The gong echoes.
Silence...
Neither moves.
Linea stands coiled tight—boots planted wide, tail lashing behind her like a whip. Her arms are crossed, fingers drumming impatiently against her biceps. Every muscle screams fight, but her feet stay rooted.
Bram just... leans. One shoulder cocked higher than the other, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"The hell did you do last fight?" Linea says.
Bram's eyebrows shoot up. "Huh?"
"That mess." She massages her temples. "No form. No basics. Just—" She mimes wild flailing. "—until somethin' stuck."
Bram's lips quirk. "Worked, didn't it?"
"Tch." Linea's boot grinds into the dirt. "We're rivals," she spits. "We are not to fight like some back-alley scuffle."
Bram raises his hands, palms out. "Wait. We are?"
For half a heartbeat—silence.
Then Linea's nostrils flare. A muscle jumps in her jaw. "I'm gonna kill him," she mutters—not quite under her breath. Her cheeks flush jus—
Whoosh.
One second she's ten paces away. The next—
CRACK.
Her fist obliterates the air where Bram's face used to be. He barely jerks back in time, but the shockwave alone sends him flying.
"Guh—!"
The world spins. Bram's back hits dirt, bounces, rolls like a dropped barrel. He skids to a stop at the arena's edge, sand coating his tongue.
The crowd erupts.
Linea shakes out her hand, knuckles already bruising. "Hmph. Faster'n last time."
Bram pushes up on wobbling elbows. "Damn, woman," he croaks.
Bram works his jaw side-to-side with an audible pop. Across the arena, Linea stands motionless—arms crossed, tail flicking like an agitated cat's. Dust motes swirl around her boots, catching the arena lights as they settle.
"You done screwin' around?" She says.
"Nah. Just warmin' up."
Whoosh.
Linea's gone—just a blur of dark leather and whipping tail. Bram barely registers the movement before her fist screams toward his sternum.
Not this time.
He twists at the last second. Her knuckles graze his ribs—close enough to feel the heat off her skin. The near-miss sends his heart jackhammering against his ribs.
"Hah!" Bram pivots hard on his back foot, swinging a haymaker toward her exposed side.
Linea flows under the blow like water, her braid whipping around as she ducks. "Slow," she mutters. Her elbow jabs upward toward his chin—
Bram yanks his head back. Her strike ghosts past, close enough to ruffle his hair.
He barely registers the whoosh of air before Linea's heel slices toward his ankles—
Jump.
He barely clears the sweep, but Linea's already moving, her body twisting mid-air. Her braid whips around as she pivots, her other leg snapping out in a vicious roundhouse—
CRACK.
The kick smashes into Bram's ribs, sending him skidding backward, boots carving trenches in the sand. Pain radiates through his side, but he just grins, swiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand.
"Heh. Not bad," he rasps, rolling his shoulder. "But y'gotta hit harder'n that."
Linea's tail lashes. "Harder?"
"Fine."
She's on him...
Left hook—Bram ducks, feeling the wind ruffle his hair.
Right cross—he weaves, her knuckles grazing his cheek.
Jab, jab, uppercut—Bram twists, but the last punch clips his chin, snapping his head back.
The crowd roars.
Bram's vision swims, but his hand shoots out, catching Linea's wrist mid-strike. His fingers lock...
"Gotcha—"
Linea doesn't struggle. Just leaps, using his grip as an anchor to flip clean over his head. Her boot slams between his shoulder blades on the way down—
THUD.
Bram face-plants into the dirt.
Linea lands in a crouch, already spinning to face him—
—just in time to see Bram lunge from the ground, a wild left hook arcing toward her temple.
Duck.
She barely avoids it, but Bram's already moving, his knee driving toward her ribs—
Block.
Linea barely gets her forearm up in time. The impact rings through her bones, sending her skidding back. Her boots screech against the sand, arms trembling from the force.
Bram doesn't let up. The moment Linea regains her footing, he's on her—fists flying like hammer strikes.
Thud-thud-CRACK.
