Gideon's palm slams into the dirt with enough force to crack stone. "[Earth Mound]!"
The ground heaves. Sand and soil surge toward Elrik, swallowing him whole in seconds. The dirt compresses, hardening into a solid earthen tomb.
Gideon don't wait. He leaps back, boots skidding through dust, and thrusts a hand toward the sky.
"[Stalactite]!"
The air shimmers ten meters up—then splinters as a jagged spear of rock materializes, its tip glinting like a fang. Gideon's arms tremble with the strain, sweat rolling down his temple as he guides the spell.
"Now," he growls through gritted teeth.
Both hands slam downward. "[Stone Armor]!"
The stalactite plummets. At the same instant, Gideon's skin crackles as granite erupts across his body—slabs of rock forming pauldrons, greaves, a chestplate thicker than a castle door.
CRACK-THOOM!
The spike impales the earthen tomb dead-center. The impact quakes through the arena, kicking up a dust storm that swallows half the fighting grounds. Gideon staggers but holds his ground, stone boots rooted to the earth.
For half a heartbeat—silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Gideon's breath hitches—a sharp, wet sound—as his fingers brush against his side. They come away slick. Red.
The hell—?
He stares at the blood dripping onto the sand, each drop blooming like a tiny, grotesque flower. His stone armor creaks as he staggers back a step, the weight of it suddenly wrong, like wearing a coffin.
Then—more laughter.
Light. Mocking. Close.
Gideon's head jerks up.
Elrik stands ten paces away, estoc resting lazily on his shoulder. The blade's edge gleams—streaked crimson.
"Impressive," Elrik says, giving the sword a casual twirl. Blood flicks off the steel, spattering the sand between them. "But did you truly believe that you could trap me..." His nose wrinkles. "...with dirt? As you can clearly tell...I am not Erion."
Gideon's mouth moves before his brain catches up. "The hell'd you—"
Elrik sighs. He gestures to the shattered remains of the earthen tomb with his free hand. "Did you not see me run out? No?" A pitying click of his tongue. "As a fellow noble—"
"Ain't no fellow of yours," Gideon snarls.
Gideon's fingers twitch toward his wound, his voice a ragged whisper. "[Lesser Heal—]"
CRACK.
The blow comes from nowhere—a brutal force slamming into his gut. The stone armor explodes outward, shards of rock pelting the sand like hail. Gideon folds around the impact, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat as his feet leave the ground.
He crashes onto his back, skidding through dirt and debris.
"Truly pitiful," Elrik sighs. "To think the esteemed House Dredween produced such a… crude specimen." The estoc rests lazily against his shoulder. "Tell me, esteemed peer of mine—did they teach you nothing of proper combat etiquette? Or were you too busy mucking stables to pay attention?"
Gideon's vision swims. Ain't… no way… He blinks blood from his lashes, trying to focus. How'd he—
"Ah, that look." Elrik tsks, crouching down just out of reach. His smile is all teeth. "The dull confusion of the uneducated. Allow me to enlighten you." He flicks his wrist—
—and the air shimmers around his free hand. A translucent, clawed gauntlet flickers into view for half a heartbeat before vanishing again.
Elrik's fingers weave through the air as he says:
"By shadow's claim and noble's right,
Let phantom claws rend flesh tonight—
[Phantom Talon]."
The air distorts as five jagged streaks of darkness materialize around Gideon's torso.
"There," Elrik purrs. "As demonstrated... A proper noble's spell."
Gideon's remaining hand digs into the dirt. So... a true third-circle mage. The realization should terrify him. Instead, a hoarse chuckle bubbles up from his mouth.
"Y'talk... too damn much," he rasps, blood frothing at his lips.
Elrik's smile widens slightly. He steps forward, the estoc carving idle patterns in the sand as he circles.
"And yet," he says, "you bleed."
Gideon's vision blurs...
"You see," Elrik continues, pausing to flick an invisible speck from his shoulder, "combat is more than mere brutish flailing. It's theater. A symphony of calculated strikes and artful dominance." He gestures to the roaring crowd with a flourish. "And you, are a discordant note in an otherwise impeccable composition."
Gideon spits blood. "Ain't… here… fer yer damn art," he says.
Elrik's sighs. "Precisely the problem." He taps the estoc against his palm, the blade humming faintly. "But if I wax poetic much longer, even these unwashed masses will grow restless." His gaze flicks to the stands, where nobles clutch their pearls and commoners lean forward, breathless. "Shall we elevate this farce?"
Gideon's pulse hammers. His body screams—ribs cracked, armor shattered, blood slicking his side—but his pride screams louder.
Move.
"[Haste]!"
The spell ignites in his veins. The world slows.
Elrik's eyes widen—a fraction, a heartbeat—as Gideon blurs sideways, kicking up a spray of sand. The wind whips past his ears, his wounded side burning as fresh earth crawls up his torso, sealing the gash beneath layers of stone.
