The roar hadn't faded yet.
Even as the last name was etched onto the Final Four board, people in the stands were still on their feet—chanting, tossing scarves, some crying from the intensity of the last battles.
"Vey-la! Vey-la!" came a chant from the upper decks. A group of students pounded on drums made from old barrels.
"I swear I'll name my next kid after her!" someone yelled.
Down in the arena, the fighters were still catching their breath.
Lira was kneeling by the edge of the field, dabbing dried blood from her nose. A girl she'd never met threw a cloth banner at her feet—her personal crest painted across it in shaky lines. "You're still my favorite!" the girl called out. "That shield guy was a wall!"
Lira blinked, then let out a shaky laugh.
Rakan, still being mobbed by fans near the corridor wall, raised his hand toward Lira in quiet acknowledgment. She nodded back.
Meanwhile, Tarin and Marcel sat side by side on the steps, watching the crowd. Despite the noise, they were calm—two brothers in everything but name, whether or not the rumors of them being twins were true.
"You almost went over the edge on that last flip," Marcel said.
"Almost," Tarin muttered, rubbing his shoulder. "I figured if I looked stupid but won, it'd cancel out."
"You just looked stupid."
They both chuckled.
Kessai passed them, tossing Tarin one of her spare wraps. "Use that for the elbow. You're leaking."
"Thanks. Your footwork was insane."
"Not insane enough," she said with a grin, "but thanks."
Even Veyla, who normally kept to herself, found herself surrounded—though her arms were crossed, and she barely acknowledged the half-dozen young men and women awkwardly hovering nearby with roses and requests for her gauntlet size.
One kid, no older than fifteen, came right up to her. "You're, like… amazing. Can I—uh—can I train under you someday?"
She blinked. Then, with only the faintest smile: "Live through your first duel. Then we'll talk."
---
High above, in the judge's balcony, Elder Vess watched it all unfold.
He wasn't smiling.
A whisper-stone pulsed in his palm, glowing faint red.
He'd received the message during the final match: a Rift had cracked open in the eastern quarter—fully formed, unstable, and spewing magic like wildfire. No public panic yet. The guilds didn't know. The nobles certainly didn't.
But he did.
And that meant this tournament had just become something else entirely.
---
Back in the coliseum, the offers began to pour in.
This time, they weren't subtle.
A woman in silver velvet stepped into the ring, her crest marked with the House of Serion. "Veyla Ardent, House Serion is prepared to sponsor your entry into the capital's private training compound. No testing required."
Before she could respond, a man in duelmaster green stepped forward. "Tarin Jekz—we'll double your stipend if you sign on with the Skarnan Blades. No waiting period. You earned it."
A third voice called out—this time from a man with braided chains of office. "Marcel Jekz! House Ferra offers full lodging and elite sparring partners if you pledge your first expedition under our banner."
More followed—envoys waving rings, contracts, seals. It became a storm of names and offers.
Audience members began shouting opinions.
"Take it, Marcel!"
"Veyla doesn't need their money!"
"Lira deserves a shot too!"
Lira narrowed her eyes as someone offered Tarin a crystal ring. "Guess no one wants the runner-ups."
Kessai nudged her. "Don't count us out yet. Some of them are just afraid we'll outshine their picks."
Then came a crack.
Soft. At first.
A tremor, barely noticeable beneath the noise.
Then another.
And finally—a distant pulse of reddish light just beyond the upper rim of the sky.
Elder Vess stepped forward, his voice amplified by the magecasters beside him.
The crowd stilled immediately.
"To all present—contestants, nobles, guild envoys, citizens…"
Even the banners stopped fluttering.
"…this tournament is concluded."
Gasps. Confusion.
"The city is under threat. A Rift has opened in the east. This is no minor breach."
He paused, just long enough for the words to settle like stones.
"This is a full-scale rupture."
Screams erupted from the far corners of the stands. Spectators scrambled to get a better view. Some tried to leave. Others froze, stunned.
Elder Vess raised his hand again. "Those willing to stand—to fight—report to the southern sanctum for briefings. Your placements remain honored. But now, we test more than skill."
Down below, silence spread through the remaining fighters.
Marcel was the first to rise.
"We're not done yet," he said quietly.
Tarin stood beside him.
Veyla turned, flames lighting the sand beneath her boots.
Kessai cracked her knuckles.
Lira pulled her hair into a tight braid, lips set.
Even Rakan moved without hesitation.
The crowd watched—not cheering, not shouting. Just… watching.
And somewhere in the stands, one elderly man whispered to his friend:
"I came to see a tournament."
His friend, still holding a streamer with Lira's name on it, answered:
"We're about to see heroes instead."
The coliseum didn't empty like usual.
The cheers had stopped, but the tension lingered, thick and breathing.
Some still stood in their seats, eyes glued to the arena floor. Others whispered as the Final Four—Marcel, Lira, Tarin, and Veyla—walked not toward rest, but toward the southern gates of Mireholt.
From above, someone muttered, "They're not just fighters anymore."
"They're a damn team," another replied, watching Emberjaw stalk beside Veyla like a living flame.
At the southern sanctum, Mireholt's military had mobilized fast. Tables groaned under the weight of spare armor, runes, reinforced gear, and elemental-infused tools. Quartermasters moved like wind, throwing sets together for those stepping forward.
"Tarin, Marcel, Lira—lightning resist gear for the three of you. Rift aura burns deep."
"We're good," Lira said, adjusting the straps on her boots. "This isn't our first burst-zone."
Veyla tested the fit of a new gauntlet while Emberjaw snarled low at the crowd. "Keep him calm," a guard said, eyeing the beast.
"He is calm," Veyla replied.
Tarin flexed his elbow, already wrapped in Kessai's cloth. "We're going to need Emberjaw's fire if the Rift keeps growing."
Nearby, some of Mireholt's hunters had begun to arrive—scarred veterans, mid-rank freelancers, and a few known elites. They stared, half-impressed, half-curious, at the group of teens being outfitted like front-line soldiers.
"Didn't know the Jekz siblings were field-ready," a weathered man muttered, nodding toward them.
"They are now," someone answered.