Tanker, with his characteristic impatience, snatched a paper from the box and ripped it open right there, disregarding the more deliberate pace of the quarter-finals. He held the small scroll close to his face, his brow furrowed in concentration as he deciphered the number. "Third spot?" he declared, his voice carrying across the hushed arena. He then turned his gaze towards Azreal, who stood overseeing the proceedings from the edge of the battlefield. "Does this mean my round will come last?"
Azreal nodded calmly. "Well, since there are only four of you remaining, and you drew the third spot, then yes. Your fight, against the contender who draws the fourth spot, will be the final match of the semi-finals, after the first and second spots have concluded."
Tanker's already prominent frown deepened. He used the hand that ended in a smooth, palm-less fist to scratch his head, a gesture of obvious displeasure. "I refuse to accept that," he boomed, his voice laced with indignation. "I cannot be expected to wait for these… wanna-be warriors to go before me. I shall draw again!" He made a move towards the remaining papers, but Azreal's voice, firm and authoritative, stopped him in his tracks.
"You cannot do that, Tanker. The initial spot you draw is your allotted position, your stroke of luck, if you will. You must accept it as it is."
Tanker expelled a heavy breath, his frustration evident. "Fine," he conceded grudgingly. "But the first round had better be quick. Let's end this charade you call a tournament." With a dismissive wave of his hand, he turned and stalked away towards the contenders' area.
To everyone's surprise, a palpable tension seemed to grip the remaining contenders. No one was eager to step forward and choose their number next. They remained rooted to the spot, lost in their own thoughts, the weight of the semi-finals finally settling upon them. The crowd murmured amongst themselves, clearly noticing the contenders' sudden hesitation.
Zack, ever observant, sensed the shift in the atmosphere. He understood that their reluctance could be misconstrued as fear, potentially emboldening Tanker's already inflated ego and unsettling the crowd. With a decisive movement, he broke the stalemate. He walked towards the table, his expression inscrutable, and selected a paper from the box. Opening it with a swift, practiced motion, he read the single word inscribed within. "First spot."
In the pavilion, Rider squeezed his knee tightly, a slight frown creasing his brow. "That means he's going first," he muttered to Aingo, his voice a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. "But against who?" He was eager to witness Zack in battle again, hoping to glean more insights into his formidable fighting style. As Zack turned and headed towards the designated waiting area, a palpable sense of anticipation filled the arena.
Bianca, gathering her courage, finally stepped forward. She took a deep breath, her thoughts racing. (Okay, it's either I face Zack or Tanker. To be honest, I never imagined it would come down to this – a round where I'm potentially up against the prodigy from another place or an elite soldier. I have to win this. No matter what the cost. For me… and for Rider.) With a steady hand, she reached into the box and pulled out a paper, her movements slow and deliberate as she began to unfold it. (I'm about to pick my fate.) A wave of nervousness washed over her, a knot tightening in her stomach, but she fought to maintain her composure.
Watching from the royal chamber above, Azreal leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Bianca, ready to discern her position in the semi-finals. Bianca exhaled slowly, her eyes scanning the paper. "Spot four," she announced, her voice clear despite the internal turmoil. (This means my round will come last, against Tanker. I have enough time to formulate a strategy, but I'm still uncertain how effective it will be against someone so… unpredictable.) She glanced towards Tanker, who stood a short distance away, his expression openly disgusted.
"You paired me up with a girl?" Tanker scoffed, his voice booming with disdain. "How insulting! I refuse!"
Azreal's voice, carrying a sharp edge of displeasure, echoed through the arena. "That is the spot you drew, Tanker. Do not speak as if we orchestrated the pairings to offend you."
Tanker sighed dramatically. "Fine. But unlike that spineless Valen, I do not hold back, and I certainly do not yield." With a final glare in Bianca's direction, he turned and sauntered away.
Bianca's frown deepened, her eyes narrowed at Tanker's disrespectful words towards Valen. "I will make you eat your words," she muttered under her breath, her earlier nervousness replaced by a surge of anger.
Tanker, hearing her quiet threat, stopped in his tracks and turned back. "You will regret insulting Valen or me, That's a promise." She said as anker then dismissed her with a wave of his hand and continued towards the contenders' area.
Azreal, momentarily at a loss for words, turned his attention to the final remaining contender. "Enshou," he said, his voice regaining its usual authoritative tone, "your fight is with Zack. There is no other spot available for you. I trust you understand."
Enshou's face broke into a wide, genuine smile as he looked towards Zack, his eyes filled with a curious anticipation. "Yes," he replied, his voice cheerful. "This is just perfect. There's something I've been meaning to discuss with him."
Azreal raised his voice, addressing the arena. "The other contenders, please make your way to the battle field as Enshou and Zack prepares themselves for their semi-final showdown in the tournament ring."
Bianca cast one last determined glance at Tanker before leaving the arena floor. Moments later, Tanker also sauntered off, leaving Zack and Enshou alone in the center of the ring. They stood facing each other, a palpable tension hanging in the air. Zack's gaze was characteristically devoid of emotion, while Enshou's smile remained fixed, a hint of playful intrigue in his eyes. "So," Enshou began, his voice casual, "do you have my answer yet?"