Rovan Yale!"
The cheers didn't come immediately. The gallery, balconies, and viewing boxes were filled with people trying to absorb what had just unfolded.
Eventually, applause began to rise — soft at first.
Then, a single pair of hands clapping from the balcony echoed through the silence.
Clap… clap…
Then another. And another. The quiet turned to a roar of approval — not for the winner, but for the battle itself. For Nerissa Vale.
"She may have lost the match," a nobleman whispered, "but she won something more valuable."
"Respect," someone added. "She earned it."
In the balcony, Logan nodded silently. His eyes weren't on Rovan, but on Nerissa. That raw defiance. That refusal to yield.
It reminded him of something.
Bravery.
"That girl…" Rudeous muttered, leaning forward, brows furrowed. "She's just Tier One?"
"Seems so," Ardyn Vex said, arms crossed. "But she fought like a lion. I wouldn't call her weak."
Even Mirena's cold demeanor cracked. Her gaze lingered on the stage. She didn't say a word, but the glint in her eye said enough.
Alice was amazed by such prowess.
Marquess Yale finally exhaled. Relief poured from his shoulders like sweat. His son had survived — barely.
Rovan descended the stage slowly, his steps heavy, face solemn. There was no celebration in him. Only quiet.
Nerissa lay unconscious. The healers rushed in, cloaking her body with a light-blue glow of recovery spells, then lifted her gently onto a stretcher.
The audience parted to make way. But as she passed, heads bowed. Even nobles stood in silence.
She'd lost.
But she had become unforgettable.
"Match Five, Stage Two!" the announcer's voice broke through the lingering emotion.
"Morgan Benedict of the Silverwind Valley… versus Yarik Feldor of the Crimson Fang Guild!"
Cheers rose again.
Morgan stepped forward calmly. His plain martial robes fluttered as he adjusted the heavy greatsword strapped across his back. No crest. No fanfare.
But his presence was undeniable.
On the opposite end, Yarik — a burly youth clad in red leather armor — cracked his neck and stomped forward with two axes glowing faintly with fire runes.
"Don't think you'll win just 'cause you don't talk much," Yarik spat, spinning one axe in his hand. "I'm gonna make this loud."
Morgan said nothing. His eyes were half-lidded, serene.
From the gallery, murmurs erupted:
"That's the Sword Saint's disciple, right?"
"Yeah, I heard he split a wyvern mid-flight."
"Let's see if that's just myth."
On the balcony, Logan leaned forward slightly.
He had seen it all—bloody duels, desperate deathmatches, wars waged steel against steel. Yet something about these battles of spells, of finesse and strategy, ignited a thrill within him. It wasn't just power—it was art. And he could hardly contain his anticipation.
And this time, even Lilith whispered.
"Let's see what the silent one can do.
He speaks so rarely, it's easy to mistake him for a machine."
"READY!"
The referee's voice thundered again as tension reset across the arena.
"THREE…"
Yarik grinned, stepping into a wide stance.
"TWO…"
Morgan unsheathed his blade in a single fluid motion.
"ONE… BEGIN!"
TO BE CONTINUED