The crater still smoked.
Rana stood at its center, her flame reduced to a flicker, her breath shallow and uneven. Her robes were scorched, her limbs trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer cost of what she'd unleashed.
The announcer's voice rang out again, steadier now, but edged with urgency.
"Healers—step forward."
Two figures in silver-trimmed robes moved swiftly across the field. One knelt beside Veykan, already scanning his meridians with a glowing talisman. The other approached Rana, slower, more cautious—like one might approach a fire that hadn't decided whether it was done burning.
Veykan didn't resist. He couldn't. His aura was fractured, his skin blistered, and his breath shallow. The healer pressed a palm to his chest and frowned.
"Core damage. Severe. He won't fight again today."
The other healer reached for Rana's wrist. She didn't pull away—but her flame pulsed once, instinctively, before dimming again.
"You need rest," the healer said softly. "That technique… it nearly burned through your own channels."
Rana didn't answer. She just nodded once and let herself be led from the field.
Above, the formation screens dimmed. The crowd didn't cheer. They didn't speak.
They watched.
Not with awe.
With caution.
__
In the highest pavilion, the royal family and the elites of the Stormveil, Verdant Fang, and Ironshore Sects watched in silence.
Patriarch Artinian Stormveil, realm Mid Imperial, leaned forward slightly, lightning flickering faintly across his fingertips. He looked no older than fifty, with silver-streaked black hair tied in a warrior's knot and eyes like storm glass—cold, reflective, and always calculating. His presence was quiet but charged, like the moment before a thunderclap.
"It seems our earlier assessment about the girl was right," he murmured. "Not only does that flame technique not match the Flare family's traditional flame cultivation method—it's something new and unforeseen. Plus, the girl possesses a rare type flaming physique with soul flame. Fascinating."
Beside him, Matron Sabella Verdant tapped her fan once. Realm Mid Imperial. Her beauty was the kind that defied time—ageless, refined, and dangerous. Her skin was pale jade, her eyes a deep forest green, and her long hair shimmered like woven moss and silver. She wore a gown of living silk that shifted with her breath, and her voice, when it came, was soft and sweet—like poison in honey.
"Indeed, an interesting girl. I would love to recruit her to my sect… unless His Majesty the Crown Prince wishes to have the girl as his concubine."
She glanced toward the young man seated beside the empty throne where the Emperor should have been. For reasons unspoken, he was absent—leaving the Crown Prince in charge of the tournament.
Kia Ember Pearl, realm Early Moon, looked to be in his early twenties, but his eyes betrayed centuries of indulgence and entitlement. His features were flawless—sharp cheekbones, golden eyes, and lips that curved too easily into a smirk. He wore robes of black and crimson, embroidered with phoenix feathers and sunbursts, and his posture was that of a man who believed the world owed him its finest treasures.
One of the Stormveil heirs, who had earlier admired Rana's elegance, now wore a sour expression. If the Crown Prince was interested in her, he couldn't pursue her himself. He knew how this rotten prince thought—no matter how much he aged, he was still a womanizer. And of course, he'd have eyes on the girl deemed to be one of the most beautiful young ladies of the Ruona Continent's young generation.
"She's indeed a rare gem," Kia said, smirking. "A beauty only fit to be among my collection."
Lord Seymour Ironshore, realm Mid Imperial, folded his arms. He looked around forty, but his true age was likely three times that. His frame was broad and powerful, his jaw square, and his eyes a deep iron gray that missed nothing. He wore no ornamentation—just a dark robe lined with steel-threaded trim and a single crest over his heart. His voice was low and firm, like stone grinding against stone.
"I doubt Lord Simon will allow that to happen. It's said that out of his fifty children, he values her the most. She's also the most talented."
"Is that so?" Kia smirked.
None of them spoke louder than a whisper. But their eyes lingered on the eastern pavilion.
Where Simon Flare sat, unmoving.
Among the Twelve Major Families and the Five Great Sects of Ember Fall, the atmosphere had shifted. The heads of several houses exchanged glances—some respectful, others wary.
Clan Master Varn Masters of the EmberRage Sect turned toward Simon and Clan Master Riven, his voice low but clear.
"The young lady of the Flare Family and one of the top geniuses of the Ember Clan has improved greatly. And that unusual soul flame type technique… It's not from your family's core method, is it? She also managed to unlock the flaming physique—something said to bloom once in a thousand lifetimes. And she did it at fifteen. Truly remarkable."
Simon said nothing.
But Jana did.
She smiled—not smugly, but with the calm certainty of someone who had always known.
"Of course she's extraordinary," Jana said. "She is my daughter, after all."
Another voice joined—this one from Patriarch Marvin Tennis of the Ashwalk Clan.
