Headmaster Varos stood up, his deep voice echoing through the coliseum. "Now, for the Semifinals—"
He paused dramatically, eyes sweeping across the crowd.
"—we will be deciding our final two entrants through... the Play-In Round."
A collective murmur spread through the stands. Even the students glanced at each other, confused.
Varos raised his hand. "With six clear victors from the first round, two slots remain. Four duelists who showed resolve, even in defeat, have been selected to battle for those last positions."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience.
Riku leaned forward from his seat near the infirmary, where his bruises had just been treated. His ribs still ached, but the medics' Sage Art had accelerated his recovery. Watching the golden glow of healing had sparked a hunger in him—a hunger not just to win, but to understand and master the flow of power itself.
Varos continued. "These four will now enter a sudden-death bracket. The two who win will join the semifinals....Riku Ikari vs. Shun Hang....Yohara Saret vs. Fen Poul."
A thunderous roar erupted from the audience.
Riku stood, his expression unreadable.
"Let the play-ins begin!"
...
..
.
The crowd simmered with anticipation. Dust kicked under Riku Ikari stepped into the arena once more, this time under the full glare of the sun. He headed toward the weapons rack and pulled out another wooden sword—his last one had snapped in the fight against Yana.
Across the ring, Shun Hang stood calm, focused. His earth-based Sage Art coiled under his skin, subtle but ever-present. His boots were planted firmly in the dirt, almost as if he were drawing power from it already.
"Back again?" Shun called, tilting his head.
Riku said nothing.
He gripped the wooden sword tighter and crouched slightly, eyeing Shun's stance. He remembered how Shun had fought Ivy—controlled, deliberate, heavy. Earth Art wasn't flashy.
The referee raised his hand. "Begin!"
Shun slammed his foot down.
A ripple of stone surged toward Riku. Fast.
Riku dodged sideways just before the spike erupted where he'd stood. Another tremor rolled through the ground—Shun was trying to trip him up, limit his movement.
"Come closer then," Shun said coolly. "Let's see if that stick of yours can break rock."
Riku didn't reply.
He ran.
Straight through the chaos.
Shun raised a wall of earth—tall, thick, sudden.
Riku vaulted it.
He planted one foot on a small jut of stone midair, kicked off, and came over the top, sword raised.
Shun reacted fast—his arms crossed, rock cladding over them like gauntlets.
Crack!
Riku's strike landed, hard. The sword didn't break this time, but the shock stung his wrists. Shun retaliated with a sweeping punch, his stone-covered arm aiming for Riku's ribs.
Riku ducked.
Then he jabbed forward—not into Shun's body, but between the cladding. A small gap at the elbow.
Thwack!
Shun hissed, stepping back. His left arm dropped, the gauntlet crumbling.
"You really can't use Sage Art," he muttered. "You're insane."
Riku moved in again, silent.
Shun raised more rock, but slower this time.
Riku wasn't fast.
He was precise.
Every movement cost energy. Every dodge, every strike, carefully measured. But Shun was slowing. His control over Earth Art wasn't limitless—Riku could see it now. He was pushing harder just to defend.
Another wall.
Riku didn't climb this one.
He slid under it as it rose, the sand still loose at its base. He came out behind Shun, caught him turning, and delivered a clean strike to the back of his knee.
Shun dropped with a grunt, one leg giving way.
Riku stepped around, raised the sword, and struck across the chest—not fatal, but forceful.
Shun rolled away and pounded the ground again—an earthen spike shot up, barely missing Riku's shoulder.
Riku circled. He was breathing hard now.
Shun rose on shaky legs. His hands trembled, earth crusting at his palms but no longer obeying with the same sharpness.
Riku spoke for the first time. "You're out of rhythm."
Shun looked up, wide-eyed.
Then came the final swing.
Riku's sword crashed into Shun's side, spinning him to the ground. The earth beneath him didn't rise to help this time.
The referee stepped in immediately. "Match over! Winner: Riku Ikari!"
Cheers erupted.
Riku exhaled once, deeply, and let his sword fall to the dirt.
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't raise his hand.
He turned and walked off toward the exit as the medics jogged past him, heading to Shun.
Off to the side, Ivy Lucaris watched with unreadable eyes.
Riku had no Sage Art. But won the match anyway.
In the turret, Shinji and Hane watched and couldn't help but smirk. Because this was the first time in the academy that someone won without using Sage Art. "A lot of potential." Shinji said.
...
..
.
The sun had begun to dip, casting long golden shadows across the arena. The crowd was still buzzing from the previous match, but now their attention shifted to the next pair stepping onto the stone floor.
Yohara Saret moved like a flickering flame—light on her feet, hair tied back, her black and red uniform cinched tightly at the waist. Her hands flexed open and closed, her fingers already tingling with fire.
Across from her stood Fen Poul. Taller, broader, colder. He dragged a staff behind him, its base leaving a faint trail of frost where it scraped. His eyes were the shade of pale water—almost translucent, unnerving.
Unlike Riku and Shun, there was no tension here. There was no silence.
Yohara grinned. "Didn't think you'd get picked."
The referee didn't bother waiting for pleasantries. "Begin!"
Yohara's right hand erupted in flame. She snapped her fingers—fwoosh!—and a burst of fire shot toward Fen.
Fen slammed his staff into the ground. A thin wall of ice shimmered into being just in time to absorb the hit. Steam hissed violently.
Yohara was already moving, closing the distance fast, hurling flame after flame—quick flicks, precise arcs.
Fen stood his ground, spinning his staff. Water circled him in a spiraling veil, each droplet hardening mid-air into tiny needles.
He flung his arm out—shing!
The needles launched.
Yohara dived and rolled, one grazing her shoulder, another slicing her leg.
She didn't stop.
She skidded to her feet and threw a full-bodied fireball—bigger, brighter, faster.
Fen froze a puddle at his feet and skated backward, just avoiding the blast. The ground where he'd stood exploded in a swirl of flame and smoke.
He narrowed his eyes now. Less calm. Less collected.
Yohara had closed the gap.
She launched a spinning kick, flame trailing from her foot.
Fen blocked with his staff. The fire licked along its length, steam rising as water clashed with heat.
They grappled—briefly—then broke.
Yohara panted, eyes locked on Fen's.
He raised his staff high. "You like fire?"
He slammed it down.
A geyser of water erupted beneath her.
She leapt backward, soaked now, her fire sputtering for a split second.
Fen seized the moment.
He charged.
His staff moved like a whip, sweeping at her legs—Yohara ducked, twisted, spun flame from her hands in a close-range burst.
Whoosh!
It caught Fen's side—he staggered.
But then ice climbed along the arena floor, aiming for her feet.
She jumped—just barely—and landed inside his guard.
No fire this time.
Just a punch.
Right to the jaw.
Fen reeled back.
Yohara stepped in again and slammed her palm into his chest—boom!—igniting a focused fireburst at close range.
The force sent him flying.
He hit the ground hard.
Steam curled off his chest.
He didn't get up.
The referee didn't need to count. "Match over! Winner: Yohara Saret!"
The crowd erupted again—this time louder. Fire always played better to the audience.
Fen lay still as medics ran to him, steam still swirling around his bruised body.
The semifinals were now set.
And the real fights… were about to begin.