Gabriel Ealt had dark, cascading hair that shimmered under the sunlight, the kind often mistaken for a girl's—but there was nothing feminine about him. His sharp jawline, calm expression, and effortless grace drew eyes to him like moths to flame. Every movement carried a quiet confidence, and the crowd couldn't help but watch him with fascination.
Durst Atun, in contrast, had chestnut hair that glinted bronze in the light and a face dotted with freckles. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, muscles coiled with determination. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, his blade whistling through the air as it came crashing toward Gabriel.
Clang!
The sound of metal on metal rang out sharply as Gabriel met the strike head-on. Sparks burst where the swords met, scattering like tiny stars.
The two moved in a blur—advancing, retreating, circling. Every step was deliberate, every swing calculated. Gabriel's footwork was light, almost balletic, his strikes precise and flowing. Durst's style, by contrast, was raw power—each blow came with the weight of a storm, forcing Gabriel to pivot and parry with speed and control.
The audience leaned forward, drawn into the rhythm of the fight. The clash of steel filled the arena like music, fierce and unrelenting.
Neither seemed to give ground. It was a duel between grace and grit—beauty and force locked in perfect balance.
"Your Majesty, who do you think will win between those two?" Governor Raphael MacNelly asked quietly, glancing at the emperor beside him.
Emperor Josh Aratat did not immediately respond. His sharp eyes remained fixed on the arena, watching the two young swordsmen as they traded blows. The air was alive with the ringing of steel, the echo of boots scraping across stone.
After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice calm and certain.
"It's the black-haired boy… Gabriel."
The governor turned his head sharply, taken aback. At that very moment, Durst Atun had just smashed his blade down on Gabriel's guard, forcing the dark-haired youth to the ground. The impact sent Gabriel's sword clattering dangerously close to the edge of the platform. Gasps rippled through the audience—Durst seemed to have total control.
MacNelly frowned slightly. How could His Majesty choose the one who's losing?
But he said nothing. The emperor had a history of seeing beyond the obvious. Twice before, Raphael had doubted him—and twice he'd been proven wrong. This time, he decided to wait.
Durst raised his leg, aiming a powerful kick meant to send Gabriel flying off the stage. The crowd tensed. It should have been the end.
Yet in the blink of an eye, Gabriel twisted his body, rolling aside. His movement was clean—almost too fluid for someone just pinned down. The next instant, he was already on his feet, sword in hand, darting away from danger with startling precision.
The governor's eyes widened as the boy regained his stance, his breathing steady, his gaze sharp once again. Murmurs spread through the stands; even the judges leaned forward.
A faint, knowing smile curved across Emperor Josh's lips.
"Do you see now, Raphael?" he said softly. "He doesn't fight to overpower. He fights to endure. The longer this lasts, the more it becomes his battlefield."
The governor exhaled slowly, the surprise still fresh in his voice. "I see… as always, Your Majesty."
The clash reignited—two young warriors, steel meeting steel, the sound echoing like thunder across the arena. Sparks scattered each time their blades collided, flashes of light marking the rhythm of their struggle. The ground beneath them was scarred with their footsteps, dust swirling in frantic circles as they danced their deadly waltz.
Durst Atun roared, swinging his sword in broad, heavy arcs. His strikes carried weight, each one meant to crush. But Gabriel Ealt moved like flowing water—smooth, effortless, untouchable. He twisted, pivoted, and turned with a grace that defied logic, his black hair whipping around him as if stirred by the wind itself.
Minute by minute, the difference in endurance began to show. Durst's breathing grew ragged, sweat dripping from his temples. His once-powerful swings started to falter, his timing slipping. The strength that had been his pride was now his prison, chaining him with exhaustion.
Gabriel's eyes narrowed. He had waited for this moment—watched Durst's stance loosen, his guard lower ever so slightly.
Then he moved.
A blur of motion. A flash of silver.
Gabriel's right foot shot out in a precise, lightning-fast kick that struck Durst's side. The impact wasn't enough to throw him—but it did its job. Durst stumbled, his footing faltering for the briefest instant.
And that was all Gabriel needed.
He pivoted sharply, spinning to the left. His sword slashed in a controlled arc, knocking Durst's weapon clean from his grasp. The clang of metal hitting the stage floor rang like a bell announcing defeat.
Before Durst could recover, Gabriel's form became a whirlwind of motion. He leapt forward, delivering two rapid kicks—one to the chest, another to the shoulder. The strikes landed with brutal precision, sending Durst flying backward off the platform.
The crowd gasped as his body hit the dirt below, the sound of impact swallowed by the roar of the audience that followed.
Gabriel landed lightly on his feet, sword lowered, breathing steady. A faint smile played on his lips—not of arrogance, but of quiet triumph.
High above, the emperor nodded once, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Gabriel Ealt had secured victory—and the second spot, right behind Camille Ajun.
He stood aside with Camille Ajun, the two of them calm and observant while chaos erupted across the stage. Around them, dust rose, weapons clashed, and the roar of effort and pride filled the air.
Blaise Dean and Wilk Zoberman were locked in a violent exchange—rod against spear, wood cracking against reinforced steel. Wilk Zoberman, slender and mild-mannered in appearance, carried the deceptive power of a tempest. Each swing of his spear struck like thunder, sending shudders through the platform and forcing Blaise backward, step after trembling step.
Several times, Blaise's heel scraped dangerously close to the edge. The crowd gasped with every near fall, sensing that one more blow might hurl him from the stage. But in those moments—those breaths between defeat and defiance—something changed in him. He remembered the emperor's eyes, the weight of his trust, and the silent promise he had made to become someone worthy of his name.
His grip tightened. His stance steadied. The boy's flair reignited, burning away hesitation. When Wilk struck again, Blaise met the attack head-on—his rod no longer merely defending, but striking back with rhythm, resolve, and a courage that felt almost divine.