Draken's eyes gleamed with anticipation, the thrill of the duel evident as the starting signal echoed across the arena. Without wasting a moment, he thrust his arms forward, channeling his magic. The ground beneath Cyrus trembled violently, cracking open as jagged pillars of stone shot up, each aimed to crush him on the spot.
But Cyrus moved with eerie fluidity. His body became a blur as he sidestepped the first pillar, then the second, weaving through the deadly spikes with almost mechanical precision. His expression remained cold, distant—like someone entirely disengaged from the battle.
Draken's smirk faltered for only a second before he raised his hands again, summoning a massive wave of water from the earth. It coiled around him like a serpent, swirling with a speed that sent mist across the arena. The audience gasped in awe as the water began to solidify into the form of a giant serpent. With a flick of his wrist, Draken sent the creature hurtling toward Cyrus, its massive jaws snapping with deadly force.
But Cyrus didn't flinch. He watched with an almost detached calm as the water serpent lunged at him. At the last moment, he ducked beneath its jaws, moving so swiftly it was as if he had anticipated the attack long before it came. The serpent crashed into the ground behind him, spraying water across the arena floor.
From the stands, the professors leaned forward in their seats, eyes wide with surprise. Draken's mastery over both earth and water was impressive, but Cyrus's effortless evasion was something else entirely.
"Remarkable control," Professor Thaddeous murmured, his eyes locked on Draken as he continued his relentless assault. "His magic is precise for someone so young."
Magnus sat beside him, his gaze fixed not on Draken, but on Cyrus. "Yes," he said softly, "but notice how Cyrus hasn't broken a sweat. He hasn't even begun to fight."
Back in the arena, Draken was growing visibly frustrated. Sweat beaded on his brow as he clenched his fists, glaring at Cyrus. "Quit dodging!" he snarled. "Fight back!"
With a roar, Draken slammed his wand into the ground, summoning a swarm of enormous boulders. They rose up like meteors, swirling around him in a chaotic storm. With a single motion, he sent the boulders flying toward Cyrus, each one hurtling through the air with bone-shattering force.
The audience held its breath as the barrage of rock closed in on Cyrus from all sides. But Cyrus remained calm. His movements were like liquid, flowing effortlessly through the storm of stone. He didn't just dodge—he anticipated every strike, slipping through the chaos with a grace that seemed almost inhuman.
Draken's frustration boiled over. "Enough of this!" he shouted, raising his hands toward the sky. The earth groaned beneath him as he summoned his final attack—a torrential downpour that swirled around him with unnatural speed. The water began to take form, solidifying into hundreds of razor-sharp blades that hovered in the air like a storm of knives.
"Let's see you dodge this!" Draken growled, his voice strained with effort. With a fierce motion, he sent the water blades hurtling toward Cyrus, each one spinning with deadly precision.
But Cyrus didn't falter. His eyes remained locked on Draken, his body moving with the same eerie precision. He twisted, ducked, and slid through the onslaught, dodging the deadly blades by mere inches. Water splashed across the arena as the blades missed their mark, scattering harmlessly into the ground.
From the sidelines, Finnian watched with narrowed eyes, a flicker of curiosity crossing his usually indifferent face. "He hasn't used magic yet," Finn muttered to himself.
Gareth, observing from the stands, tensed. His eyes narrowed as he watched Cyrus's movements. "No wand. No spells. How is he doing this?"
In the arena, Draken's energy was waning, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped down his face as he stared at Cyrus, who hadn't even drawn his wand. The crowd was beginning to notice—Cyrus wasn't fighting like a traditional mage. His entire approach was something else entirely.
Draken's frustration reached its peak. With a final, desperate scream, he slammed his hands into the ground, summoning thick roots from the earth. The massive tendrils shot up from the ground like the fangs of a beast, thick and gnarled, each one aiming to crush Cyrus.
This time, Cyrus didn't move.
In one fluid motion, Cyrus stepped forward, dodging the gnarled roots with a grace that felt almost unnatural. His every movement was sharp, precise, as if time itself had slowed. Draken's eyes widened, the realization dawning too late. Cyrus was already upon him.
