The wind shifted.
I felt it in the way the sand caught in the corners of the terrace, in how the crowd held its breath, in the pressure that thickened the air just before a match began.
I didn't need eyes to know the world was watching.
I sat with my staff balanced across my knees, blindfold in place, breath steady. The arena hummed like a living thing beneath us — mana charged and waiting.
Salem sat just beside me, quiet and still. Her knee brushed mine. Her shadow folded around us like a second cloak.
Tovin sat on my other side. I could feel him watching me more than the field.
Then he finally spoke, voice low, like a question too long held.
"How do you fight like that?" he asked. "You're… blind. You can't see any of them."
I tilted my head slightly, listening.
The air told me more than sight ever could.
"I don't need to see," I murmured. "I just need them to move."
Tovin blinked. "That… doesn't make any sense."
"Like i said before, I listen," I said, and gestured toward the sand below. "Feel."
The arena gates groaned open.
A pulse of magic rippled through the crowd — anticipation tightening like a drawn bow.
And then.
King Beren's voice rose above it all, steady and resonant.
"The semi-final match will now commence."
"Team Eleven: Katelin Skybreath. Rank Three. Quillon Redguard. Rank Two."
Cheers. Loud, but not chaotic. The crowd respected strength — and Kate had earned theirs.
"Versus… Team One: Jerel of Argenhold. Rank Four. Rōko Tsume. Rank One."
The terrace trembled.
Even the air held its breath.
I felt Tovin shiver beside me.
Below, four sets of boots touched sand. I felt the way the weight shifted. Katelin's step had a flutter — wind magic under her feet to keep her light, dancing. Quillon moved solid and centered, like a blade half-drawn. Jerel's pace was wide, grounded — a soldier's march. Rōko's was…
It felt like she didn't even walk.
She placed herself.
I leaned slightly forward.
"Katelin will move first," I whispered.
"How do you know?" Tovin asked.
"She's always first. She needs momentum."
A breath later, Katelin burst forward — spear spinning, air cracking from wind pressure.
Tovin blinked. "Okay… lucky guess."
"Quillon will split from her path," I continued. "Draw Jerel toward him. He wants a duel."
Seconds passed.
Then Quillon veered off, fire igniting along the edge of his blade. The crowd roared.
Tovin's head snapped to me. "How—?"
Jerel planted his stance wide — wind gathering in his left palm. The earth beneath him cracked.
"He's anchoring. Going to use the gale to pin Quillon and crush him when he roots."
As I said it, the ground buckled. A whip of air shot forward.
Quillon barely dodged it.
"She's insane," Tovin muttered.
I tilted my head again. "Wait for it. Rōko hasn't moved."
Below, Katelin surged toward Rōko. The wind screamed around her spear, dust flying.
"She's baiting," I said calmly. "Too aggressive. Rōko won't strike yet."
But Katelin got too close.
I tensed.
"Now."
A shimmer of steel — a glint of light through the sand.
The chain snapped out, carving a perfect arc toward Katelin's legs.
"She'll vault."
Katelin leapt just as the sickle swept beneath her, but Rōko twisted, shortening the chain mid-flight.
"She'll pull it back up—high!"
The sickle flipped direction — up — slicing toward Katelin's shoulder as she landed.
She screamed and twisted mid-air — just dodging the edge. Wind burst from her boots to throw her back.
Tovin swore under his breath. "You're not watching. You're like predicting everything."
"I'm listening," I said.
He looked down at the sand, then back at me.
I felt Salem shift beside me. She hadn't said a word, but her mana brushed softly against mine. She was calm — but only on the surface. I could feel the warmth in her thoughts. That moment I'd fallen asleep on her lap hadn't left her mind.
Neither had the way she'd fought for me.
But for now, we watched.
Below, Quillon clashed blades with Jerel. Earth cracked. Fire met stone. Rōko swept into the fight like a quiet storm.
She didn't roar. She didn't posture.
But every time she struck, someone nearly fell.
Tovin leaned closer to me, still staring in disbelief. "And you fight like this?"
I gave a slow nod.