Linea's forearms jolt with each block, the impacts vibrating up to her shoulders. One punch slips through, slamming into her collarbone. A sharp hiss escapes her teeth as she staggers back.
...
...
Bram's grin is all teeth, sweat glistening on his brow. He feints left—then dives low, leg sweeping toward her ankles.
Linea springs over the strike, tucking into a backflip. Her braid whips through the air as she lands light as a cat, boots barely disturbing the sand.
She turns to face him, swiping dirt from her cheek. Her tail flicks once. "I'm just warmin' up."
Before the last word leaves her lips—
Whoosh.
Her palms thrust forward. The air screams as a as a force of wind erupts, sand spiraling in its wake.
Bram's eyes widen. "Oh shi—"
The wind slams into him like a runaway cart. He flips backward, boots skidding, fingers clawing at nothing as he's hurled across the arena. At the last second, he digs his heels in—stopping just inches from the wall.
Dust plumes around him as he straightens. "Huh." He spits out a mouthful of sand. "So ya finally figured out that even basic magic ain't just for the weak, eh?"
Linea's cheeks pink. "I was twelve when I said that," she mutters. Then louder: "Shut your mouth and show me that power you used on Mercer."
Bram cracks his knuckles. "A'ight. Don't cry when I do."
Bram's hands come together with a soft clap.
A heartbeat.
Then—
Glow.
Thin rivers of light ignite beneath his skin, pulsing from his wrists up to his forearms. The veins throb in time with his heartbeat, casting an eerie yellow hue across the sand.
Linea launches forward.
First punch—Bram leans left, her strike whistling past his ear.
Second—he dips right, her elbow grazing empty air.
Third—a snap kick aimed at his ribs.
Snatch.
Bram's hand clamps around her ankle mid-air.
"Nope."
He twists, using her momentum to hurl her sideways. Linea tucks into a roll, landing in a crouch—
—and freezes.
Bram stands bathed in an otherworldly aura. His hair floats as if submerged in water, each strand drifting weightlessly. His eyes—once warm yellow—are now pits of endless black. The glowing veins crawl up to his shoulders.
He flexes his fingers, watching the light ripple. "Hmm," he says. "So this's what it feels like... when I turn it on."
Linea's throat tightens. Not again. He can't me leave me li—
She's moving before the thought finishes—sprinting, fists cocked.
Left hook—Bram ducks, her knuckles brushing his floating hair.
Spin kick—he steps over it like skipping a rope.
Knee strike—his forearm meets it with a crack that shakes her bones.
Linea hisses, skidding back. Bram hasn't even blinked.
"C'mon, Cinders," he groans.
Her tail lashes. "Shut up."
Linea feints left—
—then dives right, her boot carving through sand as she aims a vicious uppercut at Bram's jaw. He leans back, her knuckles grazing his chin by a hair's breadth.
"Tch."
His counterhook crushes into her cheekbone. Linea stumbles, boots skidding, the taste of blood flooding her mouth.
"Gotta do better'n that," Bram taunts, rolling his shoulders. "C'mon, Lina. All them years teasin' 'bout this fight—"
"Just shut up!" Linea's voice cracks.
Bram freezes.
Tears glisten at the corners of her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed—not from exertion, but something else.
"You promised," she whispers, fists trembling. "Said you'd stay my trainin' partner. Then you just... left."
Bram's breath hitches. The hell—?
Whoosh.
Linea vanishes. Reappears behind him in a blur of motion, her heel screaming toward his spine.
Block.
Bram's forearm crushes against Linea's shin, the impact shuddering up his arm. He doesn't hesitate—his boot swipes through the dirt, aiming to sweep her legs—
Linea vaults over it again. But Bram's already moving, his fist plowing into her stomach before her feet even touch ground.
THUD.
Linea folds around the blow, skidding backward until her heels gouge trenches at the arena's edge. She sways—once, twice—before forcing herself upright. Blood trickles from her split lip.
"You—" She lunges, fist flashing. Bram catches her wrist, twists. "—were always by my side!"