"She is indeed extraordinary. Just what type of flaming technique is she using? As Lord Varn said, this is not your family's usual method—it's more top-tier."
Many cocked their ears, hoping Jana would continue to brag.
But they were disappointed.
Jana's smile didn't waver.
"Her path is her own," she said. "But her roots are still Flare."
The conversation ended there.
---
High above, cloaked in silence, Jalen stood with his arms folded.
If her flames hadn't been that deadly to the soul, she would've lost.
He exhaled slowly.
She used everything. All her qi. Pushed her body past its limit. He was amazed she managed to use the technique to such a level and not end up crippled due to backlash—or worse, dead. Not that he would've stood by and let that happen.
Anyway, she won.
And for the first time in a long while, Jalen allowed himself a small smile.
----
The arena repaired itself slowly, formation lines pulsing as the next names were drawn. The rhythm of battle resumed—faster now, more brutal. The crowd had found its voice again, but it was sharper, more focused. The awe from Rana's match had faded into calculation.
And the pattern was clear: everyone would fight once before the next cycle began.
Match 2
Tess Ironshore vs. Wren Emberthorn.
Tess's strikes were brutal, her aura like a hammer. Wren's flame danced, but it couldn't hold. Tess won cleanly.
Match 3
Nate Verdant vs. Mira Wallis.
Her poison was subtle, but Nate's constructs were relentless and methodical. Mira collapsed before she could land a decisive blow.
Match 4
Tarin Lee vs. Ken Verdant.
Ken's beast-linked qi was wild, unpredictable—but Tarin's flame overwhelmed it with sheer force. Another victory for EmberRage.
Match 5
Silra Ironshore vs. Dain Wallis.
Dain fought hard, his movements crisp and disciplined, but Silra's defense turned to offense with terrifying speed. She ended it with a single crushing blow.
Match 6
Jin Ember Pearl vs. Soren Viscord.
Soren was Early Gold. Strong. Brutal. But Jin's sound qi was something else. He didn't overpower Soren—he unraveled him. Each strike disrupted Soren's rhythm. Each hum of qi bent his balance. The crowd stirred again as Jin stood victorious.
Match 7
Lira Ember Pearl vs. Nian Korell.
Nian's shadow techniques were elusive, but Lira's poison qi and cloud-step footwork overwhelmed her. She danced around the darkness and ended the match with a single, precise strike.
Match 8
Kael Stormveil vs. Jason Erupt.
Jason's flame was fierce, but Kael's lightning was faster. His strikes came like thunderclaps—precise, unrelenting. Jason fell, stunned and scorched.
Match 9
Nael Ember Pearl vs. Tarin Lee.
Tarin's flame was refined, but Nael's Deathwalker rhythm disrupted his flow. His strikes slowed. His breath faltered. Nael didn't hesitate.
Match 10
Sion Carros vs. Yenra Stormveil
Senvi stepped forward, his breath steady, his aura low but focused.
Yenra was already waiting. Peak Amethyst. Composed. Unbothered.
Too unbothered.
The match began.
Yenra didn't attack right away. She circled, lightning flickering faintly across her fingertips, her expression unreadable.
"Mid Pearl? They're really letting anyone in now."
Sion didn't respond. He moved—fast, sharp, and efficient. His first strike was a feint, the second a sweep, and the third a palm aimed for the ribs.
Yenra blocked lazily.
"Cute."
She countered with a casual flick of her wrist—lightning arcing into a backhand that sent Sion skidding.
But Sion didn't stop.
He surged forward again, ducked low, and landed a clean hit to her jaw.
Not brute force. Precision.
His palm carried the edge of the Fifth Form—Gale Thread Pulse—a filament of wind qi woven beneath the skin, slicing through the arc of her lightning with surgical clarity.
The strike didn't explode. It unraveled.
The crowd gasped.
Yenra staggered.
Then smiled.
"All right. You want to play?"
Her aura flared.
The next strike was not casual.
It was a storm.
Sion blocked the first. Dodged the second. But the third—a burst of compressed lightning qi—hit him square in the chest and sent him flying.
He hit the ground hard, coughing blood.
Yenra raised a hand, gathering qi.
"Let's end this."
The blast formed—dense, sharp, lethal.
Sion tried to rise.
He couldn't.
Yenra's qi surged.
The announcer's voice cut through the air.
"Stop!"
A barrier flared between them, catching the blast before it landed.
"Victory—Yenra Stormveil. Further combat is forbidden."
Yenra lowered her hand, annoyed.
"Tch. Should've let it land."
Sion lay on the ground, barely conscious.
But breathing.
Even in defeat, the wind still whispered around him—quiet, but not broken.