Kiato walked away from the arena, steam trailing behind him. His vision blurred from blood loss.
All eyes followed.
And in the hearts of many, one thought echoed:
"I'm lucky he wasn't my opponent."
Kiato managed to walk to the very end behind the arena—then let himself fall under the hands of gravity. But he was caught mid-air and placed gently on the ground. His sight was completely blurry; he couldn't see who it was, but all he could perceive was the warmth and softness from the body of the figure.
Back in the arena, the referee leaned down, one palm on the ground positioned at the center of the battlefield. Then he called out:
"Frost Technique: Glacier Reversal, Winter Requiem."
A bright silvery-blue light covered the base of the arena. Most initiates were in shock, questions rising in their hearts, but they remained silent.
"Is that a spell? What kind of magic is that?"
Back on the battlefield, the silvery-blue light dimmed and eventually went out completely. The battlefield became smooth again—not regenerated, but temporally reversed.
"You'll learn about Time Reversal techniques later in class," the referee compensated. Then he looked at the match line-up in his right hand and declared:
"Next up, Luna Silavrune versus Jaren Eldravaine."
Tension thickened in the arena.
From the left-hand back seat of the initiates' stand, a girl stood up—mid-height between tall and short. Her golden hair drew countless eyes, a magnet of attraction. Her body shape alone could tell that she was carved finely by the divine. Her skin youthful, but her eyes held fierce determination. Awaiting the battle, she walked gracefully to the arena.
A few seconds later, her opponent reluctantly stood up. His reaction made it clear he wasn't interested in the matchup—not just because it was against a girl, but because she looked like an angel in disguise. He walked into the battlefield still pondering whether to take the battle seriously.
Upon reaching the center, Jaren's mind flashed back to the previous battles—he recalled the determination, the will, the pain every past battle had carried—then remembered the reason he came to Gallus in the first place:
"To change."
Decision made, he shed the old version of himself and fashioned a new one from all he had learnt in passed training,
"I wouldn't let it all go to waste". He declared to himself not voiced out.
Both Luna and Jaren quietly stood opposite each other in the arena, eyes locked, stances firm—but blades still sheathed.
The referee gave the start mark and leapt out of the arena.
Simultaneously, they unsheathed their blades.
Luna drew hers—a curved blade, shaped like the crescent moon. But her confidence dropped immediately once the blade was fully drawn. It seemed she lacked an activation spell. Yet her will kept her rooted on the battlefield. Her aura spread like perfume—not felt, but perceived.
Then, in a low, persuading voice, she pleaded:
"Please go easy on me. I had no master."
He inhaled her aura which found it's way to his brain steadily wielding control over it.
Then the words struck Jaren's heart. Her voice, delicate and fragile, completely disordered his thoughts.
Her aura was like a sharm of scent.
Then jaren replied in a lazy tone, lowering his guard:
"Go easy on Luna."
His mind slowly washing off consciousness.
Luna chuckled softly, then spun around dramatically, her bosom bouncing against her body.
The arena went utterly silent. Most people watched with a mix of confusion and curiosity, paying strict attention as if an African myth film was playing in firsthand detail.
From the noble seats, the Frostblood Matriarch gave a knowing smile and murmured:
"Puppetry magic… a derivative of blood magic."
Back in the arena, Jaren's eyes widened, his mouth watering as he stared at Luna—unaware of himself.
"Can I touch it?" he drawled lazily.
Luna smirked, dropping the shoulders of her robe, revealing her bosom—large, neat, and soft in appearance—in a bold attempt to gain more control over him. Then she teased:
"Under one condition."
She shook the upper part of her body.
Jaren unconsciously followed.
"Anything!."
The Frostblood Matriarch boldly explained to the other nobles, who had averted their gaze:
"Luna's technique is a one-chance spell. Once someone breaks free, it won't work on them again."
Back in the arena, Luna didn't underestimate her request or her opponent. She completely dropped her robe, revealing her entire body—shiny, fleshy, and flawlessly formed. Then she smirked:
"You'll give up this match."
Jaren blinked. The word "match" echoed in his head, but he was still unaware of his own mind, only slightly waking up.
Luna noticed instantly, then added:
"You can have my butt afterwards."
She turned, offering the view.
Jaren was now fully under her insane spell. His eyes turned pink, saliva dripping from his mouth. Mind completely controlled, his blade dropped from his hand as he walked toward her.
Luna turned forward, offering her bosom again. He hesitated—slightly—but she took his hand and placed it on her chest. Her aura surged from his hand into his brain, seizing control of his nervous system. Fully drowned, he pressed multiple times.
Then Luna commanded:
"Give up—and have the rest of it."
Jaren's gaze locked on her butt—big, shiny, and soft. He walked backward slowly, fell to his knees, head bowed to the ground, and all that followed was a loud, subconscious cry:
"I give up!"
Then he fell flat to the ground—daydreaming in complete neural disarray.
The referee declared from outside the arena:
"Winner: Luna Silavrune."
The arena stood frozen in shock. Every face bore a different expression. The Frostblood Matriarch applauded boldly from the noble platform, her voice echoing:
"Well done, but that technique still needs refining."
Luna bowed respectfully while dressing. As she walked through the initiates' stand, every eye followed her, holding different emotions. But she paid no attention.
Upon reaching her seat, the area around her was completely isolated.
She scoffed, then sat decently, legs crossed, forging innocence in her smile.
On the battlefield, the referee climbed the stage and dragged Jaren's unconscious, daydreaming body away. Then his voice echoed once more:
"Next up—Lior Snow versus Ravien Lance."
The arena grew tense—thicker this time.
Questions rose in every heart:
"What strategy will be used in this next battle?"