The battlefield detonated into motion.
But Freya didn't see the first exchange clearly.
Her pencil was already moving.
She hunched over the sketchbook in her lap, the arena dissolving into lines and angles. Riven's position marked in dark strokes. The PDA Squad's formation sketched in clean geometry. Arrows bloomed and multiplied as she chased the logic of their movement.
He's compressing their reaction window.
She scrawled the note into the margin, graphite biting hard into the paper.
Forcing micro-decisions. No time to reset rhythm.
The crowd roared. The sound reached her like thunder through water. She looked up just in time to see Riven carve through a space that hadn't existed a heartbeat earlier.
The Breaker intercepted him mid-stride.
Their collision cracked the air. Her strike landed with brutal precision, aimed to halt his momentum entirely. Shadow flared. The blow skidded, redirected just enough to keep Riven upright. He twisted inside her guard and answered with a palm strike that would have folded a lesser fighter.
The Anchor's barrier snapped into place between them.
Light shattered across its surface. The impact rang like struck crystal. The Anchor staggered half a step, boots grinding into stone.
Freya's pencil flew again.
Anchor absorbing 70% frontal load. Unsustainable.
The Vector lashed out, ribbon snapping around the Breaker's waist and hauling her backward before Riven could capitalize. The formation folded and reformed in the same breath. Every movement was economy distilled to its sharpest edge.
"He's speeding up," Sera whispered.
Freya didn't answer. She was already sketching the new pattern. Riven's path through the formation resembled a spiral tightening with each pass. He wasn't circling randomly. He was shaving distance. Collapsing their geometry inward.
On the arena floor, the Conductor adjusted.
The PDA Squad expanded suddenly, breaking the spiral. The Breaker and Vector split wide, forcing Riven to choose a target. He lunged for the Breaker.
It was a trap.
The Anchor pivoted, barrier angling like a blade. Riven slammed into it and rebounded directly into the Breaker's waiting strike. The hit connected cleanly, snapping his head to the side.
The arena gasped.
Freya's pencil stabbed a sharp circle around the maneuver.
Forced redirection into prepared strike. Perfect timing.
Riven recovered mid-stagger, shadow surging to swallow the follow-up blow. His grin flashed, feral and bright. He retaliated with a sweeping kick that forced all four Aurelith fighters to retreat in synchronized steps.
They moved like reflections of the same thought.
But the strain was showing.
The Anchor's breathing had grown ragged. The Vector's ribbon snapped with a faint tremor at its edges. Sweat slicked the Breaker's temples. Their perfection was still intact, but it was costing them.
Riven saw it.
Of course he did.
He surged forward in a blur, abandoning feints entirely. Raw acceleration carried him straight through the outer edge of their formation. The Anchor's barrier caught his shoulder instead of his fist.
It shattered.
The sound was small. Almost delicate. A crystalline snap that vanished beneath the arena's collective intake of breath. Light exploded outward as the shield fractured and dissolved.
The Anchor stumbled.
Riven drove into the opening with savage precision. His strike slammed into her guard and sent her skidding across the stone. The formation buckled, its center ripped away.
"NO!" the Silver Accord cried in horrified unison.
The Vector reacted instantly, ribbon lashing around the Anchor's wrist and dragging her back into orbit. The Breaker filled the gap with a reckless charge, intercepting Riven before he could press the advantage.
Their clash shook the arena.
Freya's hand cramped around the pencil. She forced it to keep moving.
Barrier failure at 3:12. Formation destabilized but not broken.
On the field, the Conductor's voice cut like a wire. The PDA Squad compressed into a tighter diamond, sacrificing reach for resilience. Their movements sharpened into something desperate and brilliant.
They began trading space for time.
Every retreat was measured. Every counterstrike bought a heartbeat. The Vector's redirects grew viciously efficient, slinging her teammates through impossibly narrow openings. The Breaker struck with surgical brutality, targeting joints and balance instead of raw damage.
They were fighting to survive the storm.
And slowly, impossibly, they began to slow it.
