The gallery was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. The last match between Rovan and Nerissa still lingered in the air like the crackle of a fading firework—breathtaking, unexpected, and unforgettable.
At one corner of the gallery, a crowd had gathered, voices overlapping in a blur of cheers and playful arguments. The scent of roasted nuts and sweat mingled in the air as coins clinked from hand to hand.
"Damn, seeing that girl fight earlier, I thought she was going to win for sure!" a red-haired boy groaned, clutching his empty coin pouch.
"Haha! I told you," another jeered, slapping his friend's back. "Rovan's a rare talent. No way he'd lose."
"Yeah, yeah—don't be so smug. You were already wetting your pants when he got hit by that water bullet."
"You two stop playing around," grumbled an older man with a wrinkled cap. "If you're not betting, then move along."
"Who says we're not?" the redhead snapped. "I lost money last match. This time, I'll win it back. I bet five hundred silver coins on Morgan!"
"Place my bet too," the other chimed in. "Four hundred on Yarik!"
The air crackled with rising energy just as the referee's voice rang out, sharp and commanding, slicing through the chatter like a blade.
"Match Five! Morgan Benedict versus Yarik Feldor! Ready! Three! Two! One! Begin!"
The instant the word dropped, Yarik lunged forward—his movement unnaturally fast, boosted by a surge of red mana that flared at his boots. His twin axes gleamed with condensed energy as he slashed directly at Morgan's chest in a ruthless arc.
But Morgan didn't flinch.
With a subtle shift of his weight and a burst of light-blue aura around his legs, he sidestepped the strike, then pushed off the ground in a backward dash that left a visible blur behind him.
Yarik's axes tore through empty space, missing by a hair.
"Did you see that? Morgan used wind magic to speed up his dodge with so much fluency," one of the spectators blurted out.
Before the dust had settled, Yarik chased again, propelled by a low blast of wind magic under his feet. He crossed the stage in the blink of an eye.
This time, Morgan met him. His steel sword, unadorned but sharp as thought, clashed against Yarik's axes mid-air.
Clang!
The impact sent ripples through the arena. A wave of pressure pushed outward as their enhanced weapons met, each blow charged with invisible magic.
Another slash. Another shockwave. They moved like whirlwinds—flesh and bone driven beyond human limits by mana.
"Amazing," Logan muttered from the balcony, eyes narrowed. "They're not just fighting—they're amplified."
"They're using mana to strengthen every movement," Alice said beside him. "Dashing, striking—even reacting. It's physical combat guided by magic."
"Hmph!" Mirena snorted behind them, arms crossed. "What's so great about that? Only the weak fight this way. In front of true power, all this dancing is meaningless."
Down below, murmurs ran through the gallery.
"They're not even casting attack spells," someone whispered in awe.
"Yeah. They're using mana like a hidden thread. That's advanced technique…"
In the noble balcony above, Zephyr leaned forward silently, watching the clash with rare interest. Beside him, Rowan remained calm, eyes tracking Morgan's every step.
Lilith, arms crossed near the edge of the balcony, tilted her head slightly. "He's calm. Measured. That sword work… I've only seen that in a few high-tier mercenaries."
Lilith, though only twelve years old, had a lot of experience due to her parents being adventurers. She went along with her parents on many dungeon raids after awakening her elemental affinities. And that's where she earned her confidence from—which later on turned into sheer arrogance.
Her father, Noah Starwind, said nothing—but his gaze had sharpened. His eyes were locked on the stage.
In the gallery, a traveling woman leaned toward the man next to her, voice low but eager.
"Yarik's from the Crimson Fang Guild, right?"
"Yeah," the man answered. "Northern territories. Axe-wielders. Famous for brute force and fighting tactics."
"And Morgan?"
There was a pause.
"He's different," the man said. "Comes from an adventurer family. Dungeon raiders."
"But I thought he's from Silverwind Valley," the woman said with confusion in her eyes.
Lilith's ears perked up slightly hearing the murmur. Her gaze flickered toward the gallery.
The man continued, unaware he was being overheard from other corners.
"Twelve years ago, his whole family entered Fellroot Labyrinth. None came out."
The woman's lips parted in shock. "All of them?"
"Everyone. He was only a kid then."
Morgan parried a heavy strike on the platform and twisted his sword, forcing Yarik to stumble. He didn't press forward. Didn't taunt. He simply reset his stance—silent, expression unreadable.
"After that day…" the man whispered, shaking his head. "They say he never spoke much again."
Snippets of the conversation carried faintly upward to the second floor. Those in the noble balcony couldn't hear every word, but a few caught fragments—enough to stiffen their posture.
From the viewing box, Zephyr's father, Alek Albrecht, furrowed his brow. "Did you hear that?"
Though Zephyr didn't inform his father, news like the Arcadia Young Elite Tournament doesn't stay silent. So here he was—to watch his son shine. Or that's what he was expecting.
"Something about a dungeon tragedy," replied another noble. "Hmph. No wonder the boy fights like he's carrying a grave."
Meanwhile, the match only intensified.
Yarik roared, swinging one axe with explosive power while the other followed in a spinning arc. But Morgan weaved through the onslaught, his body low and aura sharpened like a blade unsheathed.
Their fight wasn't flashy. There were no towering ice walls or flaming spears. No storms conjured from thin air.
But the silence of it—the deadly precision, the shuddering impacts—made it feel even more dangerous.
It was war. Intimate, brutal, beautiful.
Morgan pivoted mid-swing, his sword carving a narrow line across the stage, barely grazing Yarik's shoulder. The crowd gasped as a red flare sparked from Yarik's armor.
But Morgan didn't even look at the wound. His focus was unwavering, as if chasing a ghost only he could see.
And he still hadn't said a word.
To be continued…