Her knee jabs toward his ribs. He blocks with his thigh, shoving her back.
"Followed me like a damn shadow!" Her next punch grazes his cheek. "Every fight we had—"
CRACK.
Bram's counter slams into her shoulder, spinning her halfway around. "Ended in laughs!" she snarls, catching herself.
The crowd's roar is distant. Muffled. Like they're fighting at the bottom of the ocean.
Linea's chest heaves. "No one else treated me like a equal." Her voice cracks. "Then your stupid heritage comes out—"
Bram ducks her wild swing, palms slamming her ribs. Linea stumbles, but doesn't fall.
"—and you just left." Her eyes glitter. "You knew Father would've listened—"
Bram's next counter crushes the words in her throat. His fist smashes into her guard, sending her skidding across the dirt.
If I would have stayed they woulda dug deeper and found out that...
"Woulda... reflected bad... on you," he pants.
Linea heaves herself up on trembling arms. Sand clings to the sweat and blood streaking her skin. When she lifts her head, the look in her eyes—
—breaks him.
Not anger. Not hate.
Betrayal.
"You coward," she whispers.
Bram's breath hitches. His next punch wobbles—just slightly—before he steels himself.
Linea explodes upward. Her knee crashes into his gut. Bram gags, stumbling back as she wrenches his arm behind him.
"Shame would've fallen upon me and my house as a result!" Her nails dig into his wrist. " But the Cinderflare's are strong. Genuine paragons to most. Others could have rallied behind them in support....but you ran instead of fighting for us!"
Bram twists, breaking her hold with a grunt. "Ain't that simple—"
"LIAR!"
Her fist smashes into his jaw. Bram's vision whites out. He tastes blood.
Linea's next words come out:
"I waited... every damn day... for you to come back."
Bram opens his eyes through the haze and ringing.
He sees Linea's knuckles glisten—wet with his blood or her tears, he can't tell.
WHAM
Linea's fist smashes into Bram's guard.
"Everything's fake now," she snarls "Stupid balls. Stupid celebrations."
Her knee jams toward his ribs. Bram twists, barely avoiding the blows.
"Just... more connections," she continues, her next punch going wide as her vision blurs. "More ass-kissing so my house doesn't—"
Bram's counter explodes against her shoulder, sending her stumbling back.
"—fall out of favor," she finishes bitterly, catching herself at the arena's edge.
Bram watches her. As much as ya mean to me...even you can't know...
"You were my normal," she whispers...
Then she lunges.
No technique. No finesse. Just a desperate, aching need.
Bram catches her wrist, their faces inches apart. He can see it now—the cracks in her perfect noble mask. The trembling of her lower lip. The way her pupils dilate with unshed tears.
"I got no one left," she breathes, voice breaking. "Just... you in my head."
Her free hand slams into his chest—
THUD.
—sending them both crashing to the dirt. Linea lands atop him, her knees pinning his hips. Up close, Bram can count the freckles dusting her nose. Can feel her heartbeat where their chests press together—wild and frantic as a caged bird's.
Her fist rises—
—trembles—
—falls.
"Damn you," she whispers, forehead dropping against his collarbone. "Damn you for making me remember."
I...can't....
WHUMP.
Another counter. Linea crashes onto her back, the wind punching from her lungs.
Linea pushes up on shaking arms. Sand sticks to her sweat-slicked skin. When she looks up...
"Am I not..." She whispers. "Not good enough for you?"
...
...
"Wha—?"
Bram's mouth finally works. "I... thought you wanted a fi—"
"You don't even smile in that way!" She swipes at her tears, smearing dirt across her face. "Not unless it's them. The strong ones. The special ones." A broken laugh. "Am I just... practice to you?"
Bram's glow dims. "No. No. It's just..." He rubs his neck. "I don't gotta push myself with you."
More like I never want to do anything to hurt you...it just don't feel right...or good.
Linea's breath catches. Her eyes—wide. Searching.
Then—
A slow, disbelieving smile. "...You cocky bastard."
