The Quarterfinals were not just a test of power.They were a crucible.
Each match now demanded everything—the fighters' skill, stamina, and spirit.No more easy wins. No more clean victories.
And no more mercy.
Quarterfinal One – Kael Ardyn vs. Ryn Volsen
Ryn was a Nautarian.
He walked with a smooth, wave-like rhythm, his presence cold and steady. His uniform was lined with subtle coolant tubes, glowing softly beneath his sleeves. As he stepped onto the field, faint mist curled around his boots, and the runes etched into the stage glowed with a chilling blue hue.
Water. Ice. Plasma.
Kael entered with calm precision, but every fiber of his being was alert. Ryn's aura wasn't overwhelming, but it was disciplined. Controlled. Deep, like a silent ocean trench.
DING.
Ryn struck instantly.
Blades of compressed water snapped forward—razor-thin and almost invisible. Kael twisted aside, a slice catching his sleeve as he launched a retaliatory pulse of shadow and disruption mana.
But Ryn was gone—gliding along a conjured stream of ice. His movements were fluid, seamless, every attack riding the rhythm of shifting terrain. He skated across frozen arcs, launching spears of ice and waves of boiling plasma in a relentless tide.
Kael moved fast, but even his honed instincts strained to keep up.
A whip of searing plasma cracked through the air—violet-white and blinding. Kael raised a mana shield just in time. The edges burned his shoulder, smoking his coat.
"Damn," he muttered, falling back behind a burst of kinetic shadow.
The stage trembled.
Ryn raised his arms—pillars of supercooled ice surged upward, transforming the field into a maze of jagged towers. Then, with a twist of his wrist, he superheated the peaks.
Steam and shrapnel exploded in a whiteout burst.
Kael blinked—teleporting behind one of the taller spires, chest heaving. He needed tempo. He needed control.
He focused. Mana surged—crisp, absolute. A shadow clone flared beside him.
Ryn noticed the shift. He charged—skating along a crescent of frost, his arm warping into a harpoon of plasma-forged water.
He hurled it.
Kael didn't flinch.
The clone intercepted it mid-air—detonating in a pulse of feedback that short-circuited the mana mid-flight. Ryn's eyes widened—just a beat too slow.
Kael appeared before him.
A raw strike of shadow-laced force slammed into Ryn's chest.
The Nautarian reacted, blasting Kael's arm with an ice burst, locking it in a frozen vice—but Kael's mana ignited in darklight arcs, burning straight through the encasement and sending Ryn sprawling backward.
The crowd roared.
Both fighters were panting now, their uniforms singed and battered.
Kael exhaled slowly. The pressure—that focus—it was back. Like before. Like the war.
He moved again.
Through searing arcs of plasma, weaving between icicle barrages, Kael closed the gap. Ryn tried to adapt—summoning a swirling wall of water—but Kael's clone dove in low, sweeping the legs.
The real Kael soared high above—
—and crashed down like a guillotine of force.
CRACK.
The arena floor split.
Ryn didn't rise.
The signal rune pulsed red.
DING.
"Winner: Kael Ardyn."
Kael staggered back, his shoulder bleeding, coat half-shredded.
That was tough.
Quarterfinal Two – Laziel Quent vs. Sylven Mora
Sylven Mora was unlike anyone Laziel had faced.
A Verdanth—lean and quiet, with bark-braided hair and a cloak of breathing leaves. Mana pulsed around her, a sickly mix of green and violet, rich with toxins.
Wood and Poison.
Laziel stepped onto the field, face composed but taut. His typical smirk was faint—there, but sharpened.
He'd seen what she did in her last match. Her vines didn't just bind.They corroded.
DING.
Vines erupted from Sylven's arms—lashing with bladed thorns, each tip coated in glistening venom. Laziel ducked, sidestepped, and twisted the air around him.
Wind bolts blasted outward, carving through the swarm.
Sylven smiled.
The vines were just the distraction.
Spores burst midair in clouds of violet haze—dense, choking, impossible to avoid. Laziel coughed, vision blurring, lungs stinging.
A javelin of sharpened wood rocketed toward him.
He raised a compressed wind barrier, catching it—but the impact threw him back, tumbling across the floor. He landed hard, blood in his mouth.
The audience held its breath.
Laziel groaned. His muscles screamed. His vision spun.
"No more showboating," he rasped, pushing to one knee.
He inhaled. Mana surged.
And then he changed.
The wind around him tightened into spirals. Sparks danced between his fingers—lightning, hot and biting, coiling through the gale.
He lunged forward, straight into the poisonous cloud—spinning with a vortex of wind and arcing energy. His form blurred as air shields shredded the spores and lightning snapped through the haze.
He slammed into Sylven mid-cast, hurling her back.
She caught herself—roots bursting from her heels to grip the earth. Her hands bloomed with thorned lashes, striking out in a brutal sweep.
One caught Laziel in the ribs.
He gasped. Pain flared. Poison seeped in.
But he clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth—and let go.
The air exploded upward in a spiraling column. Wind and lightning surged around him, forming a storm. He launched into the sky, then dove, spiraling downward like a thunder spear.
Sylven raised a wooden guard—
Too late.
Wind-blades sliced through her defense. Lightning cracked across the impact as she was hurled backward, smashing into the barrier wall.
She didn't rise.
DING.
"Winner: Laziel Quent."
Laziel dropped to one knee, trembling.
His arms shook. His breathing came in shallow gasps. His side—where the vine had struck—was already blackened, the poison spreading fast.
Medics rushed forward.
Kael watched from above, side bandaged, chest tight.
"Laziel…"
His friend raised a hand, still grinning.
"I'm good," he lied through grit teeth.
But Kael could see it.
The poison had dug deep.
From the viewing deck, Kael looked down at the arena, fists clenched.
Two matches remained.
Reks Valorin vs. Olivia Lux
Aurielle Vael vs. Ralph Lumen
And no one doubted—
They would be brutal.