As Mae stepped into the fighters' waiting room, she absently rubbed at the streaks of blood on her clothes, trying to smear them away. Her knuckles dragged across the fabric, not quite scrubbing—more like an idle, half-conscious gesture. Her expression was calm, composed. Too calm.
"Th-that was so violent!" Xain's voice rang out, breaking the quiet. She looked up to see him staring at her, wide-eyed.
Mae shrugged and tilted her head with a crooked grin. "So what?" she said, her tone flippant. "It's not like she's walking around with permanent injuries, right?"
Right on cue, Lexy came limping in behind her, arms folded and pouty, back in her usual form—familiar, human, and very much sulking.
"Maybe not physically!" she huffed, cheeks puffed out. "But I got torn in half! You can't tell me that doesn't come with some kind of long-term trauma!"
Mae laughed lightly, clearly not remorseful in the slightest.
"The mental damages from that experience are going to be scarring!" Lexy continued, throwing her hands up dramatically.
"Was that what you did near the end?" Zeva cut in, eyeing Mae with a calculating squint before flicking her gaze toward Edluar. "And should I expect him to do something like that too?"
Mae paused for a moment, considering. "That was Elven Rage," she answered finally, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Something all elves have inside them. Most just don't tap into it. It'd take a while to explain why—but for now? Just know it makes us stronger for a short burst."
Her eyes found Edluar next, sharp and curious. "As for him… probably. He's a half-elf, so it wouldn't feel or look the same as mine. But it's in there."
Edluar stared down at his hands, flexing them slowly. "I know about it," he said quietly. "But I've never felt anything like that before."
Lexy groaned loudly, throwing her head back. "Okay, yes, great conversation, very mystical—but could someone please comfort the person who got literally ripped in half and lost the fastest in the tournament so far?!" she cried.
Annabel walked over and, with a smirk, patted Lexy gently on the head. "There, there," she said in a tone so dry it bordered on mocking.
Lexy glared up at her. "Hmph!"
— — —
Back in the arena, Jefferey sighed heavily and slapped a small pile of coins into Drift's outstretched hand.
"I really, really hate you," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Drift beamed, greed glowing in his eyes. "Come now, Jefferey, don't be bitter. You are going to lose more coin today, remember?"
Jefferey just groaned.
Up in the back row, Zee sat motionless, arms crossed tight over her chest. "Ugh… I'm glad she won," she muttered. "But seeing myself get ripped in half like that…" A visible shiver ran down her spine. "That's going to haunt me."
"I don't think anythin' in the tournament's gonna top that," Larkin said, scratching thoughtfully at his beard.
Nori scribbled something down on his notepad, tore the sheet free, and handed it to Zee. She glanced at it and raised an eyebrow as she read:
"Your sister is really scary. Even I haven't done anything like that."
In one of the VIP stands, Samwell scoffed, arms crossed over his chest. "The changeling was interesting. But it still fell to the strength of an elf."
"Do you know what she did at the end, Father?" asked Matthew, seated just beside him.
Samwell didn't respond. He only shook his head, eyes still on the arena.
Elsewhere, in another VIP stand, the Emperor of Aeruna leaned slightly forward in his seat, expression as unreadable as ever. His tone was calm, bordering detached. "That was… grotesque."
"But expected of an elf, wouldn't you say, my Emperor?" Tianteng asked beside him, offering a faint smile.
"Yes," the Emperor replied simply. "Yes it is."
And in yet another VIP stand—
"A surprisingly quick match," Prince Mark observed, arms resting on the railing before him. "I expected it to go longer."
"Are you disappointed, Mark?" Zara asked, glancing sideways at her brother.
"A little," he admitted.
In the front row, Amara tapped her chin thoughtfully. "The elf's sister is… interesting," she muttered, more to herself. "I hope she doesn't become another problem to deal with."
High above the arena, Quincy zipped upward in a swift arc, her wings leaving a faint blur in the sky. "Alright, everyone!" she called out, her voice booming over the crowd. "That match ended quick—but don't worry! We're kicking off the next fight right now!"
She dove down in a wide spiral, stopping just above the arena floor. With a sweeping motion, she gestured toward the arena walls—and they responded at once. The stone walls let out a deep, grinding groan as they lifted open.
"On one side!" she bellowed, spinning midair with theatrical flair, "We have a swordswoman who's devoted her entire life to the blade! The eldest daughter of the Blossom family—Zeva Blossom, the Blade!"
From the east wall, Zeva emerged at a steady, measured pace. Her movements were fluid, composed—like someone walking through a rhythm they'd practiced their whole life. Her lightweight leather armor reinforced with metal plates hugging her frame in all the right places. At her waist, the sheath of her longsword bore intricate snarling beast motifs, practically begging to be drawn by the crowd—but she left it untouched.
"Let's see how you do," she murmured under her breath.
"And on the other side!" Quincy continued, spinning toward the opposite wall, "We have a swordsman, a dual wielder, a wanderer who's crossed continents with nothing but his blades and his will! It's Edluar Larna, the Wandering Swordsman!"
From the west wall, Edluar stepped out into the light. His heavy, snowy-white garb rustled faintly in the breeze, the fabric layered and worn like the roads he'd walked. The wide-brimmed hat and scarf he'd worn earlier were gone—left behind. His silver hair was tied back into a low ponytail, still enough to hide his ears completely. His face was unreadable, calm but focused, as his boots met the ground with quiet certainty.
"I'll try my best," he whispered.
His gaze rose—and across the arena, Zeva's locked with his.
Between them, the earth began to tremble.
Quincy clapped her hands once—sharp, loud, commanding.
At her signal, the arena responded.
The sand was pulled downward, vanishing into hidden seams as if swallowed whole. In its place, stone surged upward in controlled layers, crafting a hardened dueling platform with striking precision. At the center stood a wide ring of flat, mineral-packed earth—flanked by tiered stone steps that formed raised edges around the perimeter. Narrow trenches cut through the ground in crisp, deliberate lines, and polished rock pillars rose at regular intervals like anchors for footwork and cover. The structure was clean, even, and symmetrical—built for clarity, movement, and pure martial discipline.
Spectators from every angle had a perfect view. Nothing obstructed the stage. No distractions. No hiding.
Just a true dueling ground.
Quincy's hand stayed aloft for one second more.
Then she sliced it downward, sharp and sudden.
"BEGIN!"