Chapter 43: Blades in the Bloodlit Arena
The dueling stage thundered with anticipation as I stepped out, combat gear tight against my frame. Overhead, sunlight gilded the reinforced stone with an unforgiving yellow glare. Mana runes flashed at the perimeter, outlining the boundary between safety and the primal chaos about to unfold.
Ashratal, my halberd, hummed in my hands. Lightning snaked up its length, the current licking fire that curled fiercely around the blade. My family crest was heavy on my chest—a reminder of every humiliation that had brought me here. But today, the fight meant something different. This was about more than victory; it was about reaching Ross, tearing through the walls he'd built, and finding the friend that pride had buried deep inside him.
Ross, standing at the opposite end, looked like someone carved out of defiance. His combat clothes were a sharp contrast to mine—sleek black leather, Western in cut, reinforced with gleaming red-ochre plates that caught the light like embers. As he flexed his fingers, two dark red machetes formed with a crimson shimmer. An old weapon, one I hadn't seen since our earliest academy days before he abandoned them for bare fists and hard stares.
My chest tightened. How many training nights had we spent with those machetes clashing against my staff, just two idiots chasing the same dream?
He cocked his head at me, lips twisting into a mirthless smile. "So it's true, then—you awakened."
His tone was brittle. "I saw those Association officials at our place, acting all high and mighty. When they left, they couldn't help themselves—'Looks like Vijay finally got his shot.'" His voice dropped, carrying a weight that pressed on every bruise in my memory. "You should've seen the shine in my father's eyes. For the first time in years, he looked alive. But not for me. Just… relief. Relief that he could measure me again, and know I'd fall short."
He squared his shoulders, the blades flashing. "They said, 'Ross, you're good, but he's the prodigy now. You'll always be a step behind.' Every time I think I've closed the gap, someone moves the finish line."
I wanted to speak—apologize, maybe, or at least explain—but he didn't give me the chance.
"This isn't about winning anymore. Not for you, I think. You want the old Ross back? Go ahead and try. But I came here to prove I'm not someone you can just reach out and rescue. Don't expect me to hold back."
A fresh surge of mana radiated from him, oppressively thick. The crowd hushed, and not even the professors watching from the stands looked away.
"I missed seeing those machetes," I admitted, the words escaping as a nervous laugh wrapped in nostalgia.
Ross grinned, a wolf's grin. "They haven't tasted blood in years. Don't mind if they're a little hungrier than you remember." His eyes darted, hard, heavy with challenge. "Seems like your fancy attributes are itching to show off, too. Fire, lightning—are you fighting, or putting on a show?"
"I use what I have. Not like you, banking everything on bare mana," I shot back, sliding into my stance. Ashratal flared white-hot, lightning blurring the air around me. "Let's see if your control's caught up to your attitude."
With a practiced breath, I let the dual currents of fire and lightning swirl, focusing on my center even as Ross's mana boiled, lapping at me like physical heat.
He barked a short laugh. "Control? Mana's the real test. Skills, bloodlines, elements—those just hide weakness."
The air around him grew denser, tinged red. Bloodlust poured forth, crawling into every empty pocket in my mind, making my skin crawl, my scalp prickle. I locked my jaw, refusing to let him see the fear that had taken other opponents apart long before his blades ever reached them.
Bloodthirst Awakening—a Constellation's blessing. Few possessed it. In the haze, Ross vanished. Reflexes screamed—a flick to my left, and I caught both machetes on Ashratal's shaft. The impact sent a cascade of sparks and a jolt down my arms.
Ross pressed in, muscles taut, veins bulging blue beneath his skin. He bore down, his strength greater than I remembered, claws of frustration and resentment in every blow. I grunted, letting the spear bend—not break—then angled so his machetes scraped wide, stealing his balance for a beat.
