"Zeva has landed a brutal hit! Is this it!? Do we have a new champion!?" Quincy's voice rang out strong, but her eyes betrayed her, flashing with worry as they lingered on Even.
In a VIP stand, Samwell's gaze was razor sharp. "Fifth stage enhancements. That girl is more impressive than I thought," he muttered. His emotions twisted in conflict—there was grim satisfaction in seeing his son so deeply wounded, yet bitter annoyance at watching him be so thoroughly outplayed, tarnishing the Mathers name. Beside him, Matthew leaned forward, fists trembling. His chest was tight with nothing but worry. *Come on… you can heal from that, can't you!?* he thought desperately, lips pressed thin as his knuckles whitened.
Down in the arena, Even staggered, his breaths ragged, every word scraped raw by pain and blood loss. It only worsened as Zeva yanked her hand from his body, the wound tearing wider, crimson spilling freely.
"Give up. You can't win against me," she said—not with arrogance, but with the cold certainty of fact. With one fluid motion, she pulled her sword free as well, the steel glinting red with his blood.
Even's legs buckled. His vision blurred. Every instinct screamed at him to collapse, to stop fighting, to surrender to the overwhelming weight of his wounds. He had endured pain before, but this was something else—so many injuries pulling at him at once, each one demanding mana he couldn't afford to spare.
But then his thoughts sharpened through the haze. *Am I really going to give up?* His lip split as he bit down hard. *Am I really going to prove that old bastard right—that I'm a failure? That I just break when things get hard?*
His eyes lifted, burning with fury. *There's no way in hell I can do that!*
With a roar, his mana flared. Every drop of blood he had spilled responded, ripping off the ground and rising into the air around him. It swirled in wide circles, a storm of crimson halos spinning faster and faster.
Zeva's eyes narrowed, her stance lowering as she backed away, blade lifted. She braced for the storm to come at her—yet the blood never struck.
Instead, the torrent turned inward.
The spiraling blood collapsed toward Even, enveloping him, drowning him in scarlet. His voice thundered from within the cocoon, carried on the vibration of his magic.
"I am Even Mathers!"
The blood surged tighter, plates forming, hardening, locking into place with heavy, visceral clicks.
"The abandoned child of the Mathers family!"
The armor thickened, reshaping. Razor claws jutted from his gauntlets. A helm sealed over his face.
"The former mercenary known as Jakel!"
The storm began to die, blood solidifying until nothing but a towering figure remained—a knight clad in blood-red armor, jagged and imposing. From his back stretched great wings, sculpted from hardened crimson, broad and sharp as blades. The crowd gasped, awe and fear colliding in the silence that followed.
Through the slit of his helm, his gaze locked on Zeva, who now had to tilt her chin upward to meet it.
"The next patriarch of the Mathers family!"
The declaration shook the coliseum. And then he moved.
The ground cracked beneath his feet as he lunged forward, faster than he had ever been before. The blood-born wings flared wide, driving his momentum. His claws gleamed, reaching for her as his voice roared out again:
"And I won't just give up!"
*He's fast,* Zeva thought as he lunged, the crimson blur of his armor closing the gap with startling speed. She raised her blade to parry the sweeping claw aimed for her ribs, confidence flickering across her face—*But I'm faster.* Yet before steel could meet hardened blood, a sudden lance of pain stabbed through her stomach. Her gaze dropped. From the hip of Even's new armor, a spike of blood had shot outward, punching shallowly into her abdomen. She clicked her tongue, twisting her body just enough to deflect the incoming claw, then pushed off the ground in a sharp leap back, sword raised.
Even's eyes narrowed as she slid out of reach. *Damn… that should have gone deeper. She hardened just in time with fourth stage enhancements.* His jaw clenched. He knew he hadn't missed; she had simply endured.
High above, Quincy forgot herself. Her voice faltered, her lips parting in worry. She understood what Even was doing, why his movements had grown so suddenly sharp and relentless. He was forcing his blood to carry him further than any body should. He had thinned the viscosity of it, letting it surge faster. He was amplifying the contraction of his heart, making it hammer against his ribs like a war drum, pushing oxygen into his muscles in violent torrents. His reflexes heightened. His strength sharpened. But every beat carried risk—the strain could rupture vessels, tear veins, burst his heart outright if the magic wavered for even a moment. He wasn't just burning fuel; he was gambling with his life.
Zeva steadied her breathing, tightening her grip on her sword. The wound stung, but it was shallow. She lifted her blade into her stance. "Come at me. That cheap trick won't help you much."
Even sank lower, his clawed gauntlets flexing, blood still dripping from the spikes across his armor. "Keep that pride of yours… and watch how I break it down." His voice was low, ragged, then he burst forward again.
Their blades and claws collided with a heavy crack. Zeva twisted her sword upward, slashing in a tight spiral meant to drive his guard high, then snapped it into a horizontal cut aimed at his ribs. Even caught it on his forearm, but spikes erupted from his armor, forcing her to wrench the blade free before it was locked. She shifted immediately, stepping left and whipping her sword down toward his leg, then pulling it back into a thrust for his chest.
Even angled his body and swiped with a clawed hand, the force of it rattling against her guard. His armor bristled with barbs at each motion, jagged points threatening to snag her if she misstepped. She shifted her footing sharply, cutting low for his thigh before recovering into a high slash at his shoulder. The blows landed, shallow cuts streaking his armor and leaving visible cracks across both forearms.
He snarled, wings flaring out wide before he snapped them shut with a single beat that launched him upward. His claws dug into a marble pillar, anchoring himself halfway up. From there he crouched, ready to dive down with his weight behind him.
Zeva sprinted straight to the base, her blade cleaving into the stone with a clean strike. The column shuddered and began to topple. Without breaking pace, she jumped onto its slanting surface and ran upward, using the falling pillar as a bridge. She drove her sword in rapid strikes—first to his side, then a quick reversal toward his neck, followed by a diagonal cut meant to force him back.
Even met her midway, swinging with both fists in savage arcs, his wings beating hard to shift his angle midair. He countered each attack with sheer force, his body bristling with spikes from his knees, shoulders, and ribs. Every strike threatened to impale as much as it battered.
Steel clashed against hardened blood again and again on the falling stone. Each impact sent chips of marble flying until the pillar finally smashed into the arena floor, collapsing in an explosion of dust and rubble with both of them crashing down in its wake.
When it cleared, the contrast was sharp. Even stood hunched, panting heavily, his crimson armor fractured in jagged lines, one of his wings broken clean away. Zeva faced him with her sword lowered slightly, her breaths calm, measured, unshaken.
The third exchange was over.