Bram blinks. "Huh?"
"That smile that you should have right now." She points at his face. "You only wear it when you don't know you can win."
Bram barks a nervous laugh, rubbing his head. "Maybe not yet."
"But I'm winnin'."
Linea's tail lashes as she wipes away her tears. "Like fucking hell."
Linea's foot cracks against the arena floor as she launches skyward. Wind howls around her, whipping her braid into a furious serpent as she hovers above Bram. Her palms thrust forward—
WHUMPH!
A hammer-blow of compressed air slams into Bram's guard. His boots carve trenches in the dirt as he skids back, arms trembling against the force.
"Tch. Tickled," he grunts, shaking out his stinging forearms. Then—moves.
Dirt explodes under his charge. His right fist ignites with molten light, trailing embers as it arcs toward Linea's ribs.
CRACK!
The punch shatters her guard. Linea's breath gushes out in a pained huff as she staggers back. Bram doesn't relent—
Left hook to the liver.
Right uppercut grazing her chin.
A knee aimed at her gut that she barely twists away from.
Each impact drives her closer to the wall. The crowd's roar is a distant thing, drowned by the thud-thud-THUD of flesh meeting desperate blocks.
Linea's heel slams against the arena boundary. No retreat left. Bram's hand clamps around her wrist, wrenching her arm behind her back. His breath is hot against her ear:
"Y'good, Linea. Real good." His calloused fingers tighten. "But this round's mine."
Linea's cheeks burn. Her free hand claws at his grip. "No y—"
SNAP.
She wrenches free with a feral twist, braid lashing across Bram's eyes. Momentary blindness—
THWACK!
Her roundhouse kick screams toward his temple. Bram ducks, but Linea's already pivoting, using the missed momentum to—
CRUNCH.
Her fist crushes into his jaw. Bram's head whips sideways, a thread of blood flying from his split lip.
He staggers back. Wipes his mouth. Stares at the crimson streak across his knuckles.
"...Alright."
Linea doesn't give him a heartbeat to recover.
Her knees bend, palms flattening at her sides as blue energy crackles around her fingers. "[Elceed. First Stance: Minor Impact]." The words are barely a whisper, but they slice through the arena's noise.
Then—
She's gone.
Bram's eyes widen. Where—?
CRACK.
Her fist pulverizes his ribs before the sound even registers. White-hot pain detonates through his chest as the sickening snap of bone echoes in his skull. Blood bursts from his lips, splattering the sand as he's launched backward like a ragdoll.
Thud. Roll. Slide.
He comes to a stop on all fours, trembling. "Ok..." he rasps. "Ain't... ain't you 'posed to hate the techniques from class...?"
Linea materializes before him, her braid swaying gently as if she hadn't just moved faster than sight. "Elceed isn't for showing off as the professor taught us," she says coldly. One foot grinds into the dirt. "But for you this is special showing since you know fail to comprehend anything related to the heart of a woman."
...
...
Bram's back hits the arena wall. No escape. Linea's eyes glint as she rears back for the finisher—
Bram barely manages to roll away when Linea's voice—
"[Elceed. Second Stance. Crushing Wave]."
Her palm crushes into his sternum before he can blink.
A shockwave of pure force that lifts him clean off his feet. For one weightless moment, Bram flies, the world tilting sideways as his body arcs through the air. He sees the crowd's gaping faces, the arena lights streaking like comets—
WHUMP.
He pancakes into the dirt, skidding through sand until he slams to a stop at the center. Dust plumes around him.
"Guh... damn," he wheezes. "That healin' from my fight with Mercer... 'bout now'd be real nice..."
Linea's boots crunch closer.
Her shadow falls over him.
"Was there someone else fighting your last match?!" Her words amplified by the crowd's roaring laughter. "Or did you just forget everything that quickly?"
Bram coughs—a wet, red splatter hitting the sand. He pushes up on trembling arms.
Yeah... I deserve that.
Hs enhanced senses scream at him—every twitch of her muscles, every breath, the way her fingers tremble. He can see it all.
