As the tension in the hall slowly settled, the students began to truly absorb the reality before them. The glowing names upon the massive board were no longer just words—they were the opponents standing between them and victory. Uneasy murmurs spread throughout the chamber as fear, excitement, and determination mixed together in the heavy air.
Then the teachers finally spoke.
"Make your way to the tournament grounds immediately."
Their voices echoed like a command from a battlefield general, sharp and unquestionable.
The students began filing out of the hall, some walking confidently while others moved with stiff, nervous steps. Yet every single one of them shared the same thing—a storm of thoughts racing through their minds. Strategies were already forming. Weaknesses were being imagined. Plans were being built and destroyed in mere seconds.
How do I win?
How strong are they really?
What happens if I lose?
Among the crowd, Arcos walked silently just behind Phoenix. His gaze remained locked onto her back, intense and unblinking. The closer they came to the tournament grounds, the heavier the pressure in his chest became.
His thoughts spiralled endlessly.
How am I supposed to defeat her without magic?
That single question clawed at his mind over and over again.
Phoenix was infamous throughout the academy. She never held back. Not in training. Not in combat. Not against anyone. Many students admired her strength, while others feared it entirely. Arcos knew exactly what she was capable of, and that knowledge only deepened the knot twisting inside him.
He clenched his fists tightly.
Without his magic, he felt stripped bare—like a warrior forced into battle without armor. Every strategy he imagined ended the same way: with Phoenix overwhelming him completely.
Arcos narrowed his eyes, staring at her so intensely it was almost as if he were trying to see through her very soul. He studied the way she walked, the calmness in her posture, the confidence in every step she took. There wasn't even the slightest hint of fear within her.
Phoenix noticed the tension written all over him—the stiffness in his movements, the uncertainty in his eyes, the way his shoulders carried the weight of worry. Her smirk widened slightly.
"There's really no need to worry," she said casually, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll go easy on you."
The teasing tone in her voice only made Arcos' stomach tighten further.
For a brief moment, he couldn't tell whether she was joking… or if she genuinely believed he stood no chance against her.
A flicker of frustration crossed his face.
"You sound pretty confident," Arcos replied quietly, trying to steady his voice despite the pressure building inside him.
Phoenix let out a soft laugh, the sound strangely calm amidst the tension surrounding them. "Confident?" she repeated before turning fully toward him, her fiery eyes meeting his directly. "No… I'm just honest."
The tournament grounds thundered with life.
From every corner of the kingdom of Valdyros, people had gathered to witness the grand opening of the tournament. The colossal arena overflowed with roaring voices and restless anticipation. Families packed the stone stands shoulder to shoulder, children leaning dangerously over the rails with excitement shining in their eyes. Students from distant academies argued loudly over who would win, while teachers and scholars observed with far more measured expressions, eager to witness the strength of the realm's rising warriors.
Above them all, seated upon a magnificent throne of silver and crimson, sat the king of Valdyros himself. His piercing gaze overlooked the arena like that of a hawk surveying prey. Standing loyally at his side was his personal guard, Zyrenith Nova, whose mere presence carried an overwhelming pressure that silenced nearby whispers.
The atmosphere trembled with anticipation.
Then the massive arena gates groaned open.
From the western entrance emerged Zethar.
The young warrior stepped into the arena slowly, his dark cloak swaying behind him with each measured step. In his right hand rested a simple knife—plain, worn, unimpressive to the untrained eye. Yet the way he carried it made the weapon feel dangerous. His sharp eyes scanned the battlefield with cold focus, every muscle in his body tense and prepared.
The crowd erupted into cheers at the sight of him.
Then, from the eastern gate, another figure appeared.
Honcho walked into the arena with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, his expression utterly carefree. No armour. No weapon. No visible concern. He strolled toward the center of the arena as though he were taking a peaceful evening walk rather than entering a battle before thousands.
The contrast between the two fighters was striking.
Zethar's eyes narrowed the moment he saw him.
That carefree attitude... it infuriated him.
To step into the arena unarmed was one thing—but to look so utterly uninterested in the fight itself felt like mockery. Zethar tightened his grip around the knife, his knuckles whitening.
Is this fool looking down on me?
Honcho merely yawned as he approached the centre of the battlefield, scratching the back of his head lazily while the crowd murmured in confusion.
"Does he seriously not have a weapon?"
"Is he insane?"
"He's going to die out there."
Even the students in the stands began whispering nervously amongst themselves.
A tense silence slowly spread across the arena as both fighters finally stood face to face.
Zethar's stare burned with intensity, sharp enough to cut steel.
Honcho, meanwhile, simply smiled.
That smile only made Zethar angrier.
High above the arena, the headmaster finally rose from his seat. His towering presence immediately silenced the stadium. The cheers faded. Conversations died instantly. Every eye turned toward him.
The old man swept his gaze across the battlefield before speaking.
"Alright…" his deep voice echoed throughout the coliseum, carrying immense authority. "I want a friendly fight."
His eyes sharpened.
"Seriously injuring your opponent will result in immediate disqualification from the tournament."
A brief pause followed, the tension growing heavier with every passing second. The wind itself seemed to still.
