In the stands, Drift let out a weary sigh. "And it's over," he muttered, leaning back in his seat. Beside him, Jefferey was already loosening the drawstring of his coin pouch. "Another year passes," he said as he counted out the wagered coins. Drift accepted them without hesitation, weighing the pouch with a small, satisfied nod. "Goddess, this year was so good—at least for the tournament," he added, tucking the winnings away. The two friends settled in quietly, waiting for the inevitable moment when Zeva would be crowned champion.
Elsewhere in the stands, X gave a low chuckle, the sound muffled and warped by his skull mask. "See? Good thing I made us come watch. This has been a blast." Sarandel's posture was already shifting forward, ready to leave. "It was entertaining," she admitted evenly, "but now let us go and take care of Ercale." She began to rise, but X quickly lifted a hand. "Hey, wait. Let's see the swordswoman crowned first, then we'll go deal with your problem." Sarandel paused, exhaling through her nose before sitting back down. "Fine," she said simply.
In another section, Dirk sat stiffly, his gaze locked on Even's unconscious body as the medics carried him away. His voice was barely audible. "That's it… he didn't win." Beside him, Lia rested a hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't matter if he won or not," she said gently, her grip firming as she gave his shoulder a small squeeze. "He sent the message he wanted to send. That's good enough." Dirk stayed quiet, then gave her a small nod.
Somewhere else in the crowd, Clara was practically bouncing in her seat. "I'm so glad I came this year!" she exclaimed, turning to Elsa with bright eyes. "We should do this every year!" Elsa's smile was faint but warm. "Maybe—if you enjoyed it that much," she replied, indulging Clara's excitement.
Somewhere else in the stands, Wolf crossed his arms, the wolf mask hiding his smirk. "The moment she stepped into the tournament, the winner was already decided," he muttered, his voice low with pride. His eyes never left Zeva, who stood calmly in the arena, waiting for Quincy to crown her. "I am proud of you," he added under his breath.
In one of the VIP stands, Zara released a wistful sigh. "It's over… but I don't want it to be." Prince Mark glanced at her curiously. "Why? Did you enjoy the fights that much?" he asked. Zara shook her head softly. "I enjoyed them, yes—but what I enjoyed most was this." She gestured faintly between them, her meaning clear: the closeness, the ease they hadn't shared in years of cold distance and sharp words. "And I don't want that to end." Her voice was quiet, yet open in a way that startled him. Mark blinked, taken aback by her frankness. For a moment, he said nothing, then closed his eyes and steadied himself. "Do not worry. It won't," he answered at last, his tone firm. He wanted his sister back. The fear of her near assassination still clung to him—fear that he could lose her at any moment. He would not allow their last memory to be bitter words. Whatever her feelings, however tangled or romantic, he would 'accept' them in a way, if it meant having her close again. Zara's eyes widened slightly at his response, but then she smiled, soft and unexpectedly gentle. "Then I am glad."
In another VIP stand, the Emperor of Aeruna sat with his chin resting against his knuckles, his gaze fixed on the arena below though his thoughts were elsewhere. Tianteng noticed his silence and leaned forward slightly, her voice measured and respectful. "What weighs on your mind, my Emperor?"
He did not answer immediately, his brow furrowed as though sifting through his own thoughts. At last, he spoke, his tone thoughtful rather than heavy. "I am wondering why I never came here sooner. This has been far more entertaining than any of our parades in years."
Tianteng's lips curved into her thin, deliberate smile. "You did not have me during those times, my Emperor," she said smoothly. The Emperor turned his head toward her, studying her face for a few seconds before returning his attention to the arena. "Yes," he admitted, "I suppose that is true."
In yet another VIP stand, Samwell's grip on the armrest of his chair was so tight his knuckles whitened. His voice came low, simmering with anger. "After all those words, after that… declaration, you proved that you are nothing but a failure." His expression shifted, however, his clenched jaw loosening into a smile. He exhaled slowly, the smile stretching wider as he calmed. "Good. Even if you dragged our name through the dirt, at least you showed everyone I was right to cast you out." His tone was disturbingly satisfied, as if Even's loss had confirmed his judgment beyond question.
Matthew on the other hand, released a quiet sigh, his thoughts far gentler. *It's okay… even if you lost, it's okay. Now I know, and now Aetheria knows, that Even Mathers exists.*
In the fighters' waiting room, Mae nudged Xain with an elbow. "Looks like we voted right," she said with a half-grin.
Xain folded his arms, his voice carrying less triumph than hers. "I guess. But does that really matter? Even put up a great fight."
Mae only lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug, not interested in arguing the point.
Calvinel clapped his hands together, the sharp sound drawing all attention to him. "Alright, everyone, let's get ready. Miss Quincy said we have to be out there after the match." He jabbed a thumb toward the exit, and the group nodded before filing out of the room, heading down the corridor toward the arena entrance.
Back in the arena, Quincy stepped forward and brought her palms together in a sharp clap. The dueling platform at the center sank away, its etched lines dimming until they vanished beneath the stone. From beneath, broad steps of marble rose in its place, fanning outward like the tiers of a temple. At the very top stood a grand pedestal, tall enough to command every eye in the coliseum—the place of the champion.
To its side, a single platform lifted into view, polished obsidian veined with gold, reserved for the fighter who had claimed second place. Opposite it, balanced in symmetry, two smaller platforms emerged together, each of equal height, prepared for the two fighters who had tied for third.
The grand plaza that had been a battlefield shifted as if unveiling its second form. The glowing veins of the obsidian floor brightened, their constellation-like patterns reweaving into laurel wreaths and crowned symbols that pulsed softly with light. The colossal statues lining the arena turned slightly inward, their stone gazes no longer watching the fight but bowing in silent recognition of victory.
Above, the balconies and bridges shimmered with newly formed banners of stone and crystal, unfurling in perfect arcs that framed the central stage like a hall of honor. What had moments ago been a monument to battle now stood as a monument to triumph.
Zeva remained in the center of the arena, calm and steady, her figure unshaken as the floor rearranged itself around her. Quincy's voice rang out across the coliseum. "Alright, everyone—it's time for the crowning ceremony! I hope you're all ready!"
She remained unaware that high up in the arena walls, a certain wight had settled into position. His hands gripped a bone-sniper, the weapon leveled and steady, its aim set on killing a certain blue-haired boy.