"What a magnificent exchange! Both fighters are giving it their all! Just which one of them will be champion?!" Quincy's voice rang out, her tone split between awe and worry. The crowd responded in kind, some erupting in cheers while others leaned forward in silent anticipation.
"Even looks more hurt and tired compared to her," Lia muttered, rubbing her palms against her thighs, unable to hide her nervousness.
"Even with this new spell… is she really just that much stronger?" Dirk added under his breath, eyes locked on the arena.
Elsewhere in the stands, Wolf crossed his arms, his expression under the wolf mask calm but firm. "You're putting up a good fight, magic boy," he said as if Even could hear him, "but you still aren't winning against a Blossom."
Back on the battlefield, Even steadied his breath and forced one foot forward. But the moment he shifted his weight, his body seized. His eyes widened before he collapsed to his knees, the hardened blood plating dissolving all at once. It dripped away in heavy rivulets until it pooled around him, leaving only a broken man gasping for air. Each breath came ragged, shallow, painful.
From above, Quincy's chest tightened. *It's catching up to him… he's been forcing his own blood to keep his body going. Only vampires and half-bloods can endure that safely.* Her lips parted to call the fight, but she stopped herself, fingers trembling as she clenched her fists instead.
Zeva stood opposite him, lowering her blade slightly. "Are you finally done?" Her voice was steady, almost pitying. "You aren't in any state to fight any longer."
Even raised his head with visible effort, his neck trembling as he looked up at her. She was battered, her armor scratched and dirtied, shallow cuts marking her skin. Yet despite all of it, she stood poised, her breathing controlled, her movements precise. She looked like someone untouched by exhaustion. He, on the other hand, was pale, drenched in sweat, lungs heaving, his insides screaming with every beat of his heart. His wounds were healed on the surface, but inside he could feel himself falling apart. The shame of it twisted in his chest. He felt so utterly pathetic.
"No," he rasped, lifting a shaking hand. His palm trembled as he leveled it at her. "Not yet."
He still had one card left. His hereditary ability. The Mana Blast. He could still win.
Zeva let out the faintest sigh. "Fine," she said, making no move to strike. "Go ahead then." Her eyes locked with his, unwavering, as if daring him to try.
Even focused everything into his palm. His entire arm shook as he struggled to gather the last remnants of his mana. A faint glow shimmered, flickering like a dying candle, before a narrow beam of yellow shot out.
The crowd leaned forward—only to see how small it was. Barely the width of a finger, the attack was so weak it barely looked real. Zeva simply shifted a step to the side, letting it pass harmlessly. The beam fizzled into nothing before it even touched the far wall.
"With that, are we done now?" Zeva asked as she began walking toward him, her blade lowered but ready.
Even's breaths grew more erratic, his chest straining with every inhale. He pressed a hand into the floor, forcing his body to rise, but every muscle quivered under the effort. "Not… not yet," he croaked, his voice almost lost in the din of the arena.
He had to keep going. He had to prove himself. He had to show his father he wasn't a failure. He had to win. He had to—he just had to.
A firm hand seized his collar. His steam-rifle slipped free, the strap sliding off his shoulder as Zeva lifted him with ease. Their eyes met, her calm against his desperation.
"You did well," she told him quietly.
Her blade rose. For a single heartbeat, his mind unraveled everything at once—every moment since he had arrived here. He saw himself joining the tournament, the weight of proving himself heavy on his shoulders. Seeing his father once more. Discovering his new brother. Quincy's image burned brightest, the closeness they had found, the bond that had grown into something he never thought he would have. His victories over Annabel and Callum flashed sharp and vivid, reminders that he could win, that he had won. The battles he watched, the people he met, all the faces and voices, all the fragments of this journey surged through him in that fleeting instant.
*Ah… it wasn't all too bad, I suppose…*
The pommel of her sword slammed into his jaw. His body went slack, and at last, everything went dark.
Zeva released her grip, letting Even's limp body collapse onto the dueling platform with a dull thud that echoed across the arena. She stood over him for a moment, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, then slid her blade back into its sheath with a clean, final motion. That single gesture marked the end.
The silence broke in an instant. The crowd erupted, the sound of their cheers rolling through the coliseum like a crashing tide. Some shouted her name, others roared simply at the spectacle of it all, but together their voices merged into one deafening wall of sound. Whether they loved her or hated her, none could deny it—Aetheria had a new champion.
"And with that decisive strike, the Tournament of Greatness comes to an end!" Quincy's voice rang out over the uproar, her words sharp, carrying weight. "We have our new champion—Zeva Blossom—The Blade!"
All around the arena, staff lifted their hands skyward, conjuring blazing orbs of fire. They streaked upward before bursting apart in dazzling blooms of flame, bright enough to stain the marble towers and statues in shades of red and gold. More followed, shaping letters across the sky until the word CHAMPION burned above the coliseum in towering script, hanging over the battlefield like a crown of fire.
The Tournament of Greatness was finally over.