Gideon's chest heaves as his newly reforged stone armor settles against his skin, the earthen plates still warm from the magic that birthed them. Sweat stings his eyes, but he doesn't blink—doesn't dare. Across the sand, Elrik hasn't moved an inch.
Why ain't he chasin'?
The noble merely watches, one eyebrow arched. Then—
"[Release]."
The words are so soft they're almost lost beneath the crowd's roar. But Gideon feels it—the shift in the air, the sudden weight pressing against his ribs. The estoc's glow intensifies...
"[Haste]."
Elrik's body shimmers, his outline blurring at the edges.
"[Lesser Buff]."
Muscles coil beneath his tailored sleeves, the fabric straining.
"[Greater Buff]."
The air cracks around him.
The crowd gasps as Elrik's shadow stretches unnaturally long across the sand, the green glow of his blade now glowing brighter with each pulse.
Gideon's throat goes dry. Ain't no way…
Elrik runs a gloved finger along the blades edge. The steel sings under his caress.
"For the princess," he says softly. "The queen." A pause. The blade's light flares violently. "And the nobility."
The last word drips with venom, his gaze snapping up to lock onto Gideon.
Gideon's stone-clad chest heaves as he steadies himself, sweat carving trails through the dirt on his face. The armor weighs heavy, but it's the fire in his palm that burns brightest—a swirling orb of orange and gold, spitting embers into the air.
"[Ignis]!"
The fireball roars across the arena, heat distorting the air in its wake. Gideon doesn't wait to see it land—he's already shifting stance, right foot digging into the sand for his next move—
—when Elrik murmurs.
"To write the true wrongs of this society..."
The world warps.
Gideon's fireball splits down the middle like an apple cleaved by a knife, the two halves harmlessly scorching the sand behind Elrik. Then—
Agony.
Gideon's scream tears from his throat before he even sees it—the space where his right arm used to be. Blood arcs through the air in a grotesque fountain, splattering the sand in crimson streaks. His knees hit the dirt, his remaining hand clawing at the stump as if he could press the limb back into existence.
"N-no—gah—damn it!" His voice cracks, each word a ragged gasp.
The Stands
Obinai is on his feet before he realizes it. "Can he do that?!"
Bram doesn't look at him. His fingers are laced tight over his mouth, his gaze locked on the arena. "Yeah," he mutters through his hands. "Healing magic's got no limits. Almost any crap potion or spell is fixin' that."
In the Sands
Gideon's breath comes in wet, shuddering gasps. His remaining hand scrapes weakly at the dirt as he tries to push himself up. "L-Lesser hea—"
CRUNCH.
Elrik's boot smashes through the stone armor plating Gideon's face, the force sending him sprawling. Blood sprays from his nose and mouth as he tumbles across the sand, coming to rest in a broken heap.
"Pathetic," Elrik sighs, flicking Gideon's blood from his blade with a twist of his wrist. "Truly, what did I just say?"
In the Stands
Obinai lurches forward—
Bram's hand clamps down on his shoulder. "Don't," he hisses. "You step out there, they'll disqualify you and leave him bleeding. You know the rules."
Obinai's teeth grind hard enough to ache. His muscles tremble with the need to move, to act—but Bram's right. Damn it all, he's right.
Elrik begins to pace.
"Behold!" His voice rings out. "The true nature of our glorious kingdom! Even some nobles—" The blade sweeps toward Gideon's crumpled form. "—would sooner deem forsaken equal ro them than lift a finger to—"
THWACK.
A stone pillar erupts from the ground—no wider than a fence post—and cracks Elrik square across the bridge of his nose.
His vision blurs—
—then clears just in time to see Gideon looming over him, a spear of flame clutched in his remaining hand. The firelight dances across Gideon's ruined face, painting his bared teeth in hellish orange.
"Y'all are so fuckin' cocky," Gideon rasps, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.
The spear rises—
Elrik's lips move.
...
...
The air detonates outward in a concussive wave. Gideon's flaming spear shatters into embers as he's launched backward like a ragdoll, his body twisting mid-air. His eyes roll back, consciousness flickering—
—just as Elrik blurs into motion.
Too fast. Even for those watching, it's barely more than a streak of silver and green. His blade flashes—
SCHLICK.
Gideon's remaining arm plops onto the sand, fingers still twitching.
The crowd screams.
Elrik lands in a crouch, his blade already clean. He doesn't rush the kill—no, that would be common. Instead, he rises slowly, rolling his shoulders as lightning crackles to life in his free hand. The spear forms lazily, its jagged length hissing like a live wire.
"Disappointing," Elrik sighs, stepping over Gideon's shuddering form. The noble's nose is still bleeding. "I'd hoped for at least one worthy opponent this tournament."
The lightning spear pulses as he raises it overhead, its glow painting the arena in flickering shadows.
Gideon's remaining legs jerk weakly, his breath coming in wet gasps. His eyes—gods, his eyes—still burn with defiance even now.
Elrik's lip curls. "Let's correct that oversight, shall we?"
The spear descends—
The lightning spear crackles inches from Gideon's throat, its blue-white energy casting jagged shadows across his bloodied face. Then—
Snap.
