The quarterfinals arrived faster than any of them expected.
Morning mist clung to the edges of the arena, and though the crowd was smaller than the day before, the tension was heavier. Every cadet who remained now had something rare—momentum, and eyes watching them.
Flynn, Lisa, and Kael each stood alone, waiting for their names to be called.
And then there was Nora.
Nora had no last name. At least, not one she remembered.
She was born in the farthest reaches of the Skelari Wastes, a forgotten, frozen frontier where only two things thrived: wolves and warlords. Her parents were acarna prospectors—scavengers who dug for raw crystals among dangerous ruins. One night, when Nora was only seven, the scavenger camp was raided.
A band of rogue knights-turned-bandits stormed in under the veil of darkness. Her parents told her to hide beneath the crawlboards of their wagon. She did. She stayed silent. And she listened as her world was torn apart above her.
When morning came, the camp was ash. The only thing left was a single broken sword half-buried in the snow and a girl too shocked to cry.
A wandering scholar named Cerin found her days later. He was a former Second-Rank Commander who had once served the Empire, but left after growing disillusioned with its brutality. He raised Nora in secret, training her in observation, mental discipline, and a style of swordsmanship that emphasized anticipation over power.
"Listen to people," he told her once. "They speak even when they're silent."
She did. She listened.
And when Cerin died of illness when she was thirteen, she walked alone to the Empire's core.
She wasn't chasing revenge. She wasn't chasing power.
She was chasing place—a name. A right to exist in a world that only saw numbers and banners.
---
Griff was fast. Brash. A former hunter from the hill clans with a brutal lunging style and a reputation for overwhelming his opponents early. He entered the ring grinning.
"You're the quiet one, huh?" he asked, drawing a serrated short sword. "Let's see what that silence hides."
Nora didn't speak. Her sword was light, straight-edged. No flair. No inscription.
The bell rang.
Griff struck like a bolt—two swings, a feint, then a low kick.
Nora parried without looking panicked. She didn't retreat. She didn't stumble.
She walked forward.
Every attack Griff launched was met—not with equal force—but with correctness. She bent like wind around his motions, slicing shallow lines into his defenses until Griff was bleeding from three places and gasping.
Then she stopped.
She looked him in the eyes, and for the first time, he saw her—not as a girl, not as an opponent—but as something colder.
A survivor.
Griff dropped his blade.
"I yield," he said, chest rising and falling.
The crowd clapped, but Nora didn't react. She walked out of the ring the same way she walked in—silent, steady.
---
Flynn's match was more balanced.
Set was a quiet prodigy from Group Two with terrifying earth-based Acarna control. His sword never left the ground. Instead, he channeled vibrations to throw Flynn off balance.
The battle became one of timing—Flynn dancing above trembling soil, launching sharp counters when he could.
In the end, Set lost focus for a single moment. Flynn's blade grazed his shoulder, and Set knelt in defeat.
Flynn offered a hand. Set shook it.
There was no hatred here—only respect.
---
Lisa faced Reiner, a swordsman known for brute strength, wearing double the standard weight. He came in swinging, trying to end the fight early.
But Lisa had no intention of losing to size.
Her parries were cold and tactical, and she used Reiner's weight against him, cutting his angle until he was boxed in. When she knocked his sword from his grip and placed her blade near his neck, there was no roar from the crowd—only a hush of awe.
She'd made it look simple.
---
Mirae was fast—faster than anyone Kael had fought. She used dual daggers and danced in circular patterns, her moves dizzying.
But Kael had learned something new during the past week.
He could feel intention.
Even before Mirae moved, the Arcana Core pulsed faintly in his chest, reading the flow of her movements. It didn't give him power—it gave him clarity.
He waited.
And when the opening came—a short misstep in Mirae's twirl—he struck, disarming her in one fluid motion.
She yielded, smiling wide. "You're not what I expected, Kael."
"Neither are you," he replied, offering a tired nod.
---
By the end of the quarterfinals, four cadets stood:
Nora, the girl with no name.
Lisa, the blade with no voice.
Kael, the unknown core-bearer.
Flynn, the boy rising out of shadows.
And though none of them would say it aloud, they all knew:
The real battle had just begun.
---
Out of sixty-five applicants, only four remained. Four cadets who had proven themselves in strength, strategy, and spirit.
Now, with the final stretch before them, only two would advance—and only one would claim victory.
The arena grounds had been repaired after the quarterfinal clashes, but scorch marks, shattered stone, and deep grooves still marred the field like the remnants of a forgotten battlefield. It wasn't just a competition anymore—it was a stage for legends in the making.
The names of the semi-finalists echoed through the academy:
Lisa – The swift storm, whose speed and precision had stunned every opponent she faced.
Flynn – The fire-born warrior, whose elemental mastery and tactical mind made him a fierce contender.
Nora – The quiet tempest, whose unshakable focus and devastating grace turned battles into poetry.
Kael – The dark horse, a rising force cloaked in mystery, whose relentless growth had left even the instructors curious—and wary.
The crowd hushed as the first match was called.
This wasn't just a test of power. It was a glimpse of the future—the future of the Empire's next generation of warriors.
The battle for the finals was about to begin.
---
The arena was silent as Lisa and Flynn stepped forward—two formidable cadets, both battered from their previous battles but determined to win. The judges gave a subtle nod, and the match began.
Flynn made the first move, lunging in with a swift strike. Lisa blocked it with ease, her wooden sword locking against his in a sharp parry. They exchanged blows in rapid succession, a pure contest of swordsmanship. Flynn moved with elegance, precise and fluid, but Lisa's power and relentless rhythm soon overtook him.