"Even in sleep," Salem whispered, almost proudly.
And Tovin, for once, had no comeback.
Tovin leaned in again, voice quieter now — almost reverent.
"So… how does this end?"
I didn't answer right away.
The wind had shifted again.
Sand rolled in fine threads across the arena floor — following pressure. Movement. Magic.
I tilted my head toward the fight.
Quillon was breathing hard, but his fire still held. Jerel's wind was faltering. The mana clinging to him was stretched thin — spread across defenses and broken earth anchors.
"Rōko's partner goes down first," I murmured.
Tovin blinked. "Jerel?"
"He doesn't have the stamina," I said. "Not for this level. His mana's losing consistency. He's overcompensating, burning through more mana just to stand his ground."
And even now, Quillon was driving him back — step by step, blade glowing hotter with every clash.
"He's better trained," I added, "but Quillon just has more. More output. More pressure. More force behind every swing."
Another crash rang through the arena — Jerel blocking a downward arc, then stumbling a half-step from the recoil.
"Give it twenty seconds," I whispered.
Below, the duel tilted again.
But the other side of the fight…
Tovin turned toward the blur of movement on the far end of the arena.
Kate and Rōko.
Dust spiraled from the wind around Kate's spear. Her cloak was slashed. One arm bled freely. Her breath came fast — not panicked, but taxed. Pushed to the edge.
"She's already cut," I said softly.
Tovin tensed. "Twice?"
I nodded. "Once on the hip. One just under her ribs."
"Wind's not fast enough?" he asked.
"Not against a weapon she can't outpace," I said. "And Rōko's chain—it doesn't strike like a sword."
Another clash. Another flick of steel.
Kate lunged, tried to bait a counter, but Rōko didn't fall for it. She stepped to the side, pivoted like water slipping past a stone, and the chain swept low again—fast, sharp, perfectly timed.
Kate only barely blocked it with a gust of wind, but even that cost her more mana.
"She's what happens," I said quietly, "when a samurai is also a prodigy."
Tovin didn't answer.
He just watched.
Watched as Rōko spun, reversed her grip, and launched the sickle again — faster than before. It clipped Kate's shoulder. A shallow cut, but sharp. Precise.
Three.
"Kate won't give up," I said. "She'll go down swinging."
"But she will go down?" Tovin asked.
"Soon," I murmured. "But not without leaving a mark."
Fire exploded across the other side of the field.
Quillon drove Jerel into the wall of stone at the arena's edge — then cut through it.
The impact rang like a bell.
Jerel didn't rise again.
"Jerel of Argenhold is defeated!" Beren's voice thundered.
The crowd roared.
Tovin flinched. "You were right."
But I was still listening.
Still tracing the rhythm of Kate's feet. Her breathing. Her pulses of wind.
Still watching, in my own way.
"She'll try something reckless," I whispered.
"She's hurt though," Tovin said.
"She knows that. That's why she'll go all in."
The dust below shifted.
Kate planted her spear hard — called up a vortex of wind around herself. A spiraling shell, tight and fast.
She even casted it aloud.
"Windward Spiral"
Then she launched herself forward.
Straight at Rōko.
Tovin held his breath.
I didn't.
"She'll try to feint high," I said softly, "and swing low."
And she did.
But Rōko didn't bite.
She ducked low before the strike came, spinning the chain in a tight circle — then lashing it outward under Kate's guard.
It caught.
The spear flew from Kate's hands.
She hit the sand hard. Rolled. Tried to rise.
But the sickle was already at her throat.
Frozen.
"Katelin Skybreath is defeated!"
Silence.
Then—
An eruption of applause.
Louder than before.
No shame in Kate's loss. No disgrace in falling to Rōko.
Only awe.
Tovin turned toward me again — slowly this time.
"You're terrifying," he whispered.
I smiled faintly beneath the blindfold.
Salem's hand found mine.
"I know."
The dust hadn't even settled before the new pairing formed below.
Quillon stood alone now.
Sword drawn, flame tracing low along the edge — not bright, but steady. Measured. He rolled one shoulder back, cracking tension out of his neck, and stepped forward with a slow exhale.