For a split second, their eyes met—Cyrus's gaze cold and calculating, Draken's wild with fear. Then came the strike.
Cyrus drove his knee upward with blinding speed, the impact so brutal it reverberated across the arena. The sound of bone colliding with muscle echoed through the stands—a sickening thud that silenced the crowd. Draken's entire body jerked violently, his eyes bulging as the force of the blow drove the air from his lungs. The look of shock frozen on his face as his body collapsed in on itself.
Time seemed to slow as Draken crumpled to the ground in a heap, his body folding like a rag doll. His mouth opened in a silent gasp, the wind knocked so thoroughly from him that no sound escaped.
Then came the aftermath.
The boulders Draken had summoned—mighty and towering just moments before—trembled, then fell with a thunderous crash, scattering like mere pebbles across the arena floor. The thick roots that had burst from the earth writhed for a moment, then slumped, limp and lifeless, back into the soil. His magic, once a force of nature, now disintegrated into nothingness.
A wave of stunned silence washed over the arena. The crowd, which had been roaring just moments ago, now sat in awe, the sheer finality of the blow hanging thick in the air. It wasn't just the sight of Draken lying broken and gasping—it was the eerie quiet that followed. A silence so profound, it felt as though the air itself had been sucked out of the stadium.
Cyrus remained still, standing over Draken's motionless form. He hadn't even broken a sweat. No wand. No spell. Only pure, unrestrained force.
In the stands, the tension was palpable. Finn's breath hitched as he watched, eyes wide. "Did… did he just—"
"Without magic," Dale whispered, "As always, Vale being Vale."
Teef's jaw was slack, unable to process the sight before him. "I… I don't even…"
At that moment, Draken groaned—a shallow, rasping sound—and the crowd inhaled as one. But he didn't move. He couldn't. His body lay crumpled in the dirt, utterly spent, utterly broken.
In the stands, the professors exchanged stunned glances. Professor Zara's lips parted in surprise, her eyes flicking from Draken to Cyrus in disbelief. Professor Thaddeous merely narrowed his gaze, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "He hasn't shown us a fraction of what he can do," he muttered, his voice low.
Headmaster Magnus, however, remained fixed on Cyrus, his expression inscrutable. "He's holding back," Magnus said, more to himself than anyone else. "There's something much greater beneath that control."
The arena stood still, as if waiting for someone to break the spell.
The referee, still in shock from the sudden turn of events, took a step forward, his voice almost shaky as he raised his hand. "The winner... is Cyrus Vale!"
Yet, there were no cheers. Not yet. The crowd remained transfixed by the sight of Draken's defeat. No one knew how to react. Whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of disbelief and awe rippling through the audience.
Cyrus turned away without fanfare, his face as impassive as ever, and walked toward the exit of the arena. His steps were slow, deliberate. He had won, but the tension in his chest had not dissipated. He could still feel the heat of the fire inside him, clawing to be unleashed, and he clenched his fists at his sides, forcing the urge down.
Behind him, Draken lay broken and defeated—his magic crumbled, his pride shattered. But the crowd wasn't talking about Draken anymore. They were talking about the boy who had won without casting a single spell.
Had he enjoyed the fight? He wasn't sure. There was a moment, just before his knee collided with Draken's gut, where he had felt... something. Not excitement, not satisfaction, but something darker. Like the fight had been a means to vent the frustration that had been building inside him since Layla's defeat.
He replayed the fight in his mind—the precision of his movements, the cold calculation in his strikes. Was that who he had become? A machine, designed to execute without emotion? Or was it more than that? Had he taken pleasure in knocking Draken down, in making him crumble without using any magic at all?
Cyrus's jaw clenched as he shook his head. These were dangerous thoughts, ones he couldn't afford to indulge. Not now. Not here.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't even notice the light tap on his shoulder.
"Impressive," a voice said from behind him, pulling him out of his reverie. "Didn't even have to cast a spell."
