Blaise Dean leapt high into the air, the adrenaline rush could be felt by everyone who put their gaze on him, his rod whistling as it tore through the wind. The moment his shadow fell upon Wilk Zoberman, he brought it crashing down with a roar that echoed across the arena.
Wilk's reflexes kicked in — his spear rose instinctively to block, wielding every ounce of energy he could muster to stay on his feet — but the impact was like being struck by a falling boulder. The shockwave travelled through his arms, bones trembling, muscles screaming. The spear shaft quivered violently, nearly slipping from his grip. He stumbled backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Sweat streaked down from his temple, stinging his eyes as he glared at Blaise Dean. Just moments ago, he'd thought the battle was his — his strength had been pushing Blaise toward the edge, his attacks forcing him to defend again and again. Yet now, something had shifted. The once-battered boy stood before him, his eyes burning with resolve, his silver rank low level rod glowing faintly under the sun.
Wilk clenched his jaw, shaking away the tremor in his arm. "No more holding back," he muttered under his breath — and then he charged.
But Blaise didn't retreat. He soared. With a single push from his heel, he ascended once again, his body cutting through the air with startling grace. His rod came down like a thunderbolt.
A sharp clang! split the silence — Wilk's bronze-ranked spear went spinning from his hand, clattering across the stage. The next instant, Blaise's strike connected squarely with Wilk's chest, sending him sprawling to the ground, gasping for air.
Before he could recover, Blaise dashed forward, a determined gleam in his eyes. One solid kick — and Wilk Zoberman's body rolled off the stage, tumbling into the dust below.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Blaise Dean stood tall, chest heaving, a faint smile playing on his lips. He had secured the third spot among the five who would face the mages of the Oradonian Order.
First had been Camille Ajun.
Then Gabriel Ealt.
And now — Blaise Dean, the boy who fought for a name.
On the far left side of the stage, where the dust had yet to settle from previous clashes, Reece Cantoe was locked in a fierce battle with Adebi Monta—a masked girl whose twin daggers gleamed like shards of moonlight.
Reece, known for his overwhelming physical strength and unshakable confidence, had entered the duel with a smirk. In his mind, this was supposed to be a warm-up—a swift match that would end with him tossing the smaller opponent off the stage. But Adebi Monta wasn't playing by his expectations. She moved like a spider weaving through a storm: agile, unpredictable, and always finding a way to cling to the edges of defeat without falling.
Time dragged. Blow after blow, strike after strike, parry after parry. The crowd's initial excitement had waned into murmurs. Even the judges shifted uneasily in their seats as the battle crossed the one-hour mark. Reece's strikes were powerful enough to dent a bronze shield, but Adebi's movements were liquid—each attack slipping just past her as though she'd read the intention behind it.
Then came the mistake.
Reece lunged forward with a heavy swing, forcing her to duck under. Seizing what he thought was an opening, he pivoted and kicked out sharply. His boot connected with the side of her cheek with a sickening thud. The masked girl flew through the air like a rag doll and crashed onto her back, the impact echoing across the arena.
Gasps rippled through the spectators.
Reece didn't waste a second—he rushed forward, muscles taut, ready to end it. One good kick and she'd be off the stage. Victory would be his.
But just as his foot shot out, Adebi's body twisted with impossible precision. She rolled away, the sole of his foot cutting through nothing but air. The sudden imbalance sent Reece stumbling forward, arms flailing. Before he could recover, a shadow rose behind him—Adebi Monta, silent and swift.
Her leg snapped out like a whip.
Thud!
Reece Cantoe was sent sprawling off the stage, crashing into the ground below in a cloud of dust.
For a heartbeat, the arena fell utterly silent. Then—chaos.
The spectators erupted, their disbelief echoing like thunder. "Did she just—?!" "Reece Cantoe?!" "Impossible!"
Reece sat up on the ground, his eyes wide in disbelief. He—the First Lion of the martial arts school, the prodigy hailed as their strongest—had been bested, not by strength or brute power, but by a twist of cunning and grace.
It didn't matter how shocking it was. The rules were clear. Once off the stage, the match was over. No exceptions.
And so, amid the roaring crowd and the stunned silence of his peers, Adebi Monta—masked, mysterious, and underestimated—was declared the victor.
She became the fourth to advance among the five who would face the Oradonian Order mage kids.
And as the officials announced her win, a murmur swept through the stands like a sudden gust of wind stirring the calm surface of a lake.
"The spider-girl… she's no ordinary fighter," someone whispered in disbelief.
"She took down Reece Cantoe… Reece Cantoe," another voice echoed, as though repeating the name might make it more believable.
"I can't believe it either," murmured a third, "she moved like a shadow, like something from the old legends."
"Have we been born in a new century?" someone exclaimed from the upper seats, drawing laughter.
"This competition hasn't followed the script from the beginning," said an older man, adjusting his cloak. "There's that Camille Ajun who came out of nowhere, and let's not forget Blaise Dean. Then finally this Adebi Monta… what on earth is going on? Even Gabriel Ealt's win was a shock."
"Honestly," another added, "all the big lions are out except for Albert Ziloman. Two of the three are gone already. If he loses too, then this will go down in history as the greatest upset of the decade."
"Albert Ziloman will win," came a confident shout from a cluster of nobles near the front.
"Well, he almost lost," a boy replied, his tone carrying both mischief and awe. "If not for Reece Cantoe catching him at the last minute, he'd have been rolling off the stage by now. And now that same Reece Cantoe is out. What a twist!"
The noise swelled, a restless sea of voices—some cheering, some jeering, all crackling with anticipation. The emperor leaned forward on his throne, his chin resting lightly on his knuckles. A small, bemused smile curved his lips as his gaze swept across the remaining contenders.
"Interesting…" he murmured under his breath. "The future of the Empire might just be changing before our eyes."
Below the stage, the sunlight fell in golden shards across the polished arena floor. Dust floated lazily in the air, illuminated like falling stars as the announcer's voice boomed once again:
"And now… we await the result of the final match to determine our last contender!"
The roar of the crowd reached a fever pitch. The only two figures left standing on the stage turned to face each other—Albert Ziloman, the noble heir with unshaken pride, and Bamisa Feran, the quiet storm whose calm eyes hid a tempest waiting to be unleashed.
The stage trembled under their steps.
The final battle was already in motion.