The air inside the floating coliseum thrummed with energy. Beneath the translucent dome of ether and light, hundreds of spectators—elders, heirs, and patriarchs—watched in silence as the next stage of the Grand Bloodline Tournament began.
The sparring grounds shimmered with a faint golden sheen, the formation barrier humming softly as it adjusted to the sheer power levels of the young combatants. Rings of spectral light marked the dueling circles, each one expanding and contracting like living things as if hungry for the clash that would come.
The Head of Ceremonies, an ancient man with silver eyes and robes inscribed with shifting runes, raised his hand. His voice echoed across the sky.
"—The second test has ended. The third begins now. Combat… by will and by blood. Yield or fall unconscious to lose."
A chorus of sharp breaths followed. Those words were more than mere instruction—they were a declaration of challenge.
The first match began between Iria Vaelith and Thorne Deynar—a duel of precision versus raw might.
Thorne cracked his neck, stepping into the circle, muscles coiling like drawn steel. "No holding back, Vaelith. Let's give them something to remember."
Iria, dressed in a sleeveless indigo gi, smirked faintly. "You'll regret saying that, Deynar."
The instant the elder gave the signal—
BOOM!
Thorne lunged, his foot gouging the arena floor as his punch carved the air. Iria weaved under it, her movement sharp and controlled, spinning with a flutter of pale-blue light as aether wrapped around her fists.
Their first collision was like thunder.
Wind exploded outward, forming a shockwave that cracked the protective barrier. Iria deflected a hook with her forearm, pivoted, and struck his ribs twice—short, snapping hits like a whip.
Thorne grinned through the blows, grabbed her wrist mid-strike, and swung her overhead, slamming her into the ground. Dust and ether flared up.
But Iria was already moving—her leg swept his ankles in a blur, twisting her body in a motion born of perfect discipline.
A spinning elbow followed, catching Thorne across the jaw.
He stumbled.
She pressed the assault.
Fists like rain. Knees like thunder. Every movement calculated. Every strike meant to end.
But Thorne refused to fall. His blood ignited, a crimson aura flaring from his skin as his veins pulsed with power. He roared, planting his feet and throwing a final, crushing uppercut—
Iria vanished.
A step backward—flowing like wind. She pivoted with a circular motion, drawing the sigil of the Vaelith form: The Spiral of Returning Force.
His strike missed. Her palm hit his sternum—open and final.
A flash of blue light engulfed them.
When the smoke cleared, Thorne lay unconscious, his body steaming.
Iria exhaled deeply, brushing back her silver hair.
"Too predictable," she murmured.
Applause rippled through the stands. The Vaeliths smiled faintly.
Next came Rhaen Solvik versus Alden Marcrest of the northern lineages.
Rhaen stepped into the ring barefoot, his eyes burning faintly gold—the Solvik trait of inner flame. Alden was armored, a rune-sword slung across his back, calm and stoic.
When the elder dropped his hand—
Fire met wind.
Rhaen's body burst alight, golden flames spiraling around his limbs as he blurred forward, every kick leaving streaks of molten light. Alden's sword shimmered with condensed gales, each swing whistling through the air like a shriek.
They met mid-field—
Rhaen's knee hit the flat of Alden's blade.
Sparks flew.
The shockwave cracked the ring.
Rhaen ducked under a follow-up slash and spun, his heel igniting with fire as it smashed against Alden's side. Alden countered by driving his knee into Rhaen's abdomen, then elbowing him across the cheek—pure martial instinct, brutal and fast.
The arena flared with kinetic violence.
But Rhaen's grin widened through the pain. His flames intensified—his body now covered in an infernal aura.
He whispered,
"Solvik Style: Pyre's Edge."
His form blurred. The ground exploded beneath him as he crossed the gap instantly, palms flaring, slamming both hands into Alden's chest.
Alden's barrier shattered. His armor split.
The flame vortex lifted him clean off the arena.
He landed hard, groaning—alive but defeated.
Cheers erupted. Even some of the other branches looked impressed. The Solviks nodded proudly; their heir had made a statement.
The next few duels came quickly—some ending in a minute, others dragging on for grueling exchanges of endurance and spirit.
Then came Seren Althyr versus Vex Caelum—two rising prodigies from allied noble houses.
Seren fought with unarmed grace—her style resembled a dance of wind and illusion. Vex, by contrast, used no energy projection—only close-range strikes that blurred faster than sight.
When they began, the crowd went silent.
Every move Seren made was precise, her legs slicing the air like whips. Vex intercepted them with surgical precision—his fingers striking joints, his elbows flowing into throws.
For a moment, they seemed to vanish entirely—shifting between feints, reversals, and counters so fast the eye could barely track.
The air rippled.
Then—Seren flipped backward, her foot grazing Vex's jaw midair before landing soundlessly.
Vex exhaled once and smirked. "You've improved."
"Not enough to lose to you," she shot back.
When the match ended, both were on their knees, panting—neither knocked out, but both beyond their limit. The elder called it a draw, and the arena thundered with applause.
From the highest balcony, Zephyr Nasarik and the other patriarchs watched in silence.
Zephyr's arms were folded, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.
"Their generation burns bright," he said softly. "And yet—"
Vaelith's patriarch, Aldrich, chuckled. "Bright flames burn fastest. Few of these young ones understand restraint."
Solvik's patriarch, Lazarus Solvik, smirked. "Restraint? My son's flames nearly gutted the ring. I call that spirit."
Zephyr didn't look at him. "Spirit without control is only destruction. You know this."
Their gazes drifted down to one particular ring—the one where Eryndor Nasarik stood, arms crossed, a faint grin on his lips as he watched others fight.
The elders spoke quietly among themselves.
"The boy's aura has matured frighteningly fast," said one. "His bloodline pulse—unstable, yet potent."
"Unstable?" another murmured. "I'd say unrefined. The awakening wasn't natural—it broke through a dormant seal."
"Still… the power of the Primordial Nasarik bloodline returning after generations—"
"—could mean resurgence."
They all looked at Zephyr.
He said nothing for a long moment. His gaze fixed on Eryndor below, who leaned lazily against the barrier, his coat fluttering from the updraft of battle.
Finally, Zephyr murmured,
"Resurgence… or ruin. It will depend on the path he walks."
Down below, Eryndor smirked faintly, feeling the subtle tension ripple through the air.
He rolled his shoulders, glancing at Kaelus Magna across the arena, who was watching from another ring with his trademark half-grin.
Their eyes met for an instant—
And the crowd felt the temperature drop.
The anticipation for their match spread like wildfire.