The arena was quiet until the butler raised his hand and declared, "Begin."
Ignareth stepped forward first, gripping his sword as a cold wind gathered around him. His eyes sharpened, and with a flick of his hand, he unleashed a wave of ice magic toward Noah.
But Noah, calm as ever, dodged with swift precision. His own magic—deep crimson and pulsing with life—rose like a shield. The blood magic clashed with Ignareth's ice midair, crackling as both forces tried to overpower the other.
Then, without a word, Noah lunged forward, sword ready. Ignareth met him head-on. Steel rang against steel in a fast-paced dance of power and skill. The onlookers held their breath as magic and swordplay wove together in a deadly ballet.
But just as Noah raised his blade again, his hand froze mid-motion—literally. Ice crept up his fingers, locking his grip and forcing the sword from his hand. It clattered to the ground.