Riven's attacks lost a fraction of their edge. Not from weakness. From resistance. The PDA Squad's geometry wrapped around him again, smaller and denser than before. His spiral tightened until it had nowhere left to collapse.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze.
Freya looked up from her notes and felt her pulse stutter.
They had him contained.
The arena hung suspended in that impossible moment. Mascot squads leaned forward as one, sound trapped behind clenched teeth. The PDA Squad moved in perfect unison, closing the final angles.
Riven's smile returned.
Wider.
Darker.
Shadow boiled off his frame.
And the air itself seemed to recoil.
Freya felt the pressure hit her chest from the stands. Conversations died mid-breath. The arena lights dimmed by a fraction as Riven's contract surged, darkness wrapping him in a second silhouette that moved half a heartbeat out of sync with his body.
The PDA Squad did not hesitate.
The Conductor snapped a command. The formation collapsed inward for the finishing bind. The Anchor stepped to reestablish center. The Vector's ribbon carved a perfect arc to sling the Breaker into decisive range.
They moved to seal him.
Riven disappeared.
Not stepped. Not dodged.
Vanished.
A collective gasp tore through the arena as his shadow peeled free of the bind and reassembled behind them. He struck before the realization finished forming.
The Anchor went down first.
His palm hit her shoulder and the force detonated inward. She folded with a choked breath, barrier flickering uselessly as she hit the stone. The formation's heart vanished in an instant.
The Vector tried to pivot.
Riven caught the ribbon mid-snap and yanked. She stumbled forward into his knee. The impact stole the air from her lungs and sent her sprawling beside the Anchor.
The Breaker roared and charged.
For a split second, Freya thought she might land it. The strike was perfect. Timed to the rhythm the PDA Squad had carved across the entire match.
Riven stepped inside it.
His elbow drove into her guard. Bone met bone with a sickening crack. Her momentum died. He twisted, redirected, and sent her crashing to the ground in a spray of dust.
Three heartbeats.
Three fighters down.
The Conductor stood alone.
The arena was silent.
She didn't retreat. Her stance sharpened into something razor-thin, every ounce of her focus condensed into a final line. The PDA Squad's geometry flickered in her posture, a ghost of the formation she carried by herself.
Riven tilted his head, studying her.
For the first time all match, he didn't smile.
She moved.
It was beautiful.
A single, flawless sequence that distilled everything her team had been. Precision without hesitation. Timing honed to a lethal edge. Her strike cut through the space between them like a drawn line.
Riven met it head-on.
Shadow surged.
Their clash rang like a struck bell. For a heartbeat, they stood locked in that point of contact, force screaming through the air.
Then the shadow swallowed the line.
Riven's counterstrike landed clean.
The Conductor hit the ground and did not rise.
The referee's voice cracked the silence.
"Match concluded. Victory to Pyros Squad Five."
The arena exploded.
The Ember Howl's roar shattered the stillness, a tidal wave of sound that crashed over the stunned silver stands. Pyros rose in savage triumph, boots hammering stone in thunderous rhythm.
Across from them, Aurelith sat in funerary quiet.
The Silver Accord did not clap. They did not chant. They stood motionless, watching their fallen squad with rigid, aching composure.
On the field, medics rushed in. The PDA Squad stirred, battered but conscious. The Anchor pushed herself upright with shaking arms. The Vector coughed raggedly. The Breaker rolled to her side, teeth clenched against pain. The Conductor sat last, gaze fixed on the stone where the match had ended.
Riven stepped back from them, shadow receding in lazy tendrils. He flexed his fingers once, as if testing the air.
"That was boring," he said lightly.
It was a battle only he could say that to.
But the disappointment hung there anyway, a thin thread of annoyance buried beneath the blazing arrogance.
He turned and strode toward the tunnel without another glance. The Ember Howl's chant followed him like a storm.
"FEEL THE MIGHT OF OUR PYRO'S HOUSE PEASENTS!!"
Freya's pencil hung motionless above the page.
Her sketchbook was a battlefield of lines and notes. Perfect geometry carved apart by a violent slash of graphite where the formation had broken. Her chest felt tight, breath shallow as she replayed the final exchange in merciless clarity.
