A strange quiet had settled between them, a pocket of stillness in the roaring storm of the arena. The playful back-and-forth was gone, sanded away by the sheer expenditure of energy. Leonel watched Liora, seeing the slight tremor in her sword arm, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She was magnificent, pushed to her absolute limit and still standing. But he could also see the end of her road, written in the tightness around her eyes.
A practical sort of finality settled over him. Dragging this out would be a disservice to both of them.
"Well," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the din, not with arrogance, but with a simple, unshakeable certainty. "It's taking a while. Let's finish it."
Liora's eyes met his. There was no surprise in them, only a weary, grim acceptance. She had felt it too—the widening gap between their reservoirs of strength. She didn't waste breath on a retort. Instead, she took a deep, grounding breath, settling her weight, her knuckles whitening on the hilt of her sword. Her entire world narrowed to the boy in front of her, to the single, defining moment that was rushing toward her.
Leonel's posture shifted. It was a subtle thing, a coiling of energy that made the air around him seem to thicken. The playful glint in his emerald eyes was gone, replaced by a flat, ancient calm.
"Graythorn Sword Art: Second Form—Gale Shadow Strike!"
He had used the name before, but this was different. This wasn't the controlled, countering force he'd used to negate her Crescent Veil. This was the technique unleashed. A howling vortex of wind erupted from his blade, so dark it seemed to drink the light from the arena, shot through with ribbons of living shadow that twisted like serpents. It wasn't just an attack; it was a localized natural disaster, a shrieking tide of annihilation.
Liora felt the threat on a primal level. It was a physical pressure against her skin, a coldness that had nothing to do with temperature. But she was a Moonshadow, and Moonshadows did not break. She planted her feet, finding a core of defiance deep within her exhaustion.
"Moonlit Elegance: Third Form—Snow Wheel!"
She poured every last dreg of her energy into the technique. A massive, intricate wheel of pure, crystalline moonlight bloomed before her, its edges sharp as fractured ice, spinning with a low, resonant hum. It was her ultimate defense, a beautiful, desperate fortress of frost and light.
The collision was not a sound, but a sensation. It was the feeling of the world holding its breath. The howling gale of shadow met the spinning wheel of snow and moonlight. The air in the arena instantly turned bitingly cold, a false winter that swept over the front rows, making spectators shiver and gasp. Light and dark warred, swirling together in a chaotic, awe-inspiring maelstrom that blinded everyone for a heart-stopping second.
Then, silence.
The conflicting energies dissipated, leaving behind a fine mist of ice crystals and the scent of ozone. The dust settled slowly, revealing the scene.
Leonel stood exactly where he had been, his sword now resting point-down on the stone. His breathing was even, controlled. A few feet away, Liora was on one knee, her sword braced against the ground to keep herself from collapsing completely. Her head was bowed, silver hair obscuring her face. Slowly, she looked up, her gaze finding his. In her eyes swam a complex storm of emotions—the sting of defeat, the burn of pride, and a healthy, grudging dose of sheer awe.
"Monster," she muttered, the word not an insult, but a statement of fact, breathed out with the last of her air.
Leonel's serious expression shattered, replaced by that infuriatingly boyish grin. He walked over to her, his steps unhurried. "How can you call me a monster in front of everyone?" he asked, his tone dripping with mock hurt, a hand placed over his heart. "You'll ruin my reputation."
Liora just stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. Her mind, fogged with exhaustion, could only form one coherent, screaming thought: What the hell do you mean by that?! Your 'reputation' is exactly that of a monster! Everyone here with a functioning pair of eyes knows it!
The referee, seeing the clear outcome, rushed forward, his voice booming through the speaker system. "The winner is... Leonel Graythorn!"
The arena detonated in a frenzy of cheers and applause. Leonel ignored it, offering a hand to Liora. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Her legs felt like water.
"Good fight, Liora," he said, and this time his tone was stripped of all teasing, leaving only a bedrock of sincerity.
She managed a weak, exasperated huff, pulling her hand back to rub her sore shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Just… don't get too cocky up there in the finals."
Leonel chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it."
In a neighboring arena, a different story was reaching its conclusion, one with far less drama. Thaddeus Graythorn faced Lucia Blackthorn. The medics had done their work well; Lucia was physically restored, her energy reserves replenished. But the fight against Viktor had taken something less tangible from her—the razor's edge of peak combat spirit. She faced Thaddeus with determination, but it was a determination shadowed by fatigue.
The fight was brutally short. Thaddeus, a whirlwind of raw, untamed power, didn't bother with the poetry of named techniques. He saw an opening in Lucia's slightly slowed guard and took it. There was no grand announcement, no gathering of elemental forces. It was just a simple, perfectly timed, and impossibly fast sword strike. The flat of his blade tapped her shoulder with a precise, concussive force that bypassed her guard and sent a numbing shock through her system. Her eyes rolled back, and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious before she hit the floor.
When she came to a moment later, groggily assisted by a medic, she looked up at Thaddeus, who was standing over her with a look of casual apology. She rubbed the already-forming bruise on her shoulder, a scowl darkening her features.
"You main family members are all monsters," she grumbled, the words thick with disorientation and annoyance.
Thaddeus let out a hearty chuckle. "Come on now, don't call me a monster. It was just a little tap."
"A little tap?" Lucia sputtered, pushing herself upright. "You didn't even use a sword art! How are you even cultivating? It's really impressive to be in the main family." She shook her head, the sheer, unfair disparity of it all crashing down on her. "And you're even more monstrous than your brother, Leonel."
