The echo of the previous race still lingered in the air like a dream refusing to fade. The arena had not yet caught its breath, but already the focus had shifted—to the ring standing in the center of the field, glinting beneath the afternoon sun.
Toki sat on a wooden bench near its edge, his body trembling under the weight of exhaustion. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, each breath scraping like gravel. The earlier display of speed had left him half-crippled—his muscles in tatters, his nerves burning like live wires. He could barely feel his legs, yet he refused to rest. He had to be here. He had to watch his student's final test.
Utsuki knelt beside him, her palms glowing with soft green light. Threads of mana wove through his limbs, easing the pain, repairing what little she could without pushing him into shock. Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed her worry.
"You shouldn't be sitting upright yet," she murmured, her tone a mix of irritation and tenderness. "Your body's still screaming. Even your heartbeat sounds uneven."
Toki forced a crooked grin. "If I lie down now, I'll miss it. Kandaki deserves more than a half-dead teacher."
Utsuki exhaled sharply through her nose. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the ring. "But he's watching me too. If I can't stand for him, I can at least stay awake."
Beside him, Tora sat silently, still clutching the golden ribbon in her small hands. She had barely stopped trembling since the race ended. Every time she looked at Toki, her throat tightened. The victory had been glorious—but now, seeing him broken and bandaged, she felt a cold knot of guilt settle behind her ribs.
Across the benches, Bernard and Ozvold stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked on the ring like hunting birds. Bernard's jaw was tight, but his smile betrayed his excitement. "That kid's got heart," he said. "You can see it in the way he breathes—steady, sharp. He's waiting for the bell like a soldier waits for dawn."
Ozvold smirked. "Heart's one thing. Surviving a match against Harold's disciple is another. That Roland kid doesn't move like a rookie."
"He'll manage," Bernard said, more to himself than anyone else. "Kandaki's not just fighting for himself."
A few steps behind them stood Smith and Lorelay, silent observers in the shade of the royal pavilion. The general's eyes, sharp behind his monocle, flicked toward Toki from time to time. He could feel the young commander's unease like a storm pressing against his chest.
"Interesting," Smith murmured, almost to himself.
Lorelay tilted her head slightly. "You're worried?"
"Curious," he replied. "And a little proud. But yes… worried."
On the opposite side of the stands, Elizabeth and Melissa sat near Utsuki. The air between them was thick with tension and polite silence until Melissa finally leaned closer, her voice calm but cuttingly perceptive.
"It seems," she said softly, "that both our knights are anxious for this match." Her eyes shifted toward the distant corner of the field, where Harold stood in his long coat, hands clasped behind his back. "Especially him."
Utsuki followed her gaze. Harold, usually composed to the point of stoicism, now wore the faintest trace of unease. His eyes were distant, locked on the empty ring, and one could almost sense the weight of his thoughts.
"He doesn't hide it well," Utsuki said gently.
Melissa smiled faintly. "He's trying to. But Roland is his pride—his last student. He wants him to prove that his teachings can still stand against Toki s."
Utsuki's hands paused for a moment over Toki's wounds. "Against Toki s?" she echoed softly.
Melissa's gaze softened. "Toki and Smith train differently. Where Harold build warriors, Toki raise believers. That kind of difference shakes a man like Harold."
Toki's eyes remained fixed on the ring, but his mind drifted. He could feel every heartbeat in the arena, every ripple of anticipation. For a moment, the pain in his body dimmed, replaced by something deeper—an ache of helplessness. He hated being on the sidelines. He hated watching him fight alone. But more than that, he hated the fear crawling under his skin—the fear that Kandaki might fall.
Utsuki sensed it. She leaned closer, whispering just for him. "You trust him, don't you?"
Toki's lips curved slightly. "With everything I am."
The low rumble of the crowd began to quiet. All eyes turned toward the center ring as the referee stepped forward, his white gloves gleaming. The bell hadn't even sounded, yet tension gripped the air like a physical force.
Two figures entered from opposite sides.
Kandaki walked with his usual flashy stride, his body wrapped in white bandages that still bore faint stains from earlier matches. His expression was calm, but beneath that calm—fire. He rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck, and stepped into his corner.
Across from him, Roland climbed the stairs with silent precision. He was taller by a head, broad-shouldered, his eyes cold and disciplined. His stance was perfect—nothing wasted, nothing uncertain.
When their gazes met, Kandaki's breath slowed. For a moment, he wasn't in the ring. He was back in the training camp—bleeding, panting, fists raw, and Toki standing above him saying: Again. Don't run from the pain. Listen to it. Let it tell you what you still have left to give.
He smiled faintly, then looked toward the benches.
There was Toki—sitting up despite his exhaustion, giving a small nod and a quiet smile of approval.
Tora waved the ribbon like a banner.