Cyrus turned to see Siera standing there, her silvery hair catching the light. She was watching him with those dreamy, unfocused eyes, as though she saw right through him and was merely amused by what she found. Her lips curled into a curious smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"If it's not needed to win, why use it?" Cyrus replied, his voice calm, though his thoughts were still turbulent.
Siera tilted her head slightly, considering his words. "True enough," she said softly. Then, after a pause, she added, "You should check in with Layla. She's in the nursing area—watched your whole fight on the screen. I'm sure she'd like to see you."
Before Cyrus could respond, Siera gave him one last glance and then wandered off, her usual detached air trailing behind her.
Cyrus stood there for a moment, taking a deep breath. Siera's words echoed in his mind. Layla had watched the match. The image of her, lying in a bed, injured from her own battle, filled his mind. He sighed, unsure of what to say when he saw her, but he knew he had to go.
In the nursing area, the soft glow of healing spells filled the room as the nurses moved between beds, tending to students who had been injured in the tournament. Cyrus stepped quietly inside, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Layla. She was propped up against a pillow, her pink hair a little disheveled, but there was a smile on her face as she watched the magical screen beside her bed. She turned her head and noticed him approaching.
"Hey, Cyrus," she greeted, her voice warm and bright despite the exhaustion evident in her features. "Congratulations on your win! I saw the whole thing."
Cyrus stood beside her bed, unsure of how to respond at first. "Thanks," he said quietly. "But I'm sorry... for not being able to help you earlier."
Layla's brow furrowed, then she laughed softly, shaking her head. "Help me? It's not your fault, Cyrus. You've helped me plenty already, you know that. I'm a big girl—I can take care of myself."
Her words were kind and reassuring, but Cyrus still felt the weight of guilt pressing on him. "I should've done more—"
Layla reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her smile never wavering. "Stop. You can't carry the world on your shoulders, Cyrus. Besides, I needed to lose that fight. I learned something... and that's what matters."
Cyrus looked into her eyes, seeing the kindness and understanding there. It was the same kind of warmth that reminded him of Ella. For a moment, the memory of Ella's voice, her laughter, echoed in his mind, and his chest tightened.
Layla's smile widened, as if sensing his inner conflict. "I'll be back on my feet in no time. You just keep doing what you're doing. I know that you're stronger than anyone here."
Cyrus nodded, his throat tight as he struggled to find the right words. He wasn't used to this—this warmth, this care. But in that moment, he was grateful for it.
The nursing area buzzed softly with the sound of healing magic as Cyrus stood by Layla's bed, her words lingering in his mind. But before he could process it all, the arena's magical speakers crackled to life once again, signaling the next match. Cyrus gave Layla a reassuring nod and stepped out of the room, heading back toward the grand arena where Dale's battle was about to begin.
As he returned to his place in the stands beside Finn and Teef, the tension in the air was palpable. The next match would be another critical one for House Tenebrae, and all eyes were on Dale. Standing in the center of the arena, Dale cracked his knuckles and tipped his signature cowboy hat slightly, his easygoing demeanor masking the seriousness of the fight ahead.
Across from him stood Khan Delinar, a tall, lean student from House Aurelia. His platinum-blond hair glistened in the sunlight, his expression cold and calculating. Dressed in robes of pale blue and green, Khan exuded confidence, his eyes locking onto Dale with a predatory focus. The air around Khan seemed to shimmer with a frosty chill, and from the moment he raised his hands, the faint scent of fresh leaves filled the arena.
"Next up: Dale Thorneheart of House Tenebrae versus Khan Delinar of House Aurelia!" Magnus's voice boomed across the arena, calling everyone's attention.
Cyrus leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Khan. The student from Aurelia had a reputation—an affinity for ice and plant-based magic. He was a tactician, known for using his magic to manipulate the battlefield and wear down his opponents. And from what Cyrus had heard, Khan was ruthless.