Across from him, Rōko was already moving.
No words. No poses. Just that eerie calm, her footwork like she'd never stopped dancing. Chain dragging light arcs in the sand, the sickle already swaying like a pendulum in her grip.
The moment the crowd fell quiet, I felt Tovin shift beside me.
He didn't ask this time.
But I answered anyway.
"Quillon won't last long," I said.
Tovin glanced at me. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
I tilted my head slightly, following the whisper of movement below.
"Kate was the better match," I continued. "She had wind. She could keep close distances with Rōko her ranged sickle."
"She still lost," Tovin murmured.
"Yes," I said. "But she lasted. She made Rōko work. Quillon doesn't have the same advantage. His style is power. Control. But that only matters if you can touch her."
A heartbeat passed.
Down below, Quillon and Rōko circled.
No spells yet. Just steps. Sand shifting beneath boots. Two very different storms preparing to clash.
I leaned slightly forward, listening closer. Feeling the way their mana moved.
"Rōko's like a pressure blade," I said. "She doesn't overwhelm you. She waits. Builds. Then strikes once — clean. Precise."
"And Quillon?" Tovin asked.
"A hammer," I said. "He'll try to break her guard. Problem is… she doesn't have one."
Tovin exhaled sharply.
"Three exchanges," I murmured. "Maybe four. Then she ends it."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Below, King Beren's voice rang out again — smooth, cold, final.
"Quillon Redguard, Rank Two."
"Rōko Tsume, Rank One."
"Begin."
And they moved.
Quillon struck first — a wide arc of flame that exploded along the earth beneath it. He was trying to disorient her, create a blind spot.
Rōko didn't blink.
She pivoted outside the range — the sickle spinning once in her palm — and flicked the chain low, testing his feet.
He blocked with a quick burst of stone.
But she was already shifting, closing the gap in a blink, the sickle glinting as it arced up.
Tovin sucked in a breath.
Quillon parried, barely — flame hissing as it licked the edge of her strike. He countered with a horizontal slash, but Rōko ducked under, spun behind him, and—
I felt the blood before I heard it.
A single, clean cut across the back of Quillon's thigh.
He staggered.
Tovin swore under his breath.
"She's testing the waters with him," I whispered. "That wasn't meant to end it."
A second pass. The chain snapped around Quillon's sword arm — quick as lightning — and pulled hard.
He lost the grip for half a breath. Enough.
The sickle struck his shoulder.
Not deep. Not fatal. But it hurt.
Bad.
I felt the tremor in his mana — how it shook loose from his center like a cracked bell. And I knew.
"She's measuring him," I murmured. "Feeling the gaps."
Then—
A break in rhythm.
Quillon gritted his teeth and did something no one expected.
He grabbed the chain with his bare hand — blood be damned — yanked her forward with a bellow, and—
Headbutt.
The impact cracked through the arena louder than a spell.
Even Rōko fell back.
The crowd lost its mind.
Tovin jolted next to me. "He hit her?!"
I nodded slowly. "I didn't expect that. Pure strength."
She was recovering — sickle spinning low again, chain dancing back into her grip, a little less sturdy now— but her footing had changed. Just a fraction off.
"I didn't think anyone could touch her," Tovin whispered.
"Neither did she," I murmured.
Quillon charged again, flame rising with him — but now she was angry.
Not wild. Not reckless.
Precise.
And the next moment was brutal.
She flowed low under his swing, spun in a single tight circle — chain coiled around his ankle — and yanked hard.
He hit the ground with a thud.
And the sickle didn't hesitate.
Flat of the blade slammed across his chest. Not sharp. Just heavy. Enough to steal breath and end movement.
"Quillon Redguard is defeated!"
The crowd roared like a storm.
Tovin was still staring. "He hit her."
"Yes," I said.
"But still lost."
"Yes."
I leaned back against the stone railing, blindfold catching the heat of the arena lights.
"She's not untouchable," I said. "Just close enough that it doesn't matter."
The cheers rang like thunder — but they barely echoed before the king's voice rose again, cutting the air clean.