Realizing he was being overwhelmed, Flynn stepped back. Lisa didn't let up—she abandoned defense and launched into a full offensive. Her strikes came fast and heavy, quicker than expected. Flynn struggled to parry, barely avoiding several blows. For the first time in the tournament, he was wounded.
Breathing heavily, Flynn summoned his elemental energy. With a burst of flame, five rods of condensed fire formed above him. He hurled them at Lisa, one after another. Lisa countered with her lightning—exploding the ground beneath her feet to negate the incoming flames.
Outmatched in pure strength, Flynn resorted to a desperate final attack. He coated his sword in fire and summoned more flame rods above him, this time amplifying their force with wind. The air grew hot, dense with power.
Lisa saw it coming. Sparks of electricity danced around her body as she gathered her energy. Her stance shifted—calm, deliberate, sword raised beside her face, angled straight at Flynn.
He smirked. "Nice. Give me all you've got."
They charged at the same time.
Flynn unleashed a barrage of flame-enhanced wind arrows, condensing air beneath his feet to boost forward like a bullet. Lisa moved like a blur. Every flame was cut down midair, lightning crackling with each deflection. Their blades clashed in the center of the arena, erupting in a massive explosion of smoke and dust.
The battlefield vanished behind a haze.
Then, a sharp gust tore through the mist—Lisa had swung her sword again, clearing the smoke.
Across the arena, Flynn was still standing—but barely. His left arm was injured, and the toll of his powers had clearly worn him down. Lisa narrowed her eyes. She couldn't let him recover.
She charged—but Flynn, refusing to fall, struck back with a sudden burst of wind that knocked her back. Lisa gritted her teeth.
"That's enough," she muttered.
This time, there was no glowing aura—just deadly calm.
Her movement changed. It wasn't forceful or wild—just fluid. Each step was like a dance. She weaved past the flames and wind as if they weren't there, her blade cutting a path through the storm.
Flynn's eyes widened as she broke through. "Impossible..."
Before he could surrender or block, her wooden blade struck his chest—amplified with pure energy. Flynn collapsed instantly, unconscious.
The crowd held its breath.
Then, through the clearing smoke, Lisa emerged—standing tall, victorious.
---
The crowd erupted as the dust finally cleared. Lisa stood tall, her chest rising and falling with every breath, lightning still faintly crackling across her shoulders. On the other end of the arena, Flynn lay unconscious—scorched, bruised, but smiling faintly in defeat.
A tide of cheers swept through the audience, but this time it was different.
It was louder.
It was proud.
For the first time in academy history, a young woman had reached the finals—and the women in the crowd made sure the moment echoed through every corner of the arena. Some stood, shouting her name. Others wiped tears from their eyes, clutching each other with shared joy. Lisa raised her sword gently, her expression calm, but her eyes burned with silent pride.
Then came the announcement for the second semi-final.
As Kael stepped into the arena, the tone shifted.
The cheers from the women were replaced by thunderous roars from the male cadets and spectators.
"Make us proud, boy!"
"Don't let her win easy!"
"Show us what you've got, Kael!"
Kael's eyes swept across the stands—faces lit with adrenaline, expectation heavy in the air. His heart thumped once, hard. He wasn't nervous. Not anymore. But there was something about this match, this moment, that felt... final.
Across the arena stood Nora.
Silent. Steady. Eyes like still water.
She gave no reaction to the noise. No raised eyebrow. No nod. Just a quiet breath and a hand resting gently on her wooden blade.
This wasn't just a match.
It was a clash of two paths—each carved through challenge, grit, and a touch of something greater.
The instructor raised his hand to begin the match.
"Ready…"
Kael gripped his wooden sword tightly. Nora took her stance, low and steady, her left foot slightly forward.
"Begin!"
She was gone.
Kael barely registered the movement before pain shot through his left hand. A roar from the women in the stands followed instantly, echoing across the arena like a wave.
"Get him!"
"This competition belongs to us!"
"Go, Nora!"
But Nora didn't acknowledge them. She wasn't here for praise—only the win.
Without pause, she launched into a relentless flurry of attacks. Kael could barely block the strikes—her speed and precision were unmatched. She didn't give him a single breath. Sword after sword clashed, but every time he thought he'd found an opening, she was already two moves ahead.
She swung again—this time just inches from his neck. Kael jerked back, the blade slicing through the air in front of his face. His footing slipped, but he managed to lift his leg and deliver a desperate kick to her abdomen, forcing her back just enough to break the rhythm.
Gasping, Kael steadied himself. His hand throbbed. Sweat dripped down his brow.
He lunged forward with a sharp counterattack—but it lacked the sharp discipline Nora had mastered. She parried it effortlessly, then slipped past his guard and slammed a clean strike against his leg.
Pain flared through his thigh. Kael stumbled, barely staying upright.
Nora stood over him, sword raised but still. Her face was unreadable.
"Do you still want to continue?" she asked, voice low.
Kael's breath hitched. He looked up at her—tall, calm, commanding. His grip loosened. With a slow exhale, he dropped his sword and lay back, the pain and exhaustion finally catching up.
"I yield."
Silence.
The crowd froze for a heartbeat—shocked. Then the eruption began.
But this time it wasn't the boys cheering.
It was the women—every voice screaming, cheering, crying. For the first time in the academy's history, two female cadets had made it to the final.
Kael looked toward the stands through blurred eyes and spotted his mother.
She was cheering—not for him, but for Nora.
He smiled.
All around the arena, people rose from their seats, throwing flowers, handkerchiefs, and small tokens toward the battlefield cheering both girls. Nora walked back slowly, accepting nothing, simply bowing her head in respect Lisa did the same. But the meaning was clear.
They weren't just finalists
They were Icons.