The next morning arrived gently, with a pale gold sunrise spilling through the windows of the cottage. The air was cool, quiet—too quiet for a man like Naze, whose instincts never slept. He was already dressed, sword sheathed at his side, standing near the doorway as if the world itself were calling him back.
Nymia watched him from the table, her fingers idly circling the rim of a wooden cup. Her eyes held a softness that had been starved for years, but also a worry that settled deep into her bones. She didn't speak at first—she simply looked at him, memorizing the shape of him in the morning light, as though afraid it would disappear again.
"Do you really have to go this early?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I do," Naze replied gently. "i have been away from His Majesty for quite a while. I have to inform him of the various developments, that he may know what has changed. So I can properly train and protect my girls and you. I can't protect you all without his awareness… and his permission."
The twins rushed forward before he could step out, hugging him from both sides. "We will see you soon, Daddy!"
"We'll be waiting and hoping till then!"
He rested one large, battle-worn hand on each of their heads, the gesture soft but steady. "In a little while, we will be reunited. And next time… I won't come alone. I'll come with a plan."
But even as he said it, they could feel it—the weight behind his words. The understanding that the world outside their door was no longer simple. That love had been restored, but safety had not.
He stepped away, slowly—almost reluctantly. The girls waved until he disappeared beyond the path lined with white lilies. Nymia stood at the doorway long after, tears in her eyes but a faint smile on her lips.
He was leaving…
But in time, he would be reunited with them.
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Back on the stage…
The atmosphere was electric. The audience leaned forward, breath held, as the third match prepared to begin. The tie of 1 : 1 hung like a balance scale in the air, ready to tilt.
Adebi Monta from the Martial Arts School stepped lightly onto the stage. She was flexible, sticky, lithe—a fighter whose movements looked more like dance than combat. Her mastery of flexibility and adhesion allowed her to cling to walls, poles, and even opponents, making her infamously hard to pin down.
Her feet never stopped shifting—she was already in motion before the match had begun.
Opposite her stood Gilda Ali, from the Oradonian Mages' Academy. His calm expression and steady stance betrayed confidence. The earth grimoire floated before him, symbols glowing faintly in the air. Unlike ice or flames, earth magic did not glitter or roar. It rumbled—quiet but devastating.
He could raise walls, crush the floor beneath an opponent, summon hands of stone, and even trap someone in a cage of hardened soil. His mere presence carried a weight that seemed to press against the arena floor.
Two very different forces.
One who flowed like wind and water.
One who stood like stone and mountain.
This match would tip the scales.
Would agility defeat power?
Or would raw earth swallow the dancer whole?
The referee's arm dropped, and the announcer's voice thundered across the arena:
"FIGHT!!"
Both fighters bowed—though the contrast in their movements could not have been greater.
Gilda Ali did not shift so much as a muscle. He stood tall, rooted, like an ancient statue that had survived time, war, and weather. The earth beneath his feet seemed to acknowledge him.
Adebi Monta, by contrast, was already moving before her bow ended. Her body flickered from spot to spot, leaving after-images so fast that some in the crowd blinked and missed her entirely. Someone gasped, "Did she just— teleport?" Another answered, "No. She moved."
She was studying angles, approaches, weaknesses…
A predator disguised as a dancer.
Then Gilda spoke—calmly, confidently, arrogantly:
"Just surrender. Let's save us both the trouble. I'd rather not bruise you more than necessary while you're still in one piece."
The arena fell silent.
Gasps. Murmurs. Then—
"WHAT did he just say?!"
The martial arts teachers were the first to explode.
"That brat—! He dares to talk down to my Adebi?" Master Eizo growled, beard shaking with outrage.
"And he doesn't even know how to speak to a lady," Mistress Elena added, shaking her head. "He'll be single till death at this rate."
"What gives these mage brats so much boldness?" Master Tenzi muttered, cracking his knuckles like he was ready to storm the stage. "If they want pride, let me spar with a few of their teachers. I'll fold them like bed sheets—"
"Master Tenzi," Mistress Dissy cut in sweetly, sipping her tea, "Only a master swordsman can take on so many mages and stand tall and unbothered, and besides, comparing yourself to a master swordsman like the legendary blind swordsman is like comparing a frog to roasted chicken—both exist, but only one is delicious."
A wave of laughter followed—mostly from the other teachers and some students that eavesdropped, but not from Master Tenzi.
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On stage, Adebi Monta did not care for the insults. She didn't even blink.
She moved.
Her first attack was subtle, deadly—a thrown knife, angled low, spinning with an upward curving and silent precision toward Gilda's throat.
One of the mage instructors—Teacher Herold—immediately stood up, face pale. "Stop her! That's lethal! We can't allow—"
But Anders Zitt, the regional vice president of the mage school and association in the region as well as the supervising archmage, merely lifted a hand and smiled.
"Watch."
The blade neared Gilda.
But the boy didn't even turn his head.
The ground rose.
A massive fist of earth erupted from the dirt, clenched around the airborne blade mid-flight—catching it effortlessly.
The arena went dead silent.
Two hundred thousand people plus—adults, kids, nobles, warriors—froze in stunned silence.
Then the gasp came like a wave.
Even Adebi paused mid-step, just for a heartbeat.
Gilda Ali opened his hand slightly, and the soil crumbled away—dropping the captured blade to the floor as if it were a child's toy.
No pride.
No excitement.
Just quiet superiority.
He looked at Adebi and spoke again, voice still calm:
"I don't do child's play, so I will give you one more chance, stop this foolishness and surrender..., your move?"
It wasn't loud, but the entire arena heard it.
And this time, even Adebi's eyes narrowed.
Not with fear.
But with interest.
Because now—
it was no longer a match.
It was a challenge.
And she had just decided:
She would make him move.