At that, Thaddeus's grin widened, but it took on a knowing, almost wary edge. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "You really underestimate Leonel. That guy… he hides even more than you think. There are depths to him I can't even see the bottom of. Trust me."
Lucia blinked, her mind reeling. First the effortless power of Thaddeus, and now the suggestion that Leonel was somehow an even greater enigma? The world seemed to tilt on its axis. She stared blankly into the middle distance, a string of existential questions tumbling through her mind. "What am I? Where am I? Who am I?" she muttered under her breath, utterly bewildered.
"The winner is... Thaddeus Graythorn!" the referee announced, and the crowd roared its approval. The elders watching from on high leaned forward with keen interest. The final they had all secretly hoped for was now a reality.
In the quiet of the competitor's waiting area, Leonel sat on a stone bench, his eyes closed, mentally replaying every move of his fight. The announcer's voice, muffled by the walls, confirmed Thaddeus's victory. A moment later, familiar, heavy-footed footsteps echoed in the corridor.
"Well, well, look who's sitting here, contemplating his own greatness," Thaddeus announced, swinging into the room with his characteristic swagger.
Leonel didn't open his eyes. A slow smile spread across his face. "You're still alive?" he asked, his tone one of mild surprise.
Thaddeus's face instantly darkened into a theatrical scowl. "Of course I'm alive, you idiot!"
"Oh, sorry," Leonel replied, finally opening his eyes and blinking with feigned innocence. "I heard the crowd go quiet. I thought you'd lost."
"How could I possibly lose," Thaddeus retorted, planting his hands on his hips, "when my dear, infuriating cousin is still here, waiting for me to wipe that smug look off his face?" He was trying desperately to keep a straight face, but a twitch in his cheek betrayed him.
Just then, a deeper, more resonant voice filled the room. "You two brats already fighting before the finals even begin?"
Eamon Graythorn, Thaddeus's father and the very image of a seasoned warrior with a kind heart, strode in. His presence commanded respect, but his eyes crinkled with warmth.
Leonel immediately stood, offering a respectful bow of his head. "Good evening, Uncle."
Eamon's face broke into a beaming smile. He clapped a heavy hand on Leonel's shoulder. "Ah, it's my nephew Leonel! By the ancestors, you've done incredibly well today. That Gale Shadow Strike was executed with a finesse I've rarely seen."
From behind him, Thaddeus's face twisted into a mask of mock betrayal. "Am I your son, father? Do you see me standing here? Your own flesh and blood?"
Eamon turned, his laughter booming and unapologetic. "Sorry, son! I got a little carried away by Leonel's performance. How could I ever forget you?" He winked, pulling Thaddeus into a rough, one-armed hug.
Thaddeus, playing along, grinned. "You better not forget, or I might start charging you for private lessons."
The room filled with warm, genuine laughter, the familial bond momentarily eclipsing the competitive tension. Eamon looked at both young men, his expression turning proud and serious. "Good luck to both of you. No matter what happens out there, you've already made this family proud. Now go out there and give it your absolute all."
The hour of preparation passed in a blur of murmured strategy and focused silence. Finally, the announcer's voice thundered through the entire complex, making the very stones vibrate.
"Ladies and gentlemen! The moment you have all been waiting for! The final match of the tournament! Leonel Graythorn versus Thaddeus Graythorn!"
The roar that greeted them as they stepped onto the sand was a physical thing, a wall of sound that hit them in the chest. They walked to the center of the arena, two scions of the same great house, their destinies colliding.
"Finally, we meet here, cousin," Thaddeus said, his eyes sparkling with unrestrained excitement and a fierce, competitive love.
Leonel met his gaze, his own calm a stark contrast to Thaddeus's fiery energy. "Yes," he replied simply. "We meet."
Thaddeus let out a dramatic, exasperated sigh. "Cousin, you are absolutely no fun. Here we are, the climax of the entire tournament, and I get a one-word answer? I expected at least a little reaction from you."
Leonel considered this for a moment. Then, his face underwent a ridiculous transformation. His eyes went wide, his jaw dropped, and he threw his hands up in the air. "Oh my!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with theatrical shock. "It's you, Thaddeus! I'm so surprised to meet you here! What are the odds?!"
A visible vein throbbed on Thaddeus's forehead. He pointed a finger at Leonel, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "You… you really are… the most annoying person I have ever met!"
The crowd, and the elders in their pavilion, burst into unified laughter. Up in the stands, Lady Seraphina shook her head, a hand covering her smiling mouth.
"Those two," she said to Eamon beside her, "they truly never change."
Eamon was chucking, his shoulders shaking. "Indeed. They're quite the pair. It's good to see some things remain constant."
On the arena floor, Thaddeus's mock anger melted away, replaced by his familiar, fierce grin. He settled into his fighting stance, the air around him crackling with palpable energy. "Alright, enough jokes. Let's start, cousin. No more holding back. Let's see how powerful you really are."
Leonel's playful expression vanished, replaced by a focus as sharp as a honed blade. His own stance was fluid, ready. The air between them grew heavy, the moment of truth upon them.
"Bring it on," Leonel said, his voice low and steady.
Thaddeus needed no further invitation. He lunged, not with a testing strike, but with a blow meant to end things quickly. Their swords met in the center of the arena with a CRACK that was louder than any thunder, a sound that silenced the crowd and signaled the true beginning of their legendary duel. Sparks, real and brilliant, fountained into the air from the impact of their enchanted steel. The battle for the ages had begun.