Bram's laughter jolts Obinai, hand coming down hard on his shoulder. "Hah! Man, you're just unlucky!" His grin is wide, teeth flashing, but his grip lingers a second too long—like he's trying to shake the tension out of him.
For a heartbeat, the world mutes.
It all of it blurs into static.
Elrik.
The name scorches through Obinai's mind like a brand.
That smirk from earlier flickers behind his eyes—the way Elrik had looked at him like he was already planning how to break him.
His stomach knots.
Then Lyth's voice cuts through the haze. "Ah, but I've added one more thing." He flicks his fingers, and the display screen shimmers, names shuffling like cards in a dealer's hand. "Each fight will be... random."
The crowd erupts—gasps, whoops, the clatter of last-second bets being placed.
Obinai barely hears it. His eyes lock onto the screen as Lyth points.
"And our first match will be... Obinai!"
A beat. The screen flashes.
VS. TARIN
Bram's laughter dies mid-breath. "Oooo... damn. You lost," he mutters, all humor gone.
Obinai exhales through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax. "Could be worse," he lies.
Gideon, leaning against the railing, spits over the edge. "Ain't that the kid who pissed himself during our drills?"
Bram snorts. "Yeah, the one who—"
Then they see him.
Tarin stands alone in the arena now, the other students vanished—whisked away by Lyth's magic. And the boy Obinai remembers—the one who flinched at loud noises, who barely spoke above a whisper—is gone.
This Tarin stands straight-backed, his gaze sharp as shattered glass. His fingers flex at his sides, restless. Waiting.
Obinai's brow furrows. The hell?
"Uh," Bram says.
Gideon squints. "Ain't no way that's the same ki—"
Bram and Gideon vanish to the stands...
Obinai's pulse kicks up. Last week, Tarin had nearly tripped over his own feet during sparring. Three days ago, he'd been hunched in the library, scribbling notes like his life depended on it. Now? Now he looks like he's been waiting for this.
"Inconsistency's a bitch."
Obinai finally gets a proper look at Tarin as they step into the arena's center.
Tall. Lean. Sharp.
The tiefling stands with an eerie stillness, his reddish skin catching the arena lights like polished copper with black hair falling just above his shoulders. Elven features—high cheekbones, tapered ears—give him an almost delicate look, but those eyes...
Black sclera. Burning orange irises.
Obinai's stomach twists. First time on the gondola, he acted like he couldn't care less. Then every damn time after? Mumbling, tripping over his own feet. And now—
Tarin's gaze locks onto him. Holds. Then—
Bow.
Deep. Fluid. The kind of practiced grace nobles spend years perfecting.
The crowd's murmurs die instantly.
Obinai's muscles jerk into action a half-second too late, his own bow stiff by comparison. When he straightens, Tarin's lips quirk—just barely.
"Let's have a good match."
Tarin's voice is quiet, but it carries. No stammer. No hesitation.
Since when did—
Obinai cuts the thought off, swallowing hard. His throat's sandpaper. All he manages is a nod.
Bram's voice carries from the stands: "Yo! Since when's Tarin got manners?"
Tarin doesn't react. Just tilts his head, studying Obinai like a puzzle.
Lyth's chuckle comes through. "Now that's an opening." The crowd roars, but Obinai barely hears it. His focus narrows to Tarin's hands—
—twitching.
Not nerves. Not fear.
Eagerness.
"We expect a clean fight," Lyth continues, hovering above them. "Tarin. Obinai." A dramatic pause. "Begin!"
Tarin moves first.
Not a spell. Not a weapon.
A step.
Deliberate.
Testing.
Obinai's fingers flex. Who the hell are you really?
…
Lyth's voice still echoes in the air—"Begin!"—when Obinai's hand snaps up.
"[Shield]!"
The barrier hums to life just as Tarin's palm flares crimson.
"[Ignis]!"
Fire erupts—a roaring jet of orange and gold that crashes against Obinai's shield in a shower of sparks. Heat licks at his face, but the barrier holds.
No hesitation.
Tarin's already moving, boots kicking up sand as he closes the distance in three strides. Obinai's muscles tense—
Now.
He pivots hard on his heel, spinning aside as Tarin's fist grazes his ribs. The miss sends Tarin stumbling forward, off-balance for half a heartbeat.
Opening.
Obinai's hand clamps onto Tarin's shoulder, fingers blazing red. "[Inferno—]"
Whoosh.
Tarin vanishes in a blur, leaving Obinai's spell to fizzle against empty air.
"Tch."
