The arena was alive with anticipation. Hundreds of eyes locked onto the two figures standing in the ceremonial dueling ring—Yinmo and Feng Tao—old rivals clashing once more under the watchful gaze of the clan and its elders. The New Year Festival had seen countless matches leading up to this moment, but few carried as much weight. This was more than a contest of skill; for Yinmo, it was his last chance to silence the doubts cast upon him and prove that he deserved entry into the academy.
Feng Tao wasted no time, launching into battle with the same relentless ferocity as before. His wind magic burst forth, whipping across the stone arena in razor-sharp waves, carving thin gashes into the dust-covered floor. The crowd gasped as gusts howled between the pillars, threatening to consume everything in their path.
But Yinmo had anticipated this. His training had taught him patience, precision, and most of all—the importance of movement. Instead of brute force, he leaned into the agility his wood element provided. His feet barely touched the ground as he sidestepped the roaring winds, weaving through the incoming assault with calculated efficiency.
Planting his stance, Yinmo invoked his incantation:
"Lignum Excitare, Vita Redintegro!"
Green vines erupted from his hands, threading through the air like living whips. The audience leaned forward as he maneuvered them expertly—curling, twisting, adapting to every shift in Feng Tao's wind currents. Unlike their first duel, where his wood magic had crumbled against overwhelming force, this time Yinmo had refined his strategy. Instead of competing with the wind's sheer might, he let his vines absorb the shock of each blast, using the momentum to redirect his own attacks.
Feng Tao narrowed his eyes, pushing forward with a faster sequence. Wind blades formed at his fingertips, slicing toward Yinmo, but this time, the boy was ready. His vines snapped outward, intercepting the sharp gusts before they could reach him.
It became a contest of endurance—Yinmo twisting the battlefield with calculated movements, Feng Tao retaliating with sheer overwhelming force. Sweat gathered at Yinmo's brow as he continued deflecting the brutal wind attacks, each maneuver testing the limits of his control.
Then, in an unexpected twist, Yinmo changed tactics. Instead of purely defending, he pivoted and went on the offensive.
With a flick of his wrist, his vines lashed outward, spiraling toward Feng Tao's position. The clan members murmured in surprise—this was something new, something he hadn't used in their previous fight. The vines weren't merely barriers anymore; they acted with precision, sweeping across the battlefield in tactical movements meant to pressure Feng Tao into retreat.
For a brief moment, Feng Tao faltered—his footing unsteady as Yinmo's attack pressed him against the outer edges of the arena.
The clan leader watched with measured interest from his high seat, his expression unreadable.
Then, in a final surge of energy, both combatants unleashed their strongest attacks.
Feng Tao hurled forward with a cyclone of wind, its intensity shaking the very ground beneath them. Yinmo countered with his full strength, his vines expanding outward to form a defensive barrier—absorbing the shock while sending out razor-sharp tendrils meant to counterstrike.
The arena lit up with Qi-infused energy.
And then—silence.
Dust settled. The winds died down. The final exchange had been fierce, but Yinmo had held his ground.
Feng Tao let out a sharp breath, looking down at the marks left by the vines before turning back to Yinmo with reluctant acknowledgment. "You got stronger," he muttered. "I won't underestimate you again."
The crowd erupted in cheers as Yinmo steadied his breathing, absorbing the moment. He had proven himself—and secured his path forward.
As dawn stretched over the vast clan lands, whispers of the duel still spread among the disciples. Yet, far beyond their celebrations, the world itself was shifting.
In households across the empire, preparations for academy admissions had begun. Families with talented children made arrangements, securing rare cultivation resources, ensuring their lineage remained strong within the prestigious institutions. Caravans were being filled, warriors hired as escorts, and rival families quietly analyzed the competition.
But not all preparations were noble.
Far to the east, in the shadowed depths of the Abyssal Dominion, the Father of All Demons stood before his legions. Armored commanders lined the bloodstone walls as their ruler surveyed them with calculating eyes.
"It is time," his voice rang across the chamber, cold and resolute. "The hunting shall begin."
Among the demons, murmurs of excitement grew. Their task was known. As the academies prepared to welcome new prodigies, demonic forces would move in silence—tracking, capturing, and eliminating anything that might threaten the balance they sought to maintain.
Meanwhile, in a hidden conclave within the Magical Beast Council, an urgent discussion was underway. The council, composed of ancient beasts who governed the harmony of nature, debated fiercely over their next move.
"Shall we send spies once more?" one of the elders growled, his voice a deep rumble.
"The academies grow stronger with every generation," another responded. "We cannot risk our kind being hunted blindly. We must know what they teach, what they intend."
The decision loomed in the air, tense and unresolved.
Back in the clan grounds, Yinmo had no knowledge of these larger forces at play—but soon, as he took his first steps toward his future at the Foundations for All Academy, the weight of the world's shifting tides would inevitably reach him.