Bernard, Ozvold, Elizabeth, all of them stood watching, their faith shining through the noise. Even Yuki, perched far above the others, cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted:
"Finish him quick, you worm!"
Kandaki chuckled. "Even the cold ones cheer today," he muttered.
But when he turned back, Roland was already studying him with an unreadable expression. The taller fighter's eyes were sharp, intelligent—measuring. Kandaki could feel the weight of that calm, the kind of stillness that hides years of discipline.
He exhaled slowly. This one's not here to play.
Roland's gaze swept briefly over the stands. There was no one shouting for him—only Harold and Melissa. That was enough. His lips tightened in quiet resolve. Even if the world cheers for him… I'll fight for the two who believed in me.
The referee raised a hand. The bell loomed above, glinting in the sun.
"Fighters—ready!"
They stepped forward.
"Touch gloves."
Their gloves met with a dull thud. For a split second, both saw it—the reflection of themselves in the other's eyes: fear, hunger, pride, and purpose.
Then the bell rang.
The first round began in silence.
Kandaki moved first, light on his feet, his stance tight and compact. His footwork was fast, clean—Toki's training evident in every motion. He darted forward with a jab, testing range. Roland parried, smooth as silk, and countered with a quick left hook that brushed past Kandaki's ear. The sound cracked like a whip.
"Fast," Kandaki muttered under his breath, resetting his stance. He reads my rhythm too easily.
From the benches, Toki's eyes sharpened. "He's using a rhythm bait," he murmured. "He wants Kandaki to overcommit."
Roland pressed forward, fists weaving in perfect arcs, his attacks not wild but measured—each one designed to herd Kandaki into a corner. His breathing was steady, not even strained.
A straight punch came fast—Kandaki ducked, countered low, and swung an uppercut that caught Roland under the chin. The crowd gasped. Roland stumbled back two steps, blinking.
Toki grinned. "That's it, kid! Make him respect you!"
But Roland didn't fall. His expression didn't even crack. He wiped a drop of blood from his lip and smiled faintly. "Good hit," he said. "But too shallow."
Then he stepped in and drove a right cross straight into Kandaki's ribs.
The sound was sickening.
Kandaki's breath hitched, pain flooding his side. He staggered back, teeth clenched.
Roland continued to apply pressure.
His gloves cut through the air in tight, disciplined arcs — not wild, not desperate, but controlled. Each strike carried intent, herding Kandaki into corners, denying him space to breathe. The sound of leather striking leather echoed through the ring, a steady rhythm of domination.
Kandaki kept his guard high, gritting his teeth. His ribs screamed with every breath, his shoulders burned, and his legs trembled under him. He wasn't looking for an opening now — only for a moment to recover. Each time Roland feinted, Kandaki raised his arms just high enough to block, letting his forearms take the brunt of the punishment. His mind whispered in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Stay calm. Don't panic. Let him tire himself out.
But Roland didn't tire. His breathing was steady, his footwork precise. His expression remained calm — too calm. Like a hunter toying with a wounded beast.
Then the bell rang.
The end of the first round.
The referee's voice broke through the noise: "Corners!"
The fighters stepped back, sweat dripping down their temples. Roland turned without looking at Kandaki, walking toward his corner with that same mechanical grace. Kandaki stumbled slightly before Utsuki's voice reached him from the sideline.
"Here—sit down!"
He sank onto the stool, panting. His gloves rested on his knees as Utsuki knelt beside him, her hands glowing faintly. The warmth of her magic crept into his battered muscles. "You're holding up," she whispered, though her eyes betrayed concern. "He's strong, but you're stronger ."
"I can't outpunch him," Kandaki muttered, voice hoarse. "He reads every move."
Toki was limping toward the ring, one hand braced against Bernard's shoulder.His movements were sluggish — Still, his golden eyes blazed.
"Good job with that uppercut," Toki rasped from outside the ropes. "You caught him right when his weight shifted — exactly the kind of opening I told you to look for."
Kandaki nodded weakly. "But he's—"
"Stronger?" Toki interrupted. "Yes. But predictable. That's your advantage. Roland fights like he was printed from a textbook. No improvisation, no chaos — just form. A perfect structure, but one that cracks under pressure."
He leaned closer, his voice low, almost tender.
"Listen carefully. His base is solid, but his movement is too clean. That means every right hand is followed by a reset — a tiny gap between his stance. That's where you'll strike. Not before, not after. You wait, you breathe, and you make him think he's winning."
Kandaki clenched his jaw. "Understood, Master."
Utsuki looked up at Toki, sensing the tension in his voice — the frustration of a man trapped in a broken body.
Behind them, Tora stood silently . "He'll make it, right?" she whispered.
Bernard grinned faintly. "He's got Toki's fire. That's enough."