They reset, chests heaving, five paces apart. Tarin's grin is all teeth.
"[Wind Blade]!"
His arm slashes downward. The air screams as invisible blades tear toward Obinai—
Shit.
"[Haste]!"
Magic floods Obinai's veins. The world slows.
He moves.
One step—dodging the first blade.
Two—twisting under the second.
Three—leaping as the third slices where his ankles were.
Sand sprays where each blade strikes, carving deep gashes into the arena floor.
Obinai doesn't stop.
He circles, zigzagging in erratic bursts, his afterimage flickering like a candle in the wind. Tarin's head whips side to side, tracking the movement—
Too slow.
Obinai feints left, then dives right, closing the gap in a blink. His elbow drives toward Tarin's ribs—
Thud.
Tarin blocks, forearm against forearm, but the force still sends him skidding back.
"Fast," Tarin admits, shaking out his wrist with a sharp flick. His orange eyes gleam under the arena lights as he exhales through his nose. "But—"
His fingers suddenly splay toward the arena wall.
"[Earth Spire]!"
Obinai moves before the spell finishes, muscles coiled as he launches himself upward—
Wrong move.
A jagged pillar of rock erupts from the wall, not the floor. It slams into Obinai's ribs with a sickening crunch, his shield shattering like glass. The force lifts him clean off his feet, sending him hurtling backward. Pain detonates through his side, his vision swimming with black spots.
Shit—
Tarin doesn't wait. His hands weave through the air, flames spiraling around his fingertips. The fire condenses, twisting into the shape of a bow, its string crackling with heat.
Obinai barely regains his balance in the air when he sees it—the arrow nocked, its tip glowing white-hot.
"[Blazing Arrow]."
Tarin's whisper is barely audible over the roar of flames.
FWOOSH.
The projectile screams toward Obinai, trailing embers. He twists mid-air, but—
"[Covert... Pierce to Impact]."
The arrow shudders—then accelerates.
THUD.
It buries itself in Obinai's gut.
For a heartbeat, there's no pain. Just pressure. Then—
AGONY.
Fire blooms inside him, searing through muscle and bone. The force lifts him off his feet again, sending him tumbling across the sand like a discarded doll. His back slams into the arena wall, the impact rattling his teeth.
The hell was that?! Obinai's vision wavers, his thoughts sluggish. It changed—
Tarin's boots scuff against the sand as he strides forward. The bow dissipates.
"Yield," he says.
Obinai's fingers claw at the dirt. His ribs scream. His stomach burns.
But his hands still glow.
Obinai's chuckle is a ragged, blood-streaked thing as he picks himself up. Bet my last copper he ain't looking down.
His fingers flick—quick, subtle. "[Grease]."
The spell slithers across the arena floor, turning sand to a slick tan ice in a heartbeat. Just as Obinai's boots skid against it, Tarin blurs—
"[Flash Step]!"
—and reappears right where Obinai knew he would.
Thwip.
Tarin's leading foot lands square on the grease. His smirk dies mid-step.
"Wha—?!"
His legs shoot out from under him. Arms pinwheel, elbows jerking wildly as he scrambles for balance. For one glorious second, the mighty Tarin looks like a newborn deer on frozen pond—all limbs and panic.
CRASH.
He hits the ground hard, sliding ass-first through his own dignity.
Obinai's own boots slip. "Shit—!" He windmills his arms, barely staying upright. Shoulda canceled it first—
A quick snap of his fingers. The grease vanishes.
Tarin's boots scrabble against suddenly dry sand. "You little—"
Now.
Obinai slams his palm into the dirt. "[Freeze]!"
The ground hisses as frost races toward Tarin, jagged ice crawling up his legs like living chains. He kicks—once, twice—but the frost only thickens, locking him in place up to his waist.
"Cheap tricks won't—"
"Won't what?" Obinai pants, wiping blood from his lip. "Work?" He gestures at the ice. "Seems like they do."
Tarin's fingers twitch. A spark flickers between them—
Obinai's already moving with his fingers tremble as the magic condenses in his palm.
"[Magic Missile]."
The orb flickers to life—a pulsing sphere, its light casting shadows across his bloodied face. His voice doesn't waver as he leans in, lips almost brushing the swirling mass.
"[More]."
The orb expands, its glow intensifying to a blinding white. Obinai's arm shudders under the strain, muscles trembling as the spell leeches his strength. A thin trickle of blood escapes his nose—the cost of overcharging.
Just a little longer...
Above the Arena
Lyth floats unseen, the illusion veil around him rippling like heat haze. His sharp eyes track every movement below.
