Albert Ziloman and Bamisa Feran were both exhausted beyond measure. Their fight had long surpassed the ferocity of any other match that day. It had begun at the same time as the others, but neither had yielded an inch since the first clash. Now, the air around them shimmered with heat and tension, and the audience sat frozen, watching two boys who refused to fall.
Albert's grip tightened on his iron rod. His arms trembled as he raised it, muscles screaming from fatigue. He swung—slowly this time, not with the force of pride, but with the stubborn will of a boy who could not afford to lose. The rod sliced through the air, but Bamisa Feran twisted aside just in time.
His boots scraped the cracked stage floor, and he sank to one knee, his saber digging into the ground to support his trembling frame. Sweat drenched his hair and rolled down his cheek, tracing lines of dirt across his young face. His breathing came in ragged bursts, chest heaving as if each breath might be his last.
Across from him, Albert Ziloman was not faring much better. His uniform was torn, his once-straight posture bent by fatigue. His breath rasped as he staggered back, rod trembling in his grasp. He had to win—he must win. The emperor's gaze was still on him, sharp and steady from the imperial balcony. Losing now, after barely surviving his last match thanks to Reece Cantoe's help, would be a humiliation that would stain the Ziloman name.
Reece Cantoe…
Albert's mind flickered to the moment Reece had pulled him back from defeat, only for Reece himself to fall later. None of this had followed the expected path. None of it had gone according to the script. The competition was chaos—a storm that had swallowed every prediction whole.
Meanwhile, Bamisa's gaze drifted toward the stands, searching through the sea of faces. And then he found them. His mother sat in the middle rows, her hands clasped tightly, lips whispering silent prayers. Beside her was a little boy—his six-year-old brother, Bamise Eyan—his eyes wide with fear and pride.
A faint smile tugged at Bamisa's lips. That was all the reminder he needed.
His father had died in the great war, one of the few brave men who fought at Prince Balek's side. The emperor had honoured their names through the recounting of Archmage Amber Nois, who used powerful magical and ancient relics to retrace the events of that fateful battle. Their family had been compensated, their legacy celebrated—but Bamisa knew that honour meant little if he failed to live up to it.
He was the first son of the Bamisa bloodline now. The weight of that truth pressed on him harder than the exhaustion in his bones.
The stage creaked under their feet as both boys straightened again. The crowd was silent now, the air thick with anticipation.
Albert wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "You've lasted longer than I expected," he said hoarsely, his voice shaking with exhaustion rather than arrogance.
Bamisa exhaled sharply, steadying his saber. "And you've fought harder than your name suggests."
Their eyes met—two wills, colliding without words.
Albert lifted his rod again, barely able to keep it steady. Bamisa tightened his grip on the saber, feeling the pulse of his heart match the rhythm of the roaring wind above the arena.
He knew he was at his limit. He had already given everything—every drop of strength, every breath of determination. But for his mother… for Bamisa… for the memory of his father standing tall beside a prince…
He would either win this fight—
or pass out trying.
"These two are really going to destroy themselves! Why do they fight so fiercely?!" someone in the crowd cried, unable to look away from the brutal exchange unfolding on the stage.
"They're just kids…" a woman murmured beside him, clutching her shawl. "Why do they look like they're fighting for their lives?"
A man in a brown cloak leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "That one on the right—that's Bamisa Feran. The son of General Bamisa, the war hero. His father died fighting beside Prince Balek himself. Without the general alive to guide him, the boy's been carrying his family's honour alone. He's fighting to prove he's worthy of that name… maybe even to earn a place in the army someday."
The woman gasped softly. "He's only fourteen, isn't he?"
"Fourteen," the man confirmed grimly. "But his eyes… they're not the eyes of a boy. He fights like someone who's already seen the world take everything from him."
Across the stands, another spectator countered sharply, "Don't count out Albert Ziloman either! The Zilomans are one of the oldest noble families in this region, region 4. His father sits among the governor's council. You think someone like that will lie down and lose in front of the entire court? No chance. He has pride to defend—royal eyes are watching."
"Pride versus honour," another murmured, half to himself. "One fighting for his bloodline, the other for his father's legacy. This isn't a spar anymore—it's a clash of men, not boys."
The arena had grown deathly quiet now. Only the ragged breathing of the two fighters echoed in the wind. Both Albert and Bamisa stood trembling, swaying slightly from exhaustion. Dust clung to their sweat-soaked faces, and the glow of the setting sun painted their silhouettes in bronze light.
"They're both tired," someone whispered. "You can see it in the way they move. But look at them… neither's backing down."
"They just keep going…"
The murmurs faded into silence as Albert and Bamisa raised their weapons once more—rod and saber gleaming faintly under the twilight.
Every movement now was heavy, deliberate. Every breath, a battle. Yet neither would yield.
Because for both of them, this wasn't just about victory.
It was about what it meant to lose.
Albert Ziloman's rod came crashing down in a desperate counter, sparks bursting from the impact as it collided with Bamisa Feran's saber. The metallic clang echoed through the arena, sharp and thunderous, before fading into the tense silence that followed. Albert's arm throbbed violently from the shockwave, pain shooting up to his shoulder like fire through his veins.
Bamisa saw it—the falter, the hesitation, the fraction of a heartbeat where Albert's guard dipped. His instincts screamed now! He lunged forward, twisting his body with the last reserves of his strength, and drove his leg upward in a brutal kick aimed squarely at Albert's gut.
The strike connected with a dull, meaty thud. The force sent a ripple through Albert's body, his knees bending as he struggled to remain upright. The crowd gasped—many thought that was the end. That the noble boy would crumble under the blow.
But Albert Ziloman refused.
He grit his teeth, eyes flashing with something primal—defiance. The weight of his noble blood, the emperor's gaze, the legacy of his family—everything pressed down on him at once, and in that crushing moment, he rose against it.
With a roar that tore from the depths of his chest, Albert seized Bamisa's leg, locking it under his arm. His muscles screamed as he lifted, every fiber of his body burning. Then, with one final burst of desperate strength, he twisted—hauling Bamisa Feran clean off the ground and tossing him high into the air.
The world seemed to slow.
Bamisa's saber slipped from his hand as his body spun through the sunlight, weightless for a moment, before gravity claimed him. He hit the ground outside the stage with a heavy thud that echoed in every heart present. Dust rose around him like a soft veil.
He didn't move. He couldn't. His strength—his will—had finally reached its limit.
Albert swayed on his feet, staring blankly toward the fallen boy. His rod slipped from his grasp and clattered beside him. The tension in his body broke, and he fell to his knees before collapsing entirely, his chest rising and falling weakly as consciousness left him.
For a moment, the arena was silent. Then, as the realization sank in—Albert Ziloman had won—the crowd erupted.
Thunderous applause, wild cheers, and cries of awe shook the coliseum. Some shouted Albert's name. Others called out for Bamisa. Even the emperor rose slightly from his seat, his expression unreadable beneath the golden light.
Two boys had fought until they had nothing left.
And though only one remained on the stage, both had won the hearts of everyone who witnessed that battle.