Shuttin' off my senses... damn fool move._
It'd be so easy. One step. One strike. He knows exactly how she'll move before she does.
But then what?
Linea gets closer. Her eyes—gods, her eyes—still burn with that same fire, even now. Even when she's exhausted. Even when she knows she's outmatched.
That fire... that's the thing Bram can't bear to extinguish.
She spits blood into the sand, glaring at him. "What're you waiting for?"
Bram exhales through his nose. Forces his fists to loosen.
I'd rather die than watch that light go out.
"Nothin'," he mutters, rolling his shoulders. "Just admirin' the view."
Linea's nostrils flare. "Idiot," she snaps—but there's no real bite to it.
"Yer strong," he rasps. "Shoulda known... seein' how far ya got." His chuckle turns into another cough. "Respect."
Linea's step hesitates. Just for a heartbeat. Then her sneer returns. "What? Can't hear you over all this..." She gestures to the jeering crowd. "...disappointment."
_Almost makes me wanna take it all back. Damn her.
But I gotta end this.
Bram's voice cuts through the chaos.
"Don't need no fancy technique." His fists clench, knuckles popping.
"Just.
One.
Damn.
Punch."
Linea's face twists. Her lips peel back from her fangs, her pupils shrinking to furious pinpricks. "You DARE mock me?!"
Then—
"[ELCEED. FIFTH TECHNIQUE: ROLLING DOMINION]!"
The arena shudders as she launches forward. Every footfall splits the earth, cobblestones erupting in her wake like geysers. Dust and debris spiral around her in a violent maelstrom...
The crowd's roar swells to deafening heights. Somewhere in the stands, a teacup vibrates off a noble's lap, shattering on the floor.
Linea's eyes are alight—gleaming with the thrill of the hunt. Her braid whips behind her like a scorpion's tail, her smile all teeth. "Now you have to use a technique for this, Bram!"
But Bram—
Bram closes his eyes.
The world narrows to the pulse of his own heartbeat.
The taste of blood on his tongue.
The ache of his broken ribs.
"Not too hard now..." he murmurs.
When his eyelids slide open—
They show again.
Black.
Not just his irises. The whites of his eyes have drowned in inky darkness, twin voids staring dead ahead. His right fist flickers—a subtle glow at first, then building, pulsing like a dying star.
Linea's charge doesn't falter. If anything, she accelerates, her battle cry rising to a scream—
—just as Bram's feet slide into stance.
One breath.
One chance.
One—
Linea erupts forward, a hurricane of destruction. Stone shatters beneath her boots, the very ground splitting as she carves a trench through the arena. Her fists glow blue like twin beacons, power crackling around her knuckles—
—and then Bram vanishes.
A gasp ripples through the crowd.
THOOM.
He reappears nose-to-nose with her, his right fist already cocked back. The punch lands before the sound of his movement even registers.
Time stills.
Linea's eyes roll white. Spit flies from her slack jaw. Every muscle in her body convulses from the shockwave radiating through her ribs. The arena floor explodes outward in a spiderweb of fractures, dust blasting upward in a perfect ring around them.
Then—release.
Linea rockets backward, her body tumbling end-over-end like a discarded doll. Dirt sprays in her wake as she careens toward the far wall—
—only for Bram to blur into her path, arms snapping out to catch her.
The impact stagger him, but he holds, her limp form cradled against his chest. Her braid drapes over his forearm, the ends still smoldering from residual energy.
The crowd explodes. A deafening tidal wave of cheers and stomping feet.
Bram's chest heaves.
His arms tremble.
He looks down at Linea's unconscious face, her usual ferocity smoothed into something almost peaceful.
"Told ya," he murmurs.
"Just one punch."
Pop.
Lyth materializes beside them. He reaches out, long fingers brushing Linea's forehead. A faint glow pulses beneath his touch.
"She's unconscious," he says quietly. Then, too soft to hear over the roaring crowd: "That... was exceptional, Bram."
