BAM! BAM!
Both attacks struck hard.
Swoosh!
Nerissa flew through the air like a broken kite, crashing hard into the ground.
Rovan slammed face-first into the ground with a brutal thud.
The impact from the attack shook the entire stage, enveloping it in a cloud of dust like drifting fog.
The entire arena froze. Everyone's gaze was locked on the stage. No one even blinked, afraid they might miss something.
The duel—expected to be a walk in the park for Rovan—had turned into a breathtaking spectacle.
The arena was totally silent. No murmurs, no movement. Only one question in everyone's mind.
Who won?
From the viewing box, Marquess Donald Yale was looking at the stage. He couldn't even breathe and all his muscles had turned rigid due to the tension. Without realizing it, his grip on the wine glass had tightened so much that a small crack had formed on its surface.
From one side of the field, Prince Rowan and Zephyr Albrecht were both staring at the stage intently. Even Lilith—who normally showed no interest in matches—was now leaning forward, eyes fixed on the arena.
Then suddenly. A movement. Very subtle.
Rovan's fingers twitched.
A collective murmur rippled through the gallery.
"Rovan is moving."
"So… he won?"
"Maybe. He still seems conscious…"
"Yeah, but barely. That girl—she nearly took him down."
In the noble balconies, whispers slowly grew louder. Even those who had previously dismissed Nerissa as a no-name girl were now speaking about her with genuine respect.
"She almost took victory from him…"
"She's only Tier One, right?"
"Yes. Absolutely unbelievable."
On the field, Rovan groaned softly as he sat up. His vision was still hazy and his breathing uneven. Nerissa's last attack had struck his neck, nearly knocking him out.
On the other side, Nerissa wasn't still moving.
But then, a faint dry cough was heard.
Nerissa stirred.
She was trembling but tried to push herself up using her elbow. Her robes were soaked in blood. She clutched her chest, gasping. She looked miserable. But her eyes…
They haven't accepted defeat yet.
She was exhausted and injured, but she still refused to yield.
Kuhh! Kuhhh! Another dry cough escaped her throat. Despite the pain and struggle, she kept trying to sit up again.
The crowd watched with bated breath.
Both fighters were on the verge of collapse. Mana gone. Strength drained. Bodies battered and broken.
Only one thing remained—
Conviction. A desperate will.
"I've come this far," Nerissa whispered to herself, biting her lower lip until it bled. "I won't lose now. I can't."
Rovan's eyes widened in response. A flicker of disbelief passed through him. Then, gritting his teeth, he too tried to stand with his last remaining strength.
But then—a sharp thump echoed.
Nerissa's strength gave out. Her knees buckled and she fell forward, face hitting the ground.
The audience gasped.
Rovan, swaying like a candle in the wind, finally stood. He was barely holding himself upright.
A long silence followed.
Then the referee raised his hand and announced, in a loud and clear voice:
"Winner: Rovan Yale!"
The cheers didn't come immediately. The gallery, balconies, and viewing boxes were filled with people still processing what had just happened.
Eventually, applause began to rise—first one, then two—and then it spread like a sudden downpour.
The silence that had lingered moments ago transformed into a thunderous roar—not for the winner, but for the battle itself. For Nerissa Vale.
"She may have lost the match," a nobleman whispered, "but she won something more valuable."
"Yes. Respect," someone added. "She earned it."
From the balcony, Logan nodded silently. His eyes weren't on Rovan, but on Nerissa. That raw defiance. That refusal to yield.
It reminded him of something.
Bravery.
Beside him, Rudeous, Alice, Ardyn, and Kael were all amazed and deeply impressed by the last match. Even Mirena was moved. Her usual cold demeanor had been shaken a bit.
Marquess Yale finally exhaled. Relief poured from his shoulders like sweat. His son had survived—barely.
Rovan descended the stage slowly with a heavy expression. He didn't feel like celebrating. His earlier smug expression had totally vanished.
Nerissa was still unconscious. A team of healers arrived to check on her. One gently placed a hand on her and used healing magic. Once her condition stabilized slightly, they placed her on a stretcher and carried her off.
The audience parted to make way. And as she passed, heads bowed. Even nobles stood in silence.
"Match Five, Stage Two!" the announcer's voice cut through the lingering emotion.
"Morgan Benedict of the Silverwind Valley… versus Yarik Feldor of the Crimson Fang Guild!"
Cheers rose again.
Morgan stepped forward calmly. His plain martial robes fluttered as he adjusted the heavy greatsword strapped across his back. No crest. No fanfare.
But his presence was undeniable.
On the opposite end, Yarik—a burly youth clad in red leather armor—cracked his neck and stomped forward, wielding two axes glowing faintly with fire runes.
"Do you think that solemn face will intimidate anyone?" Yarik spat, spinning one axe in his hand. "I'll teach you a lesson so harsh you'll forget how to speak for good."
Morgan said nothing. As if his opponent's words held no weight at all.
From the gallery, murmurs erupted:
"That's the Sword Saint's disciple, right?"
"Yeah, I heard he split a wyvern mid-flight."
"Let's see if that's just a myth or real."
From the balcony, Logan leaned forward slightly.
He had seen it all—bloody duels, desperate deathmatches, wars fought steel against steel. Yet something about these spell-driven battles, full of finesse and strategy, ignited a thrill within him. It wasn't just power—it was art. And he could hardly contain his anticipation.
Even Lilith's interest was piqued.
"Let's see what the silent one can do. He speaks so rarely, it's easy to mistake him for a machine."
"READY!"
The referee's voice thundered once more, resetting the tension across the arena.
"THREE…"
Yarik grinned, stepping into a wide stance.
"TWO…"
Morgan unsheathed his blade in one fluid motion.
"ONE… BEGIN!"
TO BE CONTINUED__