After a brief pause, the Elder stepped forward once again. He seemed heavier in that moment, not because of age, but because of the weight of responsibility. Raising his hand, he spoke with the firmness the moment demanded:
"Participants 234567 and 284500, prepare to enter!"
Among the participants, closer to the left side of the arena, two young men exchanged glances. One nodded, adjusting the sleeves of his plain, rough jacket. The other chuckled and lazily stretched.
"Oh! Looks like we're first," he said with a grin.
"Perfect. At least we won't have to stand around here all day."
They walked toward the edge of the arena with calm steps, as if heading out for an evening stroll through their village rather than preparing for battle. Their movements were steady, confident, without a hint of unnecessary tension.
Deyron Lidstol and Nyrek Halveth — boys from the remote village of Murdholm, where magic was learned on the bare ground, in the dirt, without the shine of academies or noble titles.
When they reached the edge of the arena, the Elder raised his hand again and spoke firmly:
"First round. First match!"
"Participant number 234567, Deyron Lidstol."
"Participant number 284500, Nyrek Halveth."
"Enter the arena!"
They stepped forward, calm and composed. Neither looked afraid, nor did they try to show off their power. They simply stood opposite each other, at the distance required by the rules.
Nyrek tilted his head slightly toward Deyron, as if an unspoken exchange had passed between them. Then he raised his hand and said evenly, almost without emotion:
"I forfeit."
The Elder paused for a moment, fixing his gaze on the boy, but quickly nodded:
"Victory goes to participant 234567 — Deyron Lidstol."
Deyron gave a brief nod and walked back to his side of the arena. Nyrek followed, as if everything had been understood and planned beforehand.
A little further away, standing on the raised section, the third member of their group continued to watch. He smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest.
"Well done, guys. This way, we'll keep our abilities secret until the next round. No need to reveal everything just yet."
He closed his eyes for a second, simply waiting for what would come next. The first step had been made. The rest was going according to plan.
After the next fight was announced, Torren slowly rose from his seat. There was no rush in his movements, but a quiet readiness radiated from him. Michael noticed how he straightened up, rolled his shoulders slightly, and nodded — more to himself than to anyone else.
"Your turn?" Michael asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Yeah," Torren said, glancing at the arena. "Time to show why we're here."
He stepped forward. A quiet tension filled the arena — not an overwhelming silence, but the kind that comes just before thunder. This was no grand stadium with thousands of roaring spectators, but everyone present was watching closely.
The match began without fuss. Torren moved with focused precision, his attacks and spells appearing deliberate, as if planned well in advance. No one doubted his strength, though he never flaunted it.
After some time, the battle ended — Torren emerged victorious.
When he returned to his seat, he looked a little tired, but his gaze remained steady. Michael leaned forward with a slight grin:
"So? How was it?"
"Not bad. But no room for slacking," Torren replied calmly.
"You make it sound like this is all too easy," Michael muttered.
"It's not easy. I'm just used to it."
They exchanged a short, understanding glance. Their words were minimal, but both knew exactly why they were here.
The third fight was announced soon after. Michael sat quietly, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He didn't listen to the chatter of the other participants or watch the match. His focus was inward — preparing for his own battle.
When his number was called, he stood up, rolled his neck slightly, and took a deep breath. Torren gave him a short nod:
"Keep your rhythm."
"As if I know any other way," Michael smirked, though his voice carried a serious tone.
He stepped onto the arena floor. There were no massive crowds or deafening roars — only the quiet tension from those nearby and the watchful gaze of the Elder, who always seemed to see more than he revealed.
The battle was tough — that much was obvious from Michael's face when it was over. He returned to his seat, exhaling heavily:
"Yeah, that wasn't easy. But I did it."
Torren nodded, his gaze as calm as ever:
"The result is what matters."
Michael ran a hand over his face to wipe away the sweat, closing his eyes for a second to catch his breath. When he opened them again, that familiar fire was back — an unshakable determination.
When Michael sat down next to Torren after his fight, Renald approached them. He stood there with his arms folded across his chest, a smug grin on his face.
"Michael, that was your idea of a fight? Pathetic. You're nothing special — can't imagine you'll last long at this rate," he mocked.
Michael frowned and turned to Torren:
"Should I remind him that he only beat me once because of Katsu's help?"
Torren shook his head slowly, his voice calm but firm:
"No. Let him think and say whatever he wants. His words don't mean anything."
Renald kept throwing insults, clearly enjoying himself, waiting for Michael to snap. But suddenly Blitz appeared — as always, making an entrance. He stepped between Michael and Renald, leaning in close to Michael with that wild, unsettling grin.
"So, hero of the day! I saw that fight of yours! What was that supposed to be? A school play for toddlers?" Blitz laughed with his signature, slightly deranged chuckle.
"You almost embarrassed yourself out there! Then again… I kinda liked it. You're like a comedy with just the right touch of drama."
Michael squinted, unsure how to respond.
"Whose side are you on, Blitz?" he asked dryly.
"The side of common sense! Ha-ha! But seriously, Michael, you can do better. So stop giving us this weak performance, alright?" Blitz sneered.
Renald huffed, unable to hold back:
"Do you even care that I was talking to you guys?"
Blitz's expression instantly darkened. He turned slowly to face Renald, the grin gone, his eyes cold.
"Huh!? Did I say you could speak, weakling?!" he snapped, his tone so sharp that Renald instinctively stepped back.
Renald gritted his teeth but didn't argue. He shot them all a venomous glare and stomped away, muttering under his breath.
Michael glanced at Torren, who gave a faint smirk, shaking his head slightly.
All this time, the girl with the cards had been watching from the side. She pulled out a single card, looked at it, and smiled.
"Now I understand his abilities," she murmured softly.
Carefully gathering her deck, she stood up and cast one last look at the arena.
"However, it's my turn to prepare for the arena."