"Team One advances to the final match."
I felt it in the sand — the shift in pressure, in momentum, in attention.
Everyone knew what came next.
The last bracket.
The match that would decide who stood against Rōko Tsume.
"The final semi-final match will now begin."
And then—
The names.
"Team Twenty-Three: Ilya of the Third Coil. Rank Three. Marren Brightborn. Rank Three."
Solid applause.
Earned.
They'd made it far. Fought hard. But they'd also drawn the softest fights. The wolf — a bonded mana-beast from the Southern Wastes — did half the work. Ilya just controlled the field with stone. Marren finished what the wolf started.
Together, they were sharp.
But only sharp enough to rise through gaps.
Then came the name that drew silence.
"Team Thirty-Two."
The pause stretched.
Everyone already knew. But saying it aloud made it real.
"Annabel Valor. Rank One."
Whispers. Heat. Tension.
"And… Tovin. Rank Eight."
No last name.
None needed.
The crowd rippled with it — confusion, mockery, doubt.
"Why hasn't she fought before now?"
"She's blindfolded. Lazy. All attitude."
"Must be the bond doing the real work—Salem. That girl's the real threat."
I heard it all.
I let them say it.
They wouldn't be saying it much longer.
I walked through the sand, the staff still in my hands, blindfold unmoving. The air curled around me — not loud, not showy, just aware. Cold and watching.
Tovin shifted beside me, nerves crawling off him like static.
"I should—do something?" he asked quietly.
"No."
He blinked. "What?"
"Stay here," I said. "Both of you."
Salem didn't argue. I felt the quiet rise of her agreement. Warm. Still.
Tovin hesitated again. "But—why?"
I stretched my arms once. Let the weight settle. Let the breath find me.
"I've slept through the last two rounds," I said calmly. "I need a warm-up."
Then I stepped forward.
Down the stairs. Onto the sand.
The arena tasted different underfoot now — rich with residual magic, cracked and tempered by other battles. It welcomed me. Not with kindness.
With expectation.
Ilya and Marren stood ready across the field, mana already rising. Defensive. Smart.
The wolf growled low at their side, muscles coiled, pacing. Not just bonded — synced.
I nodded slightly.
"Pretty," I said. "Fast to."
Then the king's voice rang out:
"Begin."
The wolf moved first.
Fast, like I expected. It darted around Marren's right flank — a blur of bone-white mana and winter fur, breath already charged with elemental grit.
Ilya began anchoring stone. Marren reached for a barrier.
Too slow.
I took a single step forward.
And vanished.
The wind rushed in behind me — displaced by pure movement.
Across the field, I reappeared.
Right between them.
Neither turned in time.
One whisper, one breath, and the spell snapped into place beneath my boots.
"Eirwen's Veil."
From the ground up, the frost obeyed — a bloom of ice that coiled from heel to shoulder, wrapping Marren and Ilya in perfect silence.
Not dead.
Just stopped.
The wolf launched too late — hit the radius — and froze mid-lunge, paws suspended in crystal like time itself had bent around it.
The crowd didn't cheer.
Not right away.
They didn't understand what had just happened.
Three opponents.
One spell.
Less than three seconds.
No wasted movement. No chant. No firework.
Just precision.
Then the roar came — loud, scattered, startled.
They'd seen my name.
Now they saw me.
"Team Twenty-Three is defeated!"
King Beren's voice rang out, steadier than the audience. Barely.
"Team Thirty-Two advances to the final."
I turned back.
Salem hadn't moved.
Tovin's jaw hung half open. He looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
I approached them slowly.
"You… you didn't even—" he stammered.
"I moved," I said.
"Once."
I gave a small shrug. "I didn't need more."
Salem's magic brushed against mine. Warm. Proud.
I heard it even before she thought it fully:
You're awake now.
I nodded slightly.
"Yes."
The frost melted behind me, clean and silent.
And across the arena—
Rōko was watching.
Not like before.
Not curious.
Not idle.
She tilted her head once.
Her chain dropped an inch lower in her hand.
And I smiled.
At Rōko.