After an hour of grueling combat, only ten of the original twenty contestants still stood on the stage. The fallen were either nursing injuries or being helped away, while the remaining competitors—Albert Ziloman, Reece Cantoe, Blaise Dean, Gabriel Ealt, Grant Olse, Bamisa Feran, Adebi Monta, Wilk Zoberman, Durst Atun, and lastly, Camille Ajun—stood as the apparent strongest of the group.
But five had to be eliminated.
They exchanged glances, their breaths visible in the faint haze that hung over the arena. Each knew the next round would determine who was truly worthy of the top five positions—the ones who would later face the kid mages of the Oradonian Order. With a mutual nod, they decided to pair themselves up. It was fair, and more importantly, it followed no broken rule.
Albert Ziloman chose Bamisa Feran.
Reece Cantoe stood opposite Adebi Monta.
Blaise Dean faced Wilk Zoberman.
Gabriel Ealt squared up against Durst Atun.
And finally—Grant Olse faced Camille Ajun.
Among the ten, Camille, Durst, and Wilk were unfamiliar faces. Before the competition, their strengths were untested, their fighting styles largely unknown — and that uncertainty made them dangerous. It was precisely this enigma that allowed them to carve their way through the ranks, dismantling opponents who had no prior knowledge to exploit. Unable to be studied or anticipated, they rose swiftly, securing their place among the final ten.
Camille Ajun, in particular, drew attention the moment she stepped forward. She was only fourteen, slender and graceful, with short dark hair that framed her pale face, stopping just above her shoulders. There was something enigmatic about her—something in her eyes. They were sharp, but unreadable; not cold, not warm—simply observing. One couldn't tell if she was analyzing, irritated, or entirely indifferent.
No one knew her background. She had joined the martial arts division only recently, yet her rise was meteoric—defeating every opponent she'd faced with a precision that bordered on uncanny. From obscurity, she had broken into the top twenty, and now she stood in the top ten, a single victory away from the prestigious top five.
Across from her stood Grant Olse—one of the school's "tank kids." He was tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a fortress. His muscles flexed even when he stood still, and his expression bore that smug confidence common among brawlers who trusted more in strength than skill.
He looked Camille over with mild disdain. "Just give up," he said, resting his mallet on his shoulder. "Let's save everyone some time. I don't want to hurt a girl."
Camille didn't answer. Her expression didn't flicker.
Grant's jaw tightened. "Hey. I'm talking to you."
Still nothing. She stood there, calm and unreadable, eyes tracing his movements with the indifference of someone watching a child misbehave.
"Are you deaf?" he barked. His voice boomed across the arena, bouncing off the walls until even the spectators began to shift uncomfortably. The silence that followed was almost humiliating.
With a snarl, Grant's patience broke. He lunged forward, muscles bunching beneath his sleeveless tunic. The ground shuddered under the weight of each stride, his iron mallet glinting wickedly in the arena light.
He swung.
The weapon came down like a meteor, ripping through the air with a guttural roar. Dust and heat whipped outward in its wake. But at the very last heartbeat—Camille moved.
It wasn't a leap. It wasn't even a proper dodge. She moved so faintly, so effortlessly, it was as if her body had turned weightless—a feather drifting out of reach. The mallet smashed into the stage with a thunderous crack, splinters flying, dust billowing.
When the haze cleared, Camille stood exactly where she had been, unharmed. Not a strand of her hair was out of place.
The crowd murmured in disbelief.
Grant stared, his jaw tightening, his pride stung. "You think this is a joke?" he snarled, lifting the mallet again.
But Camille only tilted her head slightly, her eyes locked on his. Her calmness was infuriating, like a mirror reflecting his rage back at him.
And for the first time since the match began, a faint smile touched her lips.
Grant Olse roared, veins standing out on his neck as he swung again, the mallet cleaving through the air with a low whistle. The audience gasped at the raw power behind the blow—if that thing touched her, bones would shatter like twigs.
But Camille Ajun didn't flinch. She moved with a quiet precision that made the movement almost invisible—her body turning just enough for the mallet to brush past her sleeve. Grant's weapon crashed against the stage once more, the sound of splintering wood echoing through the arena.
She wasn't blocking, nor was she attacking. She was dodging, not out of fear, but with an almost studied indifference—like she was observing the mechanics of a beast in motion.
Grant grunted and lifted his weapon again, panting slightly. "You think you're fast? Let's see you dodge this!"
He stomped forward, both hands gripping the mallet. The next strike came from above—a vertical smash that could have split stone in two.
But just as it descended, Camille stepped into his swing. Her body tilted—a blur of motion—and before the audience could even comprehend it, her palm brushed lightly against the shaft of his weapon. A gentle nudge, then a twist.
Grant's wrist bent awkwardly under the sudden change of leverage. The mallet tore free from his grip, spun once in the air, and crashed to the floor behind her with a dull, echoing thud.
The audience went silent.
Camille looked up, her face unreadable, eyes calm as still water. "If you're going to swing," she said quietly, "learn to control your weight."
Grant's pride ignited. He lunged forward with a growl, this time throwing a fist. But she met him halfway.
Her knee shot up—fast, sharp, merciless—slamming into his abdomen. The impact cracked through the air like thunder. Grant folded, breath exploding from his lungs. Before he could even fall, Camille pivoted, hooked his arm, and flipped him clean over her shoulder.
The massive boy hit the stage with a crash that rattled the wooden boards.
Groaning, he forced himself upright again, fury twisting his features. He charged once more, desperate to regain his pride—but Camille sidestepped at the last instant, her movement as light as breath. Before he could even react, she turned and delivered a single precise kick.
Grant stumbled off the edge, tumbling headfirst into the dirt below—humiliated, gasping, and utterly humbled.
He lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing on her as a silent vow formed in his mind: I'll get you back for this.
On another part of the stage, Gabriel Ealt and Durst Atun were locked in a fierce duel. Their fight unfolded in synchrony with Camille Ajun's battle, each clash of their weapons echoing across the arena like a rival heartbeat.