A hand closes around Elrik's wrist.
The noble's arm jerks to a halt mid-strike, tendons straining against the unyielding grip. The spear's energy fizzles, dissipating into the air with a defeated hiss.
Elrik's head whips around—
—to find Lyth standing beside him, materialized from empty air. The Headmaster's fingers don't even tremble as they crush Elrik's momentum.
"You—"
Lyth tilts his head. "Enough."
Elrik wrenches his wrist free from Lyth's grasp, the motion sharp enough to send a droplet of blood flying from his nose. He swipes the back of his hand across his face, smearing crimson across his cheekbone. His eyes flick down to Gideon's broken form.
"Call it," he snaps. A glob of spit lands on Gideon's unconscious face. "Even correction such as this is beneath me."
He turns on his heel and strides toward the cheering masses. The crowd explodes—a deafening roar of adoration as Elrik raises his arms, basking in their frenzy. The estoc glints in his grip, still stained.
Lyth exhales through his nose. He kneels beside Gideon. A hand presses to the dwarf's chest—gentle, almost paternal.
Pale gold light spills from his fingertips, weaving through Gideon's wounds. The bleeding slows. Stops. Gideon's eyelashes flutter, his breath coming easier.
"Infirmary," Lyth murmurs, so low only Gideon could hear. "You'll be whole soon."
The glow intensifies—then fades, taking Gideon with it.
Across the sands, Elrik drinks in the crowd's worship, his smirk triumphant. He runs a thumb along the blade's edge, flicking Gideon's blood onto the sand.
"Such fervor for so little," he muses to no one, loud enough to carry. "One would think they'd never seen real skill before."
A group of noble-born students near the front rail swoon.
...
Obinai feels it before he sees it. He turns just as Bram explodes from his seat, muscles coiled like a bear trap sprung.
"BRAM, NO—!"
Obinai lunges, arms wrapping around Bram's waist mid-air. They crash into the benches, wood splintering under their weight as they barrel through the student section. A first-year yelps as Bram's elbow clips his shoulder.
"The hell, man?!" someone shouts.
Obinai barely hears it. His world narrows to the writhing, snarling mass of fury in his arms. Bram thrashes like a wild thing, his boots kicking up splinters as he tries to buck Obinai off.
"Lemme GO!" Bram roars, spit flying from his lips. "I'll END that pretty-boy bastard—!"
Obinai heaves, using his whole weight to pin Bram against the shattered bench. "He's alive, Bram! They'll fix him just like you said!" His voice is hoarse, strained.
Bram's fist cracks against Obinai's ribs—once, twice—but Obinai holds on.
"Did you Gideon die?! Obinai shouts directly into Bram's ear. "No! 'Cause he ain't dead!"
Bram's muscles go slack. "He... he ain't," he mumbles His fingers unclench, trembling.
Obinai eases back just enough to see Bram's face—the wildness in his eyes dulling to a vacant expression.
"Infirmary's got him," Obinai says, quieter now. "Gideon's tough."
Bram's chest rises and falls. He nods, once, sharp. "Yeah."
...
Lyth floats high above the bloodied sands. A faint sigh escapes him as he spots Obinai and Bram in the stands get up and making their way to the railings.
Rougher than expected this year... Lyth thinks. Might need to make some changes to the rules.
But the show must go on.
With a theatrical flourish, he spreads his arms wide, drinking in the crowd's deafening roar.
"NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL ENTERTAINMENT!" His voice booms, magically amplified to drown out even the loudest cheers. The walls vibrate with the force of the crowd's response.
He lets the noise build—lets it swell until it feels like the very stones might shake apart—before raising a hand for silence.
"BUT WHY STOP THERE?" A grin splits his face as a shimmering display materializes beside him, casting eerie blue light across the sea of upturned faces. "LET'S MEET OUR NEXT CONTESTANTS!"
...
...
BRAM vs. LINEA
Beside him, Bram stiffens. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he puts his face in his calloused hands.
"Damn," he mutters. "Wanted Lyra. Not... her."
Obinai elbows Bram hard enough to make him grunt. He jerks his chin toward the arena where a blue-skinned tiefling materializes, her obsidian hair, now in braids, rippling like dark water under the stadium lights. "Ain't that the same girl who cornered ya after combat drills last month? The one who—"
Bram's groan cuts him off. "Ugh. Yeah." He drags a hand down his face, but Obinai catches the way his ears turn pink at the tips. "She's gonna be pissed."
Obinai barks a laugh—just as Bram's form shimmers gold and vanishes.
Down in the arena, Linea's tail flicks like an irritated cat's. Her crimson eyes scan the crowd until—
Pop.
Bram appears across from her. His grin is all teeth. "Heya, Cinders."
Linea's nostrils flare. "Don't."
Bram's grin widens. "Miss me?"
Her tail lashes. "I dreamed about punching that smirk off your face."
The crowd whoops.
Obinai leans forward. Oh, this'll be good.
Lyth's voice booms:
"Linea Cinderflare versus Bram! Begin!"