The second match felt different before it even began.
The arena was fuller. Cameras lingered longer. Commentary was quieter, more careful, like they were afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Our opponents this time wore matching insignias.
A minor faction team.
Structured. Trained. Confident.
They bowed before the match started.
I didn't return it.
The signal rang.
They didn't rush.
Good.
Two advanced cautiously, testing distance. One stayed back, fingers glowing faintly—support type. The leader watched me closely, eyes sharp, waiting for something.
I gave him nothing.
The first strike came from the left. I sidestepped, letting Sora intercept. The second followed immediately—clean, disciplined.
I blocked it with my forearm.
The impact echoed louder than it should have.
The attacker froze.
That hesitation cost him.
I stepped inside his guard, twisted, and swept his legs out. He hit the floor hard enough to rattle the platform.
The support reacted instantly. Energy flared.
I was already moving.
No straight lines. No wasted steps. I closed the distance before the spell finished forming and struck the caster's shoulder—precise, controlled, disabling.
The leader finally moved.
He was good.
Better than the last ones.
We traded three exchanges. Fast. Tight. Each one testing limits. He adapted quickly, adjusting his rhythm, trying to draw out more of me.
I refused.
On the fourth exchange, I changed pace just slightly.
That was all it took.
He stumbled back, eyes widening as he realized he'd misjudged me completely.
The referee called it moments later.
Silence hung in the air before the crowd reacted.
This time, they didn't know whether to cheer.
I stepped back immediately.
Sora glanced at me, something unreadable in her expression. "You're holding back."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I looked toward the observation decks.
"Because they're counting."
As we left the arena, I felt it clearly now.
Not curiosity.
Not excitement.
Intent.
And intent always came with consequences.