The stars had begun their silent vigil, scattered across the indigo sky like watchful eyes.
On one end of the field stood Daz Whitehall, white robes pristine, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. His stance was narrow, spine straight, arms relaxed but precise.
Across from him, Ivy Lucaris exhaled slowly, her fingers adjusting the cuffs of her dark blue robes.
High above, Headmaster Varos stood.
"Final match. Daz Whitehall...versus Ivy Lucaris.'
His voice carried easily across the arena. He paused just long enough for silence to settle.
He raised a hand. "Begin."
Daz moved first.
It was subtle—a smooth step forward and a sharp outward sweep of his right arm. His fingers flared open, then twisted like pulling thread.
A gust of wind surged to life, circling around him. He followed with a spin of the wrist and a sudden palm thrust—a slicing gale launched toward Ivy, its edges sharp enough to carve the outer stone.
Ivy didn't flinch.
She stepped into a mirrored stance—left foot back, right palm lifted, then rotated her hands in a flowing arc. The air around her shimmered with moisture, coalescing into a dense wall of mist. The slicing wind met the barrier—and scattered harmlessly in a flurry of droplets.
Daz was already shifting, fingers dancing through a series of quick flicks, each motion building on the last. He crouched slightly, then snapped his arms out wide—blades of compressed air began to spin around him, like a cyclone of cutting force.
Ivy responded in kind.
She slid one foot forward, drawing a crescent arc with both hands in opposite directions. The ground beneath her feet trembled—water gathered from the damp arena floor, lifting into ribbons that spun like silk scarves.
The crowd watched in awe.
Clash.
Wind and water collided—slicing gales met flowing streams, each blow calculated, controlled. Neither fighter wasted movement. Every gesture had weight.
Daz leapt back, then launched into a low sweep of his arms. The air crackled. A current formed—spiraling upward into a wind spear, nearly invisible in the night light.
He launched it.
Ivy stepped sideways, flicked her fingers, and the ground beside her responded. A thin veil of water shot up, took the spear's brunt, then redirected it skyward with a glancing blow.
From the impact point, Ivy surged forward.
Hands curved and low, she stepped into a flowing sequence of gestures—her arms spiraling as if stirring liquid. The water around her spiraled outward, forming a coiling stream like a dragon's tail, lashing toward Daz's midsection.
Daz crossed both arms—then twisted them inward in a tight spin. The wind condensed around his body like a shield—and the water strike shattered into harmless mist.
Still, the blow pushed him back.
He slid across the stone, boots grating against the floor, and exhaled deeply. Then, for the first time—he smiled.
They resumed.
Faster now.
Daz weaved sharp arcs through the air, every motion slicing. He spun, dragged one hand behind him, and hurled a burst of cutting wind in a horizontal arc, fast enough to tear into the arena wall behind Ivy.
Ivy ducked, shifted her weight, and performed a fluid spin, drawing both arms together, then parting them like a curtain. Mist exploded outward, veiling her form. Daz blinked—then lunged forward, hand jabbing with a spiraling wind thrust.
From the mist, Ivy appeared behind him.
She had stepped sideways through the fog, using his own current as cover. Her palms glided along his back—not striking, but guiding moisture into his robes. Steam hissed from her fingers.
He turned—too slow.
A jet of pressurized water blasted him backward, sending him tumbling across the arena.
Daz landed hard, skidding to a halt. But he flipped to his feet instantly, robe now damp and tattered at the edge.
He smirked. "Nice trick."
Cheers erupted from the audience.
And still, neither looked tired.
Above them, Varos watched with hawk-like stillness.
...
..
.
For a long moment, the arena was silent but for the faint hiss of steam rising from Daz's soaked robe. He flexed his fingers and stood tall, no trace of doubt in his expression—only resolve.
Across the field, Ivy adjusted her posture. A single bead of sweat trailed down her cheek. The air around her still rippled with water, shaped and disciplined.
They began again.
Daz swept both arms outward, carving twin crescents through the air. The gusts curved with his hands, then converged—a pressurized wave of wind smashed forward, howling like a storm.
Ivy didn't block. She moved.