They had been flawless.
And it hadn't been enough.
Around her, the arena reset in slow, stunned waves. Conversations sparked hesitantly. Silver voices murmured low and tight. Pyros burned bright and merciless.
Freya looked down at the shattered geometry on her page.
Her hand trembled.
Then, with deliberate care, she drew a final line beneath the wreckage.
Not a slash.
A path.
The arena roared on.
But in the quiet space between one breath and the next, Freya understood something cold and certain.
Strength alone did not win.
And harmony alone did not save you.
Somewhere between them, a different answer waited.
Her fingers tightened around the pencil.
She intended to find it.
The arena did not recover from the PDA Squad's fall.
It adapted.
Matches continued, but the energy had shifted. Conversations carried a sharper edge. Every clean strike drew louder reactions. Every mistake felt heavier. The League had crossed an invisible threshold. Spectacle was giving way to something more serious.
The first-years had made their statement.
Now the academy was waiting for something else.
The lights dimmed.
Not gradually. Intentionally.
A ripple of confusion moved through the stands. The current match froze mid-reset as the referee raised a hand, eyes lifting toward the highest balcony of the arena. One by one, conversations died. Even the mascot squads faltered, their chants unraveling into uncertain silence.
A single spotlight ignited above.
It cut through the dimness and settled on the uppermost tier, where a man stood framed against the vaulted ceiling.
Freya's breath caught.
She knew that silhouette.
The posture was relaxed to the point of indifference. One hand rested loosely on the balcony rail. The other hung at his side. There was no theatrical entrance, no explosion of power to announce him.
He didn't need one.
The announcer's voice rang out, stripped of its usual flourish.
"Students of the academy," the announcer said, voice steady despite the electricity in the air. "We welcome our honored observer. Ranked third among the global contractors… Valerian Crowe."
The name struck the arena like lightning.
Freya's memory snapped back to the dining hall. A quiet corner table. A man standing in unbothered amongst rampant children. No entourage. No spectacle. Just presence disguised as ordinary.
It was him.
Valerian Crowe.
Beside her, Sera let out a shaky breath. "Hey, he was eating like twenty tables away from us a while ago, remember?" she whispered.
The arena detonated.
Sound didn't just rise. It broke loose. Students surged to their feet as if pulled by a single string. The name tore through the stands in overlapping waves of disbelief and reverence.
Freya barely heard them.
A cold thrill slid down her spine.
He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the storm below with the smallest possible motion. At his side, his contract manifested in a restrained shimmer. Not a spectacle. A statement.
The presence of it pressed against the arena like invisible weight. Freya felt it settle in her chest, heavy and undeniable. Her heartbeat stuttered. The distance between the stands and the balcony felt immeasurable.
This was not just reputation made flesh.
This was scale.
The man's gaze swept the arena with calm, clinical interest. When it passed over the first-year sections, Freya felt that crawling sensation again. Not attention fixed on her, but something broader.
Assessment.
Like a blade testing its edge against air.
The spotlight faded. The arena lights rose with it, color rushing back into the world. The third-ranked contractor took his seat without ceremony, posture easy, presence overwhelming.
The spell shattered.
Noise crashed back in twice as loud. The mascot squads recovered first, their chants igniting with manic intensity. If the earlier matches had been fought for pride, the next would be fought under judgment.
Every movement was being witnessed by a living legend.
The announcer's voice cut through the resurgence.
"With our honored observer present," he declared, "we proceed to the advanced brackets."
A murmur rippled outward.
The real battles.
Upper-year squads gathered at the staging tunnels, their composure a stark contrast to the fevered stands. These fighters carried themselves like weapons sheathed in skin. Contracts flickered into existence with quiet authority, power restrained but unmistakable.
Freya's pencil hovered above her sketchbook.
For the first time since the League began, hesitation crept into her hand. The scale of what was about to unfold dwarfed the matches she had been cataloging. This was a different tier of violence. A different language of strength.
Above them, the third-ranked contractor watched in silence.
And beneath that gaze, the academy's finest prepared to carve their names into the air.