Rose and So-waa squared off, standing as statues of will amidst a battlefield alive with trembling energy. The planet's very core seemed to respond to their presence; winds curved, stones levitated slightly, and lava pulsed faintly beneath the crust. Every element sensed them, bending subtly, acknowledging their dominion over nature itself.
The earth heaved, rupturing into molten fissures and spouting embers. The boys sank into the sand, convinced their adversaries were done. Yet So-waa's imagination was relentless—a quiet storm before the roar. She conjured illusions, seemingly mundane—a ragged child, an ordinary target—but the boys, deceived by perception, struck at the phantom with full force.
Illusion multiplied, twisted, and evolved. Each boy found himself trapped in combat with… himself. The field became a maze of mirrors and paradoxes, each swing and dodge an echo across reality. Yaomie, the students, and the clan heads observed in taut silence, hearts pounding at the spectacle of minds and power entwined. Suspense was almost tactile, tasting metallic on the tongue.
Swords ignited in arcs of blinding light, sparks scattering like shooting stars across the battlefield. Each swing moved faster than thought, faster than the eye could perceive. Crimson streaks traced through the air, streams of energy and blood weaving together into a terrifyingly beautiful tapestry.
Rose was thrown back, rendered momentarily helpless as torrents of attacks rained upon her. Miss Yaomie moved through the chaos with the grace of a hawk descending, appraising, calculating. "Excellent work, boys. The girls have finished. Next… Woa-mee."
Jin-nah faced Nico Kamaro. From the first heartbeat, it was clear—restraint would serve no one. Kamaro towered above the clouds, a living colossus whose shadow alone could fracture the terrain. Jin-nah split herself across the field: before-images, after-images, clones—each a precise strike of strategy and elegance, designed to probe, confuse, and strike.
Kamaro responded not with finesse but with overwhelming raw might. Each clone met devastating counterattacks, amplified reflexes, and synchronized assaults. The battlefield quaked beneath the sheer force of their collision—precision against power, elegance against inevitability.
Woa-mee's approach contrasted sharply: pure offense, a torrent of imagination made solid. Massive structures, impossible in density, were hurled like meteors, each one threatening to crush not just Kamaro's body but his perception. The sky darkened, clouds swirling into vortexes of anticipation, as the duels escalated into a storm of combat unlike any seen before.
The earth screamed under the weight of power, the air shimmered with tension, and every movement, every strike, every thought became part of a grand cosmic symphony. Each warrior was no longer just a student—they were the embodiment of their clans' pride, their ambition, their very essence, colliding in a ballet of destruction and brilliance.