Bram's grin splits his bruised face. "Heh. Thanks." His knees buckle slightly as the adrenaline fades, but he locks them straight.
Lyth's fingers brush Linea's forehead—gentle as a parent tucking in a child. Her form dissolves into golden motes that spiral upward like fireflies fleeing dawn.
He turns to Bram. Just a look. A single nod that says You fought well without wasting breath. Then—poof—he's gone.
High Above
Lyth materializes mid-air, arms spread like a showman unveiling his greatest act. The crowd's roar swells, a living thing that vibrates through the stadium stones.
"Now that's how rivals fight!" His voice carves through the chaos effortlessly. "Let's hear it for the victor. BRAM!"
The cheers crescendo...
Lyth drinks it in as he wisps Bram away, his smile radiant—until it isn't.
A shadow crosses his face. The crowd senses it.
"Unfortunately..." Lyth's sigh carries magical amplification. "One match won't happen today."
BOOOOO—
The protest shakes the arena. A drunk noble hurls a wine skin. It splatters against the barrier dome like a rotten fruit.
Lyth continues over the din: "By forfeit, Lyra Valthoris advances."
All eyes snap to the competitors' platform. Lyra rises slowly, her spine ruler-straight. The jeers crash over her:
"Coward!"
"Royalty always cheats!"
"Fight someone for once!"
Her fingernails bite into her palms hard enough to draw blood. A single tremor runs through her—there and gone—before she wrenches herself back into her seat. Her gaze locks onto the dirt, but her ears...
Her ears burn crimson beneath black hair.
"I understand your disappointment," Lyth says, hands raised in a placating gesture, "but look at what we have coming later today!"
With a dramatic sweep of his arm, the display screen shimmers to life beside him. The crowd's murmurs hush as four names blaze across the surface:
BRAM
OBINAI
ELRIK
LYRA
Having just appeared, Bram's head snaps toward Obinai so fast his neck cracks. A grin splits his face—wide, wild, barely contained. His palm slams against Obinai's back hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
"Ha! Down to us, brother!" Bram says. "You ready or what?"
Obinai rolls his stiff shoulders. "Ready to walk into a slaughterhouse, sure." His gaze flicks to the other names. "Elrik's literally got magic and sword techniques. Lyra's royalty. And you—" He side-eyes Bram. "—just took a beating that'd kill a normal man and grinned through it. You even one-shot a noble that practically confessed to you."
Bram barks a laugh. " As true as most of that shit is...luck's been your best girl so far—stick with her." Then, abruptly, he leans in. Close enough that Obinai catches the coppery tang of blood still on Bram's breath.
"But listen," Bram murmurs. "You ain't no weak human no more." His thumb jabs toward the screen. "That name up there? Means somethin'.ve earned your place here so now others won't try you like they did before...you could use that."
He's got a point...
Obinai's grin lingers, but the words die on his tongue as the display screen flares to life overhead, casting an eerie glow across the sand.
"Heh. Now they'll show us off like prize hogs," Bram scoffs.
One by one, the portraits materialize:
Bram first.
His image bursts onto the screen—teeth bared in that trademark reckless grin, muscles coiled like springs ready to unleash. The crowd explodes. A tidal wave of cheers crashes through the stands, so loud the ground vibrates beneath their feet. Bram soaks it in, puffing his chest and raising a fist, which only makes the roar swell louder.
Elrik next.
The noble's portrait oozes arrogance—chin tilted, that damnable estoc resting on his shoulder like he's posing for a painter. The audience loses it. Nobles in the front rows stand, clapping with gloved hands, while commoners shout half-admiring, half-envious curses. Elrik's smirk deepens on-screen, as if he can hear the adoration.
Lyra's turn.
Her image is ice given form—pale, perfect, utterly unreadable. The reaction splits like rotten wood: scattered cheers from the upper tiers, outright boos from the cheaper seats. Someone chucks a bread roll; it bounces harmlessly off the barrier. Through it all, Lyra doesn't flinch. Just sits ramrod straight, her fingers laced so tight her knuckles bleach white.