Dale, on the other hand, was all charm and brute force. His affinity for wind magic and his quick movements made him unpredictable, but Cyrus knew that Khan's meticulous style would test Dale in ways he hadn't been challenged before.
The duel began with the wave of a hand, and instantly, Khan attacked.
With a flick of his wrist, thick vines erupted from the ground, twisting and writhing like serpents as they shot toward Dale. Razor-sharp leaves followed, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Dale, however, was ready.
He moved with lightning speed, dashing to the side as the vines missed him by inches. With a powerful gust of wind summoned from his wand, he sent the attacking leaves scattering in all directions, the crowd gasping at the display of power.
Khan didn't flinch. His eyes remained locked on Dale, and with a cold, focused determination, he conjured another wave of vines, thicker and more aggressive this time. They lashed out at Dale, forcing him to dodge and weave in quick, unpredictable movements. But Dale was no stranger to chaotic battlefields.
"Come on!" Dale shouted with a grin, his voice loud and clear. "Is that all you've got?"
With a powerful gust of wind, Dale lifted himself into the air, spinning as he summoned a tornado that whipped across the arena, tearing through the vines and sending debris flying. The crowd roared in excitement as Dale descended back to the ground, his hat barely moving from his head as he landed with ease.
But Khan remained unfazed. His icy-blue eyes narrowed as he raised both hands, and the temperature in the arena dropped sharply. Frost formed on the ground beneath him, and with a snap of his fingers, a wall of ice erupted between him and Dale, blocking the next wave of wind attacks.
Then, with a fluid motion, Khan's fingers traced through the air, summoning razor-sharp ice shards that hovered above him like deadly spears. With a single gesture, he sent them flying toward Dale, who barely had time to react.
Dale spun out of the way, narrowly avoiding the shards as they shattered against the stone walls of the arena. But the vines weren't done. They surged forward again, thicker and faster, twisting around Dale's legs and arms, pulling him toward the ground.
Dale gritted his teeth, struggling to break free, but Khan's vines were relentless. With a powerful thrust of his wand, Dale summoned a massive gust of wind, shredding the vines to pieces, but the effort left him winded.
"You're not half-bad," Dale panted, his breath visible in the cold air as Khan's icy magic continued to fill the arena. "But let's see if you can handle this!"
With a determined look, Dale unleashed a windstorm, his wand crackling with power as he sent a howling gale toward Khan. The tornado ripped through the arena, powerful enough to tear up the ground beneath them.
But Khan was ready.
With an almost eerie calmness, Khan raised his hand, and the vines surged up from the earth once more, anchoring him in place. His fingers moved delicately, summoning more razor leaves that swirled within the tornado, slicing through the wind and turning it against Dale.
The audience gasped as the razor leaves cut through the air like blades, heading straight for Dale. He dodged and rolled, trying to avoid the attacks, but they were too many, too fast.
One by one, the razor leaves slashed across Dale's arms and legs, drawing blood with each strike. His wind magic faltered as he staggered back, trying to regain his footing. The crowd watched in stunned silence as Dale, bleeding and battered, struggled to stay upright.
From the sidelines, Cyrus clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. The sight of Dale, bruised and bloodied, stirred something deep within him—something he had felt before with Layla. It was that same gnawing frustration, the helplessness of watching his friends fall.
"Come on, Dale," Finn muttered, his voice tense as he watched the battle unfold. "You can still win this."
But Cyrus could see the toll the fight was taking on Dale. His movements were slowing, his wind magic growing weaker with each passing moment. And Khan, standing tall and unscathed, was relentless.
With one final surge of power, Khan sent another wave of razor leaves flying toward Dale, and this time, there was no escape.
The leaves cut into Dale's body with brutal precision, and with a gasp of pain, he collapsed to the ground, unable to continue.
The crowd fell silent, the weight of the defeat settling over the arena.
The referee stepped forward, raising his hand. "Khan Delinar is the victor!"
Cyrus watched in silence as Dale lay on the ground, breathing heavily, blood staining his clothes. The feeling inside him deepened—the same feeling he had after Layla's defeat. A conflict between anger, guilt, and something he couldn't quite name.