Momentum broke in my favor. I spun Ashratal, fire spinning into a cyclone. My strike split the air—Ross flipped with inhuman agility, my blade grazing his shoulder, just enough to burn but not wound. We both staggered back, breathless.
A mad grin split his face, wild and bright—a glimmer of the old Ross.
"Copying Anaya's moves, are you?" he taunted. "Guess she prefers teaching you these days."
"She makes her own choices, Ross," I shot back, exasperated, watching the confusion ripple across his features. Beneath the mockery, I caught a glint of hurt—her aloofness still a fresh wound for him.
The crowd was silent, spellbound. The stadium, ancient and rune-bound, felt like its own beast. The shadows at the edge of the dueling zone boiled with nervous energy—students wide-eyed, professors focused, mana projectors recording every move overhead in flickering illusion.
Ross's aura burst forth again, blood lust crawling over the arena like fog. My elements surged in reply. Flames writhed up Ashratal, lightning arcing, the symbols on its shaft blazing. The Eye of Alignment spun awake inside my sight—purple-gold attack lines threaded the world, tracing every move, every feint, every mistake.
I rushed, legs pumping mana, the world narrowing to Ross and those whirling blades.
We clashed—steel bit, sparks showered the flagstones, blood and sweat mixed, breathing ragged. My cuts stung on exposed skin; Ross's cheek split under a glancing blow. But neither of us yielded. Every strike was a question: Why did you change? Do you remember who we were?
From the stands, Anaya watched—a silent, steady witness.
Anaya
High in the stands, I leaned forward, palms pressed into the ancient granite ledge. I couldn't look away. Fierce, reckless idiots, both of them. There was no grace in this fight—just hunger and heartbreak and the kind of desperation that could only come from old, festering wounds.
Vijay's command was astonishing for a Rank 1. He danced fire and lightning together, braiding spells faster than most could dream. Ross's strength was frightening—a young man with mana enough for four, bloodlust flooding the air, warping the crowd's mood as though we were all prey.
Students watched, spellbound; for once, even professors seemed to hold their breath. Some, I noticed, wore old scars—quiet reminders that battles like this birthed legends… or left ruins.
Ross needed this win like he needed breath. Every blow was a scream at the voice in his head that told him he'd never be enough for his father, for himself, not with Vijay still in reach.
Vijay wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting to heal. I just prayed he wouldn't break himself in the process.
Vijay
We separated, shoulders heaving, blood dripping onto the rune-lit floor.
I stared across the span at Ross. "Really? It took your father's taunts to turn you into this? What happened to brotherhood, Ross? To all those long nights, all that training, all that loyalty?"
Ross's laugh was a bark, thin and raw. "Easy for you to ask, Mr. Genius. Before you awakened, you won everything—no questions, no complaints. If we said anything about mana, we got shut down. But now, now that you've awakened—let's see what you can handle when there's nothing holding us back."
He drew in a deep breath, his mana swirling tighter, denser, a cyclone of red and hate and memory. His machetes dripped killing intent, the Bloodthirst skill burning almost visible in the air. His pride—the final shield—shone in his eyes.
I gathered every thread of fire and lightning I could muster, Ashratal blazing. My muscles screamed as I drew it back, every rune flaring, lightning crawling along the tip, fire spiraling—hot, alive. My stance shifted, ready for the throw. I closed my eyes, letting the Eye of Alignment paint the paths. Sometimes, seeing blinds you. Feeling guides you.
A single golden line ignited before me—a chance, a test.
With a roar, I let Ashratal fly. The spear became an arc of burning storm, a meteor slashing through the world.
The explosion came before my eyes opened—a detonation of mana and will. Air cracked. The ground rippled. A force like a tidal wave slammed me backward. I hit the mana shield, then the stadium wall, bone splintering on impact. The pain blurred everything, then darkness clawed me under.
The last words I heard, drifting beyond the smoke and panic, was the principal's weary sigh:
"Honestly, you two are far too much work."
And then there was nothing.