Then—
Obinai.
His portrait flares to life, and the arena... stills.
No cheers. No boos. Just a low, creeping murmur that slithers through the crowd like mist.
Obinai barely recognizes himself.
The boy in the portrait stands taller, shoulders squared against a void-black background. His locs—longer now—frame a face that's shed its softness, replaced by something sharper, harder. But it's the eyes that unnerve him—dark and glinting like flint struck ready to spark.
A noblewoman in the front row fans herself dramatically, her nose wrinkled in distaste. "Honestly, allowing that to compete among proper students? What's next, shall we invite goblins to dine at the high table?"
Her companion—a man with oiled mustaches—chuckles. "My dear, at least goblins have the decency to know their place."
Nearby, a merchant elbows his neighbor. " Aye, you think he's got some elf blood in 'im? Maybe that's how he slipped through."
"Don't be daft," snaps a robed academic. "Look at those crude features. Pure human stock, I'd wager." He adjusts his spectacles. "Disgraceful, really. Next they'll let those Asuari creatures cast spells."
A cluster of older students erupts into nervous giggles. One points openly at Obinai. "Bet he cheated. Humans always find dirty ways to—"
"ENOUGH."
Lyth's voice booms, magically amplified. The crowd flinches as one.
"Citizens!" He spreads his arms wide. "Must I remind you? Our academy's walls have stood for eight centuries not by excluding talent, but by refining it." A poised pause. "Even when that talent comes in… unexpected packages."
A noble snorts. "Package? More like a stray—"
Snap.
The noble's lips seal shut—magically silenced. Lyth's smile never wavers.
"Now," he continues, "shall we return to watching actual combat, or would you prefer to continue embarrassing yourselves?"
The crowd murmurs, but the worst of the vitriol dies down. But not immediately.
Lyth isn't done. He places his hand over his heart and bows slightly in midair. "As the ambassador of this kingdom, you have my word. You are safe."
The crowd seems to take a moment to process his words, and slowly, the murmurs begin to quiet down. The unease in the arena starts to dissipate, and after a few heartbeats, the cheering resumes. It's not as loud as before, but the support for the tournament returns.
As the display flickers to life, the shimmering light reveals the names of the semifinal matchups. Obinai and Bram both stare at the board, their faces slowly falling as they process the names. The crowd's murmurs turn into cheers and gasps, but Obinai barely hears them.
"Lyra Valthoris vs Elrik Langsteir," Lyth's voice rings out.
Bram chuckles, though it's not a sound of humor. Obinai groans, slumping forward like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Damn," he mutters, rubbing his forehead. "Of all the shitty luck..."
They lock eyes. The air between them crackles...
Bram breaks it first, jabbing Obinai's ribs with his elbow.
"Remember that talk we had?" Too casual. Too light. But his eyes—hell, his eyes burn like coals.
Obinai raises an eyebrow. "Huh?"
Bram leans in. "Ki or Mana?" A grin, all teeth. "You never picked."
Obinai's smirk comes slow. "Oh. That." He rolls his shoulders. "Yeah. I know now."
Something shifts in Bram's face. His left eye darkens—just for a heartbeat—like a storm cloud passing over the sun.
Then—gone.
"Good," Bram says.
For half a second, the world narrows to the space between them. The crowd noise fades. The arena walls might as well not exist.
Then Bram snaps it—slapping Obinai's back hard enough to sting. "But first—" He jerks his chin toward the sands. "—let's watch those two maniacs wreck the place."
Obinai's laugh comes out shaky. "Yeah.."
Above them, Lyth spreads his arms like a showman unveiling his greatest trick.
"Behold!" His voice booms. "Royal might versus noble fury!"
The crowd explodes.
Bram and Obinai exchange one last look.
Soon.
…
Lyra and Elrik materialize in the center of the arena simultaneously, their forms solidifying against the roar of the crowd. Before disappearing, Lyth hovers above for a moment longer, his voice echoing through the stadium.
"Let the first match of the semifinals… BEGIN!"