As the match progressed, the emperor gave it his full concentration. The emperor's gaze never wavered, but his mind was no longer entirely on the match. He felt a sudden emptiness, like a calm commanding and protecting presence wasn't there anymore.
His inquisitive eyes flickered once toward the area behind him—a space that had never been vacant since his ascension to the throne.
Where was Naze?
The emperor's protector, his silent shadow—Naze never left his post. He was as constant as the sunrise, as immovable as the imperial seal itself. Yet for the past two hours, his absence had gnawed at the emperor's composure.
He felt it in his bones. The court officials around him continued their cheers and murmurs, unaware of the unease behind the emperor's calm expression. His hands rested on the throne's armrest, but his fingers tapped lightly, betraying the rhythm of his worry.
Back on the stage, a storm of ice and steel raged.
Balt Joe's breathing grew ragged, condensation forming each time he exhaled. His fury distorted the air around him, and frost crawled up the tiles beneath his feet. His eyes—cold as glacier shards—glimmered with frustration as he threw up another massive ice barrier.
Gabriel Ealt's sword sliced through it like silk. One clean stroke, then another, until shards scattered like falling stars. The sound of steel cutting through frost echoed across the arena, sharp and rhythmic.
Balt Joe's jaw tightened. He lifted both hands and spun them in rapid succession. From his palms, a spiraling mass of ice formed—a miniature tornado shrieking with cutting frost.
"Freeze!" he roared.
The icy vortex hurled Gabriel off his feet, flinging him across the stage. The crowd gasped as his boots scraped dangerously close to the white demarcation line—the edge of elimination.
For a brief moment, Balt Joe smirked. His chest rose with pride. The barbarian's stubbornness would end here.
He charged, blade of ice forming in his grip. But before he could strike—
Gabriel Ealt lifted his sword lazily, like someone merely brushing off dust. His body moved with unnatural grace; his feet barely touched the ground. A soft gust of wind swirled around him, lifting him effortlessly back to center stage.
He landed silently, one knee bent, his head slightly tilted with a faint, taunting smile.
"This little—!" Balt Joe's voice cracked with anger. His teeth gnashed.
Gabriel raised a single finger to his lips. "Shhh," he whispered. "Don't break the rhythm. I'm just getting started."
The roar of the crowd surged like a tidal wave, echoing through the vast marble hall of the Imperial Arena. Some spectators were on their feet, their voices hoarse with excitement, while others sat frozen in disbelief at the sheer display of skill unfolding before them.
But the emperor, Josh Aratat, was detached from their exhilaration. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scanned every corner of the coliseum—the flickering torches, the shadows cast by the arena's pillars, the faint movements of guards stationed along the perimeter.
Naze's absence wasn't just unusual—it was impossible.
For years, the silent guardian had been his shadow, his unseen blade, his watcher in the dark. The emperor could count on one hand the number of times Naze had left his side, and none of those times were without prior notice.
Something was wrong. Either Naze was intercepting an unseen danger… or something—someone—had intercepted him.
The emperor's pulse quickened beneath his calm exterior, but he said nothing. His knuckles, however, turned white against the gilded armrest.
On the stage, frost and steel continued to sing.
Gabriel Ealt and Balt Joe danced a deadly duet—one of precision and chaos, of blade and blizzard. Each strike met its counter. Each movement fed into the next. It was like watching a mirror fight itself.
Balt Joe's breath came out in visible puffs as the stage grew slick with frost. He was done playing.
In a swift flick of his wrist, shards of ice splintered outward, glinting under the arena lights. They weren't random. They were aimed.
Gabriel barely had time to react before the shards hit his face. A flash of pain seared through his vision as frost clung to his lashes.
He staggered back, momentarily blinded, one hand clutching his eyes as he rubbed desperately against the freezing burn. He could hear footsteps—rapid, closing in.
Instinct screamed.
He turned, blade first.
A flash of silver met blue. The two collided. Gabriel's sword cut upward, missing Balt Joe's heart by an inch but grazing the side of his face. The strike drew a crimson line across Balt's cheek, the blood stark against his pale, ice-kissed skin.
The crowd gasped.
Balt Joe froze, the grin fading from his face for just a heartbeat—then curling back, darker, more twisted.
He wiped the blood with his thumb and licked it, eyes gleaming with something savage.
"Finally," he hissed. "Now you're fighting for real."
Gabriel said nothing. His breathing steadied. His hand dropped from his eyes, revealing a faint blue gleam burning behind them—like fire trapped in glass.
The air shifted. The once-warm breeze that carried the cheers of the crowd suddenly vanished, replaced by a creeping chill that coiled through the arena like a living thing.
Then—crack.
A faint frost began to spread from beneath Balt Joe's boots, tracing white veins across the stone floor. He lifted both hands, palms open, and the temperature plunged sharply—from 45 degrees to nearly zero within seconds. The audience gasped as their breath turned visible, and a thin mist rolled over the arena.
The chill wasn't ordinary—it had weight, a density that pressed down on everyone watching. Even the emperor leaned forward, his breath forming a pale wisp before him.
Gabriel Ealt shuddered violently. The cold wasn't just around him—it was inside him. It seeped through his boots, his veins, his lungs. His elegant, feather-light movements now felt sluggish, heavy, like he was wading through water. His sword arm trembled each time he lifted it.
"Struggling?" Balt Joe sneered, his voice carrying over the silence. "You should've brought fire instead of wind."
Then, with a twist of his wrist, Balt summoned his weapon—a blade of pure ice, jagged and humming with a cold blue light.
He stepped forward, each footfall leaving behind a solid block of frost. The sound of ice cracking beneath his weight echoed like thunder through the frozen hush.
Gabriel tried to brace himself, tightening his grip, but his body no longer obeyed as it once did. His muscles were stiff, his breathing shallow. Still, he raised his sword.
Balt Joe lunged.
The clash was brief and brutal. Ice met steel in a blinding flash—then Gabriel was struck square in the chest. The blow sent him flying backward, crashing through the brittle layer of frost along the stage's edge.
The crowd gasped as his body tumbled off the platform, rolling to a stop below.
A horn blew.
"Winner—Balt Joe of the Oradonian Order!" the announcer declared, his voice ringing across the arena.
The mages erupted into cheers, their varying colored robes waving proudly. Crystals of frost shimmered in the air around them like tiny stars.
Gabriel lay on the ground, dazed but breathing, his sword still clutched tightly in his hand. He tried to rise but sank back to one knee, chest heaving. His eyes burned—not from defeat, but from the bitter cold and something deeper: the promise of vengeance in the matches yet to come.
The emperor nodded slightly, his face unreadable. "A real spectacle," he murmured.
Now the scores were tied—1:1.
Both the Martial Arts School and the Oradonian Order had claimed a victory each.
Three battles remained.
And with the crowd's blood still boiling from the last fight, the air thrummed with anticipation. Every soul in the arena leaned forward, eager for what came next—for in these remaining duels, glory, pride, and power itself would be decided.