Then the headmaster raised his arm high into the air.
"Give it your all…"
The crowd leaned forward collectively, hearts pounding.
And then—
"LET THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE TOURNAMENT BEGIN!"
The entire stadium exploded into deafening cheers. The ground trembled beneath the roar of thousands as excitement flooded the arena like a tidal wave.
Zethar instantly lowered his stance, knife ready, his eyes locked onto Honcho with deadly focus.
But Honcho?
He simply stood there.
Zethar burst forward, the ground cracking beneath his steps as he closed the distance in a heartbeat. His grip on the knife was iron-tight in his left hand, knuckles pale, intent sharpened into something almost feral.
He didn't hesitate.
The moment he was only inches from Honcho, Zethar struck—an abrupt, brutal stab aimed straight for the chest, meant to end the fight in a single breath.
But Honcho moved.
Not just moved—slipped away from it, like reality itself had rejected the blade's intent. The steel cut nothing but air.
Zethar's eyes didn't widen. He didn't flinch. There was no frustration, no pause—only cold continuation. As if failure was just another step forward.
In the same motion, he shifted his grip.
The knife flowed from his left hand to his right, seamless as water, and he twisted into a horizontal slash aimed to carve Honcho open mid-recovery. The blade shimmered faintly now, a dangerous glow bleeding from its edge—Arianrhod Weaving awakening within it.
He's getting faster, Honcho thought, tension tightening in his chest like a vice.
The realization wasn't calm. It was sharp. Immediate. Unwelcome.
Zethar was adapting—learning—closing the gap between them with terrifying speed, like every second of this fight was teaching him how to end it.
The glowing blade swept in.
Too fast.
Honcho's instincts screamed.
In a flash of desperation, he triggered his Siddhis magic.
The air bent.
With a burst of unnatural speed, Honcho shot backward, the world blurring around him as he narrowly escaped the arc of the blade. The force of his retreat kicked up dust and shattered stone where he had been standing a split second before.
He landed hard several feet away, boots scraping against the ground as he slid to stabilize himself. For a moment, he didn't move—just breathed, recalibrating, eyes locked on his opponent.
Then he straightened.
Adjusted his posture.
And smiled—thin, sharp, almost mocking.
"You know…" Honcho said, voice carrying across the broken arena, "I didn't think someone in their what—second year at the academy—would be this skilled."
The words were taunting.
Zethar lifted his gaze toward Honcho, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched the older student weave effortlessly through every strike. Each attack Zethar threw was avoided with almost insulting ease, as though Honcho did not even consider him a threat. A burning irritation began to stir deep within Zethar's chest.
"And I half expected my upperclassmen to be more skilled," Zethar said coldly, wiping sweat from his brow. "But all you seem to know how to do is dodge."
His words echoed through the arena, carrying a deliberate edge meant to provoke. Slowly, Zethar adjusted his footing, lowering his centre of gravity as he shifted into another stance. His muscles tensed, ready for whatever came next.
For the first time since the match had begun, Honcho's expression darkened.
The calm amusement on his face twisted into irritation, then anger.
"You know…" Honcho muttered, cracking his neck as his eyes locked onto Zethar, "I was planning on going easy on you, kid." His voice deepened, carrying an intimidating weight that made even the nearby students uneasy. "But you really know how to piss someone off, don't you?"
A heavy silence fell over the Stadium.
Honcho slowly lowered himself into a stance of his own, one far more refined and dangerous than before. The pressure radiating from him seemed to thicken the very air itself.
"I'll show you the power of your upperclassmen."
The moment the words left his mouth, a strange glow ignited beneath his feet. Brilliant streams of energy spiralled around his legs like living flames, illuminating the arena floor beneath him. The students watching from the stands leaned forward in confusion and fear.
Then—
Honcho vanished.
The ground beneath him exploded from the sheer force of his movement, leaving behind shattered stone and a deafening boom that echoed through the stadium.
Zethar's eyes widened.
Too fast.
Far too fast.
Instinct took over. He raised his arms defensively, trying to shield his body—
But he was already too late.
Honcho's fist slammed into Zethar's stomach with monstrous force.
To Zethar, it felt as though time itself had skipped. One second Honcho was across the arena… the next, unbearable pain erupted through his entire body. The impact stole the air from his lungs, his eyes bulging in shock as blood sprayed from his mouth.
The arena shook violently.
A massive shockwave burst outward from the strike, whipping through the battlefield like a hurricane. Dust and debris exploded into the air as Zethar's body was launched across the arena like a broken doll.
CRASH!
His body smashed into the stone wall with enough force to crack it apart, fragments raining down around him. The entire stadium fell deathly silent.
The students in the stands stared in complete disbelief.
Some stood frozen with their mouths hanging open. Others trembled as they tried to process what they had just witnessed.
Arcos slowly turned toward Phoenix, his face pale with shock.
"W-What happened?" he asked, his voice shaky. "I… I didn't even see him move."
Phoenix's eyes remained fixed on the smoke rising from the shattered wall, genuine concern crossed her face.
"I'm not sure…" she whispered. "He was too fast… even for me to follow."
A cold chill spread through the audience.
And beneath the rubble, Zethar still had not moved.