The luko lunges at me with feral precision, its fangs bared and claws outstretched. My instincts take over—I use an entire day's worth of lifespan to summon wind magic into my feet and propel myself out of its path.
The crowd erupts.
They gasp, then roar in disapproval. Perhaps they thought I couldn't use magic after the affinity test revealed nothing. Tch. Let them think whatever they want. I dodge another lunge, my body reacting faster than my mind can process.
The crowd's boos echo in my ears, but I don't care. What I care about is the ticking timer in my peripheral. 36 days. Each dodge costs me dearly.
I can't keep this up.
The luko launches again, and I evade by the narrowest margin. My breath is ragged. I'm burning through time faster than this creature is tiring. If I don't figure something out, I'll lose before I can land a decisive blow.
I close my eyes for a split second, grasping for anything—any memory, any advice that could save me. Alondra's voice from our first meeting comes to mind: "Your affinity is important, but it's your imagination and dedication that make a great magician. At least, that's what my grandpa always said."
Imagination. Dedication.
The luko roars, closing in. I dodge once more, another precious day slipping away. My timer reads 34 days. The crowd jeers louder.
Imagination.
I think back to the time bandits in the town square, when I moved faster than sight and slowed time itself. It cost me 18 years, but that fight taught me something vital: magic isn't just about raw power—it's about precision. Control.
Dedication.
I think of Tsuki, his fire magic shaping ash into a distraction. He didn't rely on brute strength but on ingenuity. What could I do? What could I manipulate?
Then it hits me. My eyes.
If wind magic can make me move faster, then maybe I can use it to enhance my perception instead. I focus all my remaining energy on this idea, summoning wind magic and directing it—not to my feet, but to my eyes. A white aura surrounds me, concentrating on my vision.
Time slows.
The luko leaps at me, but now I can see everything. The twitch of its muscles, the glint of its claws, the murderous intent in its bloodshot eyes. It swipes, its paw massive, its strength devastating—but in this slowed-down reality, I sidestep with ease.
I grip my blade, infusing it with magic, and drive it into the luko's chest.
Time resumes.
The luko howls in pain, staggering back. Its timer ticks down, but it's not enough. It's not even close. I've only managed to wound it.
Another howl. Another pounce. I enhance my eyes again, using two minutes of lifespan to track its movements. Bit by bit, I carve into the beast, slashing at its legs, its sides, its chest. The crowd screams and boos, but I block them out.
I can do this.
I dart forward, blade in hand, my perception heightened. Every move is deliberate. Every second counts. I push myself harder, enhancing my vision over and over. My timer ticks down relentlessly.
The luko's movements slow, its roars growing weaker. Its once-mighty body stumbles under the weight of its injuries. I'm close. So close. But I hate this.
The luko didn't ask for this. It wasn't born a monster—it was made one. The scars across its body tell a story of pain, of captivity. This isn't a fight for survival; it's a performance for the nobles above me. Their cheers, their bloodlust—they disgust me.
I channel the last of my strength, pouring my magic into the blade. The wind around me howls. I'm no longer dodging. I'm no longer running. I'm here to end this—for both of us.
I sacrifice 32 days in one final surge. Twenty for the speed to finish it. Twelve to imbue my blade.
The luko roars its last, its timer vanishing into bluish dust. The arena falls silent.
My timer reads 5 days and 18 hours.
Then the dust settles. A glowing string of numbers appears in my peripheral: 1 year and 132 days.
It's not relief I feel. It's not triumph. It's emptiness.