Were these emotions a weakness? Or were they a strength? The thought gnawed at him as he watched the healers rush to Dale's side, helping him to his feet.
"You did well, Dale," Cyrus whispered under his breath, but the weight of his own uncertainty remained heavy on his shoulders. He had to win. Not just for himself, but for his friends.
But what would it cost him?
The crowd's energy crackled in the air, still buzzing from the last match. Despite Dale's defeat, the students of House Tenebrae were filled with anticipation as the next bout was announced. It was Siera Havengale against Emily Blackwish of House Verdantis, two skilled spellcasters known for their control and precision.
Magnus's voice echoed across the arena as he introduced the combatants. "Our next match: Siera Havengale of House Tenebrae versus Emily Blackwish of House Verdantis!"
The arena grew silent as the two girls stepped forward, their eyes locking across the battlefield. Siera's silver hair shimmered under the afternoon sun, her usual dreamy, laid-back demeanor replaced with an intensity Cyrus hadn't seen before. She moved with a grace that seemed almost unnatural, her violet eyes focused and determined.
On the opposite side stood Emily Blackwish, her dark hair tied back in a loose braid. Her robes were embroidered with silver and green, the emblem of House Verdantis gleaming brightly on her chest. Emily was known for her proficiency in elemental orbs—small spheres of pure elemental energy that she could control with deadly precision.
Cyrus, Finn, and Teef watched from the sidelines, each with their own thoughts. Cyrus's mind, however, was strangely conflicted. He had always kept his distance from Siera, unsure of how to feel about her unpredictable nature. But something about her movements in the dungeon, and now on the battlefield, reminded him of himself—graceful, calculated, always two steps ahead. It was a thought he wasn't comfortable with.
"She's something else, huh?" Teef whispered, leaning over to Cyrus. "I never thought Siera would be this serious."
Cyrus nodded slightly, his eyes never leaving the battlefield. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Siera than met the eye.
The match began with a wave of Emily's hand, summoning three shimmering elemental orbs—one of ice, one of wind, and one of earth. The orbs floated around her in perfect synchronization, ready to strike at her command.
With a flick of her fingers, Emily sent the orbs flying toward Siera, each one carrying a burst of its respective element. The ice orb shot out first, freezing the ground in its wake. The wind orb followed, whipping up a cyclone that tore through the arena, and the earth orb spun like a boulder, threatening to crush anything in its path.
But Siera moved like a dancer, her body weaving between the orbs with an almost casual elegance. Her feet barely touched the ground as she spun out of the way of the ice, sidestepped the cyclone, and ducked under the boulder-like earth orb. It was as if the attacks couldn't touch her, each one missing by mere inches as she dodged with perfect precision.
Then, something changed.
For just a heartbeat, the air around Siera seemed to shimmer—like a ripple in reality itself. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Cyrus caught it. His eyes narrowed, his heart skipping a beat as he watched her. There was no magic aura around her, no spell cast to guide her movements, yet she moved with an instinct that went beyond simple reflex. Almost as if she wasn't reacting to the attacks but anticipating them before they even happened.
Emily, unaware of the strange ripple, pressed forward, hurling more orbs toward Siera. The crowd was enraptured by the intensity of the fight, but Cyrus could feel it—something else lingered in the air around Siera, something he couldn't explain. Her movements were too perfect, too fluid. For the first time, he wondered if she was more than just a skilled duelist.
And then it happened again.
A flicker of energy, like a distortion in space, flickered around her just as the boulder-like orb was about to strike. Siera's body moved in response—not like someone dodging an attack, but like someone who knew the attack was coming long before it was released.
Cyrus clenched his fists at his sides, an uneasy feeling settling in his chest. What am I seeing? It was subtle, but impossible to ignore. He had trained with the best—he knew how combat looked when it was driven by sheer skill or instinct. But this... this was something else.
As the crowd roared at Siera's graceful dodge, Cyrus's eyes darkened with suspicion. There was something strange about her—something he hadn't noticed before. And it sent a chill down his spine.