Ozvold crossed his arms, eyes narrowing at the ring. "That depends on whether his legs give out first."
Behind them, Smith and Lorelay stood together, silent. The older man's gaze was analytical, but even he felt the tension coil in his chest. "Interesting," Smith murmured.
The bell rang again.
Round Two.
The air trembled with anticipation as both fighters stepped forward. Roland's stance was tight. Kandaki's guard was higher now, his breathing steadier, but the pain still lingered in his ribs like a knife.
Roland began to pressure immediately.
His right hand dropped slightly, testing the waters with short jabs, each one sharper than the last. His footwork was immaculate — step in, pivot, withdraw, repeat. The space around Kandaki shrank with every step.
Kandaki absorbed the first few, blocking high, then low. He saw it — Roland's right hand loading up, shoulder twisting. A straight incoming. He brought both arms up to guard—
—but Roland bent his elbow mid-swing, turning the straight into a brutal hook. The glove slammed into Kandaki's ear, pain exploding across his skull.
The world spun.
Before he could react, Roland slipped inside his guard and hammered a body blow into his side — a clean, surgical strike to the liver. The sound cracked like thunder.
Kandaki staggered back, gasping, body folding involuntarily. He swung with an uppercut out of reflex, but Roland danced back just out of range.
He's breaking me down, Kandaki realized. He's not trying to knock me out — he's trying to dismantle me.
Every breath burned. His legs wobbled, his balance wavered.
Still, Toki's voice came cutting through the noise, steady and calm:
"Breathe through it, Kandaki! Pain means you're still alive!"
Kandaki gritted his teeth. He forced air into his lungs, exhaling sharply. The ringing in his ear dulled. He reset his stance.
Roland came again — two jabs, a feint, then another right. Kandaki blocked the first, slipped the second. He saw the shoulder twitch again — the telltale reset.
Now.
He ducked low, his right glove flashing upward. The counter connected — a short, vicious hook to Roland's temple.
Roland's head snapped sideways.
The crowd roared.
Kandaki followed with a left to the ribs, then a right to the chin. Roland blocked, but Kandaki pivoted, his feet shifting with instinct. One, two, three. The gloves cracked, sweat flew, and Roland stumbled half a step back.
From the benches, Ozvold bellowed, "That's it, boy! Keep the tempo!"
Bernard shouted. "Hit him like he owes you money!"
Roland reset, eyes narrowing. "Not bad," he muttered under his breath. "Let's see how long you can keep that up."
He pressed forward again. Their gloves collided, bodies twisting, weaving, striking. The audience leaned in, silent except for the thudding rhythm of leather and flesh. Each impact left a mark — bruises blooming like flowers of war.
Then Roland feinted a left. Kandaki bit the bait.
The counter came instantly — a sharp right cross that cracked across his jaw. His vision exploded in white light. He staggered.
Roland didn't hesitate. He stepped in, his long arm snapping forward in a perfect straight.
Kandaki tried to counter — both their fists flew at once.
But Roland's reach was longer.
His glove landed first.
The blow spun Kandaki backward, sending him crashing onto the mat.
The thud echoed. The air left the crowd's lungs all at once.
Tora shot up from her seat, clutching the ribbon. "Kandaki!"
Utsuki froze mid-motion, her healing light flickering.
Even Smith frowned. "Clean contact," he muttered. "Perfect timing."
The referee dropped to his knees. "One! Two!"
Kandaki's fingers twitched against the floor. His chest heaved shallowly.
"Three! Four!"
His body screamed. The ceiling spun overhead. Get up.
His master's voice echoed in his mind.
If you fall, fall forward.
"Five! Six!"
He rolled onto one knee, trembling.
"Seven!"
Toki's voice came low, cutting through the ringing in his ears.
"Stand, Kandaki."
He looked up — through the haze, through the pain — and saw Toki standing near the ropes, bloodied and pale, but smiling faintly. That smile was faith, distilled into something holy.
"Eight!"
Kandaki rose. His legs wobbled, his chest ached, but he was standing.
The referee paused, eyes wide. "You good?"
Kandaki nodded. "I'm not done yet."
The bell rang before Roland could press the advantage.
Round Two — over.
Roland returned to his corner, breathing harder now. Sweat poured down his back, his arms twitching from the repeated exertion. Harold leaned close, voice crisp.
"You had him. Next round — no mercy. Body, then chin. He can't take another hit like that."
Roland nodded, jaw tightening. "I'll finish it."
Across the ring, Kandaki collapsed onto his stool. Utsuki rushed to his side, magic already glowing from her palms. The light mended some of the swelling, but not all. His ribs were still throbbing, his limbs heavy.
"You shouldn't go back out there," she said softly. "He's too strong. One more round like that and—"
Kandaki caught her wrist gently, his eyes calm. "He's my wall," he whispered. "And I'm crushing it."