As the sun dipped below the horizon, the arena was bathed in warm hues of orange and gold. Torches flared to life one by one, casting flickering light across the stands. The air buzzed with quiet tension, anticipation thick as storm clouds.
Riku stepped into the arena, wooden sword in hand.
Across from him, Daz Whitehall moved with slow precision, every step measured, posture impossibly calm. His white robes fluttered in the breeze, untouched by dirt or blood. He hadn't fought since the first round, and yet, he looked more dangerous than ever.
As they faced each other in the center, the crowd held its breath.
Daz spoke first.
"I didn't expect to like you, Riku," he said, voice quiet but clear. "But you surprised me."
Riku blinked. "You're not the first person to say that."
Daz gave a small smile. "Still. I mean it. You're sharp, you're calm under pressure. I respect that."
There was a short silence between them.
"I think we're friends now," Daz added, almost awkwardly.
Riku smirked. "Sure. You're the weirdest friend I've made, but I'll take it."
Daz's gaze softened. "I also noticed something." He raised a hand slightly. "You can't use Sage Art."
Riku hesitated, then shrugged. "Haven't learned it yet."
"Really?" Daz tilted his head. "No shame in that. But it's strange—someone like you, in a place like this. And don't know anything about Sage Art."
He stepped back, posture straightening into something more formal, more focused.
"After this match, this ordeal." Daz continued, "I'll teach you."
Riku's eyes widened slightly.
"BEGIN!"
Riku exploded forward, wooden blade low, body tight like a coiled spring. He aimed for Daz's shoulder, then feinted—pivoted mid-strike, sweeping low.
It didn't matter.
Daz didn't move. He simply shifted one foot—barely—and the strike passed harmlessly. A flick of his wrist, a brush of wind, and Riku's sword was gone.
Before Riku could react, a soft tap landed on his chest.
It felt like a whisper. And yet, he was suddenly flat on his back, staring up at the darkening sky.
The crowd was stunned silent.
Riku gasped, wind knocked clean from his lungs. He coughed, eyes blurry.
Daz appeared above him, hand extended.
Riku took the hand, pulled to his feet. 'That… was fast. Was he holding back in his previous match? No way, I'm just weaker.'
Riku dusted himself off and gave a half-smile. "I'm holding you to that lesson."
Cheers finally erupted from the stands as the announcer declared the victor.
...
..
.
The second semifinal match was moments from starting.
On one side of the field stood Yohara Saret, a fiery grin on her face despite the bandages wrapped around her arms and calf. Her staff tapped against the stone as she bounced on her heels.
Across from her stood Ivy Lucaris—unarmed, expression cool, her posture impeccable. She took a long breath, her hands drifting into a resting stance: one palm flat, the other vertical at her side, as if balancing invisible scales.
The crowd quieted.
"Begin!"
Yohara shot forward immediately, kicking up a small cloud of dust with her first step. Her movements were raw but fast. She spun her staff over her head, then slammed it down.
A ripple of earth burst beneath Ivy's feet—jagged stone spikes lunging upward.
Ivy stepped to the side, effortlessly slipping into a circular motion with her arms. Her sleeves rippled as she turned her body—one hand swirling, the other pressing downward.
A controlled gust of water surged from beneath the stones, dousing the earth with a hiss and softening it into harmless mud. Her movements were smooth, almost balletic.
Yohara didn't wait—she spun again, this time dragging her fingers along the ground in a quick rising arc, like striking a match, a streak of fire roared toward Ivy.
In response, Ivy raised her right hand sharply, fingers slicing upward like a conductor's baton. Her left hand followed with a precise, sweeping motion across her chest.
"A spiral of mist enveloped her.
The flame dissipated before it reached her, swallowed by the sudden moisture in the air.
From the fog, Ivy emerged—her robes barely touched by ash, expression untouched. She rotated her wrist, fingers unfurling like petals.
Thin roots of condensed water coiled around Yohara's legs, dragging her balance out from under her. She tumbled, rolling quickly, and barely managed to use her staff to break the fall.
"You're just showing off now," Yohara muttered, scrambling to her feet.
But Ivy wasn't done.
She planted her heel and drew both arms inward—then thrust them out in a perfect circle. The water around her followed suit, forming a rising spiral.
A blast of water surged toward Yohara—not just forceful, but guided, whiplike. Yohara raised her staff to block, but the strike wasn't meant to hurt.
It was meant to knock her down. And it did.
Yohara slammed onto her back, staff flung from her hand. She lay there, groaning, soaked, staring up at the stars just beginning to show in the dusky sky.
The referee hesitated. Then:
"Winner—IVY LUCARIS!"
The crowd thundered.