"Of all the students..." he murmurs.
Obinai's spell flares brighter, its light reflecting in Lyth's spectacles.
"...the true diamond isn't who they think."
His gaze flicks to Tarin—and stops.
The half-elf's usual poise is gone. His eyes stare through Obinai, vacant yet feverish. Lips move in a silent, rapid chant. One hand twitches at his side, fingers curling as if grasping invisible threads.
Lyth's fingers dig into his arm as he leans forward, the illusion veil around him flickering.
That stance... that darkness...
Below, Tarin's body tenses—every muscle locking. His right hand twitches, then—
Black.
Ink-like shadows surge up his arm, veins of midnight spreading beneath his skin. Then—ignition. Ebony flames erupt along his flesh, casting no light yet burning the very air around them.
Lyth's lips part. "Ancient magic..." The words slip out in a hushed, hungry whisper.
His usually composed face breaks into a grin too alive with fascination. "As if this boy couldn't—"
**On the Sands
The black flames coil around Tarin's fingers, their touch leaving frost on his skin despite the heatless burn. He grits his teeth, the ice prison around his legs screaming as it begins to vaporize under the dark fire's touch.
His palm angles toward Obinai—still oblivious, still pouring everything into that glowing orb.
Easy. One flick. One strike. It'd be over.
Then—
A quick gaze into the crowd.
Tarin's jaw clenches. A muscle ticks in his temple.
Click.
His teeth snap together in frustration. The flames snuff out. The shadows slither back into his skin like chastised hounds.
The orb in Obinai's hand thrums. His arm shakes with the strain, sweat and blood mingling on his brow.
Almost... there...
Then—
Tarin's hands rise, palms out. A lazy smile curls his lips. "I give up."
The crowd erupts.
Obinai nearly chokes. "The hell—?"
His spell wavers, the orb flickering. What kind of game is this?!
Tarin just shrugs. "You win, Forsaken." He says it lightly, but his eyes—
—his eyes burn with something unsaid.
Obinai smacks his own cheek—hard. The sting confirms it. "Nope. Not dead or asleep," he mutters.
Above the Arena
Lyth's eyes sweep the crowd—past the cheering students, past the gossiping nobles—until they land on him.
The tiefling lounges in the VIP section. Crimson skin. Horns polished to a gleam. Robes so lathered with gold. The banners behind him ripple—a coiled serpent sigil that makes Lyth's smirk deepen.
"Ah." Lyth says. "Voss's little heir." His tongue clicks against his teeth. "Should've known that power-hungry bastard would pass down ancient magic like a family heirloom."
Back in the Sands
Below, Tarin brushes frost from his sleeves as he strides toward Obinai. His gait is different now—looser, almost performative. Gone is the lethal focus from moments ago.
Obinai's hands curl into fists. "Why'd you give up?
Tarin's eyes scan the crowd. "Dunno." His gaze flicks to the VIP section—to the crimson tiefling—and for a split second, his mask cracks. A tic in his jaw. A flash of irritation. Then it's gone, replaced by that infuriating smirk. "Guess I got bored."
A beat.
"Or maybe..." He leans in. "...because they wouldn't shut up."
Obinai's vision blurs red. "The hell did you just—"
Whoosh.
The world tilts. One second he's nose-to-nose with Tarin—the next, he's slumped between Bram and Gideon, the wooden bench digging into his back.
"—say?!" Obinai finishes, blinking at the sudden shift.
Bram and Gideon both jerk back.
"The hell just happened?" Bram blurts.
Obinai drags a hand down his face, his palm coming away damp with sweat. "I don't know," he growls, the words grinding out between his teeth. "One second, Tarin's about to throw down some creepy black magic—next second, he quits."
Gideon spits over the railing, his lip curled. "Ain't natural. That boy was itchin' for a fight two minutes ago."
Bram leans in, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "Obinai… you don't get it. The Ediths don't forfeit." His fingers tap a frantic rhythm against his knee. "Like, ever. That family's got a reputation thicker than castle walls."
Obinai's brow furrows. "Reputation for what?"
Bram exhales sharply through his nose. Then he grabs Obinai's shoulder, yanking him closer.
"Listen," he hisses, his breath hot against Obinai's ear. "The Edith bloodline? They're royal guard stock. Breed 'em for magic and muscle like prize damn horses." His grip tightens. "And the halflings? Half-elves, quarter-demons, whatever—they cherish that shit. Stronger blood, stronger magic."