Cyrus's breath caught in his throat. Her movements—so graceful, so precise. It was exactly how he fought. He watched, mesmerized, as Siera continued to evade Emily's attacks, her expression calm and unbothered. She made it look effortless.
But Cyrus shook the thought away. He had to focus. He couldn't let himself be distracted, especially not by Siera.
Emily gritted her teeth, frustration flickering in her eyes. She raised her hands again, summoning a second wave of elemental orbs, this time doubling their number. The orbs whirled around her in a protective barrier, moving in erratic, unpredictable patterns.
"You won't dodge these," Emily muttered under her breath.
With a sudden burst of energy, the orbs launched toward Siera once again, faster and more aggressive than before. The crowd gasped as the arena filled with flashing lights and elemental fury.
But Siera was ready.
She twirled her wand gracefully, casting a barrier of light around herself, absorbing the first wave of attacks. Then, in one fluid motion, she dispelled the barrier and flicked her wrist, sending a gust of wind that disrupted the orbs' trajectory, scattering them across the arena.
Emily was caught off guard, her balance faltering for a moment. Siera didn't waste any time. With a graceful leap, she closed the distance between them, her wand glowing with power as she cast a binding spell that summoned thick, ethereal vines from the ground, wrapping around Emily's legs and arms, trapping her in place.
The crowd watched in awe as Siera moved with the precision of a master, her expression never changing, her movements fluid and controlled. It was over in an instant.
Emily struggled against the vines, but she was already too late. The match had been decided.
Siera lowered her wand, the vines releasing their grip on Emily as she stepped back. With a small, almost apologetic smile, Siera extended her hand to Emily. "Good match," she said softly, her voice calm.
Emily hesitated, then sighed and took Siera's hand, allowing her to help her up. "You're better than I thought," Emily muttered, though there was no bitterness in her voice. "Guess I've got some work to do."
Siera smiled, but there was a strange, distant look in her eyes as she helped Emily off the battlefield. Cyrus noticed it, too—the same look he sometimes saw in his own reflection.
From the sidelines, Cyrus couldn't shake the image of Siera's movements from his mind. The way she had dodged, the way she had fought—it was eerily familiar. It was as if she shared the same instincts he did, the same detached, calculated approach to combat. Each step was deliberate, each movement graceful, almost as if she was dancing through the battle. But there was something else—a fluidity, a certain elegance that he hadn't seen in himself.
"She really made that look easy," Finn muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't think she had that kind of control."
Teef nodded but then glanced at Cyrus, a strange look on his face. "You know... her movements," he said slowly, "they kinda reminded me of you, Cyrus. The way she dodged everything, calm, in control... it's like watching you fight."
Cyrus didn't reply. Teef's words hit closer to home than he expected. He had noticed it too—Siera's grace, her precision. It mirrored his own fighting style in a way that made him uncomfortable. She was moving with the same eerie calm that he had learned from years of brutal training, the same cold efficiency.
But she hadn't been trained like him. She couldn't have been.
"Yeah," Finn added, glancing between Cyrus and the arena. "She's got that same... what's the word... detachment. Like she's not even really there."
Cyrus remained silent, his thoughts swirling with confusion. He had seen that calmness before, felt it in himself during every battle. But seeing it in Siera, seeing that same eerie focus, made him wonder. Could she have a past she was hiding too? Could she be trained like him—by shadows, by secrets?
As the crowd erupted in cheers for Siera's victory, Cyrus's eyes instinctively drifted to Layla, still recovering from her earlier match. He cared about her, he knew that. Her warmth, her kindness—it grounded him in a way he didn't fully understand. But now, the image of Siera's fluid movements, her cryptic smile, haunted his thoughts.
He clenched his fists, shaking his head slightly. He had to stay focused. There was more at stake here than these conflicting emotions—his mission, the artifact, the shadows. He couldn't afford to be distracted by anyone, not even Siera.
But he couldn't get her out of his mind.