One step—then a slide. Her motion was fluid, intuitive, barely visible. The wind struck where she had been—slicing the stone beneath her—but she had already shifted left.
A wall of water rose beside her, capturing residual force and spiraling it harmlessly away.
Daz clicked his tongue. He raised his arms vertically, palms facing each other, and drew them down with precision. The wind condensed between them—a narrow column, focused like a lance.
He thrust forward—Wind Lance.
Ivy's pupils shrank.
She inhaled, pressed both palms downward, and drew her arms apart. The stone floor cracked as a torrential geyser of water erupted in front of her, colliding with the lance mid-flight. The pressure from the clash blew back spectators' hair, kicking up dust across the arena.
Boom.
The two forces canceled, vapor hissing into the air.
Still, Daz moved. No rest.
He slid into a crouch, fingers stabbing the ground—four glyphs formed in wind, circular and spinning like saws. He lifted them with his hands and launched them one by one, each angling in a different trajectory.
They came from every side.
Ivy exhaled through her nose. Her eyes tracked every incoming glyph.
Gesture. Twist. Press. Lift.
Her movements became sharper now—less fluid, more commanding. Water erupted around her like petals blooming in reverse, forming four rotating shields. They intercepted the glyphs in perfect sequence.
Left. Right. Behind. Above.
Each glyph was shattered before it could touch her.
A single ripple passed through her right arm. That last block had been close.
Daz surged forward—not with wind, but physically. Boots against dirt, stride tight, body leaning in. As he moved, he rotated both arms clockwise, gathering wind into his legs.
He moved faster.
A flicker of surprise crossed Ivy's face. She pivoted, planting one foot and raising a wave of water between them.
Daz burst through it—drenched but unfazed. A spinning kick, enhanced by wind, arced toward Ivy's head.
She ducked—but not in time.
His heel clipped her temple. Not a full hit, but enough to stagger. She stumbled, blinking.
Daz pressed the advantage.
No hesitation.
He launched into a series of short jabs, not punches but concentrated bursts of compressed wind from his palms. One struck her shoulder. Another caught her in the ribs. Ivy raised a water shield—too late.
She dropped to one knee, gasping.
The crowd rose to their feet, murmuring in shock.
Was it over?
Daz stood over her, hands raised.
"Yield," he said, not with arrogance, but concern. "You're bleeding."
A trickle of red ran from her forehead.
But Ivy looked up—and smiled.
"No."
She placed both hands flat on the ground. Closed her eyes.
Silence.
The air shifted.
The water around her began to hum. The droplets formed tiny rings, each spinning gently, orbiting her form like planets around a sun.
Daz stepped back.
"What is that?"
Then she moved.
Not fast—flawless.
One hand rose, fingers folding precisely. A single beam of water condensed in the air—then split into eight strands, each sharp, needle-thin, and silent.
Daz swiped the air—wind burst out, trying to scatter them.
But the needles bent mid-flight—curving with the wind, riding its currents.
They weren't resisting him.
They were using him.
He gritted his teeth, summoned a barrier—but three struck first.
One embedded in his thigh.
One sliced across his forearm.
One pierced his shoulder.
He staggered.
Another gesture from Ivy—gentle, effortless. The other five arced into the ground beside him, then exploded upward into a fountain that sent him flying backward.
Daz hit the far wall, crumpling with a grunt.
Gasps filled the arena.
But Ivy didn't move. She stood tall, breathing softly.
Daz pushed himself to his feet, face pale, robes in tatters, blood on his lip.
He looked at her, not with hate—but awe.
He looked down at his trembling legs, then up.
He slumped forward, landing on his knees, then onto the ground fully.
The arena held its breath.
Headmaster Varos raised a hand.
"Winner: Ivy Lucaris."
Silence. Then a wave of applause.
Thunderous. Roaring.
But Ivy didn't bask in it.
She knelt beside Daz, lifted his head, and whispered something only he heard.
He smiled faintly.
The medics ran in seconds later, surrounding them both with gentle Sage Art healing.
And so ended the duel between Daz and Ivy, and the ranking exams.