Gideon leans in. "Ain't just 'bout winnin', neither. It's theater. Every fight's a damn advertisement fer what they can offer."
"So why throw this fight?"
Bram's eyes dart toward the VIP section, where the crimson-skinned tiefling sits, his gilded robes shimmering. "'Cause whatever they're really after?" He swallows. "It's bigger than this shit."
A cold shiver races down Obinai's spine.
Gideon cracks his knuckles, the sound like snapping twigs. "Y'ask me? That boy's a loaded crossbow. And somebody just pointed him elsewhere."
Obinai leans back, his head thumping against the seat. "Damn..."
Bram's knee bounces uncontrollably. "Yeah. Damn."
The crowd's murmurs swell into a chaotic buzz, hundreds of voices overlapping in confusion. Then—
Pop.
Lyth materializes at the center of the arena. He stands perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, letting the noise wash over him. A smirk plays at the corner of his lips—like he's savoring the unrest.
Slowly, the clamor dies. Lyth waits a beat longer, then speaks.
"Due to Tarin's... unexpected forfeiture," his voice carries effortlessly across the stadium, "Obinai advances to the semifinals."
BOOOOO—
A wall of sound crashes down, jeers and groans mixing with the thud of stomping feet. Someone hurls a half-eaten apple core into the arena. It lands at Lyth's feet with a wet splat.
The Headmaster doesn't flinch. He laughs—a rich, unbothered sound—and shakes his head. "Oh, I agree! Just when things were getting interesting." He shrugs, the picture of shared disappointment. "But alas, combat is nothing if not unpredictable."
Pop.
He vanishes—only to reappear mid-air, hovering above the fray. His arms spread wide, robes fluttering dramatically.
"Which is precisely why I'm thrilled to announce—"
The display screen flares to life, names burning bright against the dusk:
GIDEON vs. ELRIK
Obinai's head snaps up. Beside him, Bram sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Ooooh... shit."
Obinai's stomach drops. Elrik. The name alone is enough to make his palms sweat. His gaze darts to Gideon—
—and freezes.
Gideon has gone rigid. His fingers dig into his knees, the fabric of his pants straining under his grip. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he stares at the screen, unblinking.
"You gonna be alright?" Obinai asks, keeping his voice low.
Gideon's manages to move his lips. "I have to be." The words come out rough, like gravel. His hands flex—once, twice—veins showing against his skin.
Bram leans forward, elbows on his knees. "This is gonna be legendary," he murmurs, eyes alight. Then, with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes: "Just don't die, yeah?"
Gideon's laugh is a dry, hollow thing. "I'll try."
Magic shimmers around him—golden threads weaving through the air. His form flickers, fading like a dying ember.
Obinai's hand twitches, halfway to reaching out. Wait—
But Gideon's already gone.
A hush falls as Elrik materializes on the sands below, his arrival smooth as a knife sliding from its sheath. The noble paces, his smirk a blade's edge as he surveys the crowd. Waiting.
Damn it, Gideon...
...
Elrik's arms rise like a conductor summoning a symphony. The sound is deafening—a tidal wave of cheers crashing against the arena walls. He drinks it in, rolling his shoulders with deliberate slowness, letting the adoration wash over him. His smirk deepens as a group of noble-born students in the front rows begin chanting his name.
"EL-RIK! EL-RIK!"
Gideon materializes ten paces away, his arrival silent, unnoticed. No fanfare. No cheers. Just the faint scuff of his boots settling into the sand. His body is coiled tight—every muscle locked, every tendon taut. Sweat beads along his hairline, catching the harsh stadium lights as it trickles down his temple. He wipes his palms against his thighs, leaving damp streaks on the fabric.
High above, Lyth's voice booms:
"Fighters—positions!"
Gideon drops into a battle stance, knees bent, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. His fingers twitch at his sides—ready to cast. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.
Across from him, Elrik doesn't move.
The noble just stands there, one hip cocked lazily, his free hand tucked into his pocket. With a casual flick of his wrist, essence shimmers around his fingers—and a blade materializes.
An estoc.
The weapon is a thing of lethal beauty—its light green blade glowing faintly, the edge so sharp it seems to sing as Elrik gives it an experimental twirl. The silver hilt glints, perfectly molded to his grip.
He's got this...I know he does
Elrik's smirk widens as he finally—finally—shifts his stance. Not into a guard. Just a single step forward, the tip of his blade dragging lazily through the sand.
"Nervous?" he calls.
Gideon doesn't rise to the bait.
Lyth's grin is all teeth as he raises his hand.
"Begin!"