The arena was silent—unnaturally so. Thousands of eyes from the viewing platforms above, nobles and commoners alike, bore down upon the last duel. The air was thick, suffocating with tension, as if the entire academy itself was holding its breath.
Two figures stood across from one another, separated by only a stretch of white-scarred stone.
On one side, Damon Ashblood, the novel's chosen protagonist. Broad-shouldered, lightning crackling faintly across his skin, his stance screamed authority and command. Every muscle coiled with lethal intent. He was everything the world expected: hero, warrior, heir to a ducal house.
On the other, Caelan Crowndread. Water shimmered along the edge of his blade, droplets sliding down his arms. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, yet his posture remained unbroken, regal, precise. Blood streaked his face from earlier rounds, ribs fractured, legs trembling beneath him—but his outward calm never faltered.
[ Final Match Commencing ]
[ Victory will determine Academy ranking ]
Caelan's lips curved faintly. The world cheered for its golden boy. But even heroes could bleed. He let a low murmur reach Damon as lightning danced faintly along the golden boy's arms.
"You know," he whispered, voice low but steady, "this feels familiar. A prince with nothing left but grit, standing against a golden boy adored by all." His smirk deepened, blood dripping from his nose, eyes unwavering. "Tell me, Damon… do you bleed?"
The first strike was instantaneous. Damon lunged, fists crackling with lightning like a storm breaking free. Caelan pivoted, water solidifying into a jagged blade along his arm. Metal collided with mana, sparks flying, stone shattering beneath their feet. Pain ripped through his shoulder; he bit back a scream.
A flurry of blows rained down. Damon's fists were lightning incarnate, each strike leaving a trail of sizzling sparks and scorched stone. Caelan's water sliced, shielded, and speared. Every swing of his blade sent shards of frozen liquid shattering, cutting into Damon's flesh, drawing a hiss of pain. Blood sprayed. Wet, sticky, metallic—the smell of iron hung in the air.
He staggered, dodging a strike that smashed a chunk of the arena floor into his side. Pain lanced along fractured ribs. Blood ran freely, dripping into his mouth. He spat, grimaced, then adjusted his stance. Monarch's grace. Outwardly perfect. Inside, his thoughts scrambled: Why is every hero a sadist?
Lightning cracked the stone beside him. Dust and debris rained down. He rolled, water morphing into a blade that cut a foot-wide gouge in the arena floor as he struck Damon's ribs. The golden boy grunted, staggered. A flash of triumph flickered in Caelan's chest, but it was brief. Another blow tore across his side, splintering muscle and leaving his lungs burning.
He felt a gurgle in his stomach, taste of blood. Nose bleeding, brain throbbing from overuse of Enhanced Comprehension. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to hold the chaotic world in focus. Lines of movement traced every muscle in Damon's body. Every twitch. Every heartbeat. Every blink.
The duel became a dance of gore and strategy. Water formed whips, spears, shields. Each strike tore flesh, cracked bone, and sent blood spraying. Damon's lightning fists shattered stone, knocked teeth loose, split hairline fractures in Caelan's skull. Every landing sent shards of concrete and debris slicing across their bodies.
At one point, Damon's elbow tore through his forearm. Sinew shredded. Caelan twisted, dodged a strike that would have cleaved him in half, water cutting through Damon's abdomen. Hot blood sprayed in a fine mist. Caelan's vision blurred. Pain radiated from every broken bone, every ruptured muscle.
Yet he moved. Relentlessly. Strategically. Monarch-level composure covering a whirlwind of desperation inside. Every parry, every stab, every dodge was calculated. Every step, a thread of life held by sheer willpower. Enhanced Comprehension screamed in his mind, mapping paths of survival, finding openings. Every moment closer to collapse.
Damon grinned mid-swing, fury in his eyes. So, he thinks he can bleed me dry? His fist smashed into Caelan's chest. Ribs shattered further. Internal organs shifted with wet, sickening squelches. Caelan's knees buckled, blood spattering his own blade.
The arena shook. Dust and debris fell. The smell of iron and ozone filled the air. Each movement left gouges, sparks, and streaks of blood across stone and skin.
Caelan countered. Water spears into Damon's shoulders, arms, chest. Lightning met liquid in sizzling collisions. Both were bleeding—Damon less so, but each strike cracked stone, tore flesh. Caelan's enhanced cognition allowed him to anticipate, but the strain burned his skull, blurred his vision. A gush of blood from his nose burned his lips.
The final sequence approached. Caelan launched a spinning strike, water forming a whip of scalding force. Damon dodged, countered with a fist that smashed Caelan's ribs, a wet crack audible across the arena. He fell to one knee. Pain lanced everywhere. Breath ragged, vision fading.
Yet his gaze stayed on Damon. Every ounce of pride, desperation, and sheer stubbornness coalesced into one thought: I am not going quietly. Not like this.
Lightning, blood, water, stone, fire, sinew, muscle, and the taste of coppery iron filled the air. The arena seemed to tilt, a storm of movement and agony. With one final, gritted thrust, Caelan lunged, water spear shattering on impact. Damon sidestepped with near-perfect precision, punching Caelan's chest and sending him sprawling.
He hit the ground, broken, blood soaking his clothes, organs aching as if trying to escape. Vision tunneled. He tasted iron, smelled scorched stone, heard the roaring crowd dimming into a dull hum.
As consciousness slipped, one thought burned: Why… was I fighting so hard? For what?
Damon stood over him, chest heaving, fists still sparking faintly with electricity. No words passed, only a long, deliberate look. Acknowledgment. Respect. Rivalry unspoken, unclaimed—but present in the air between them.
And then the world faded for Caelan Crowndread. Bloodied, beaten, but alive—he had pushed to the absolute limit, and the duel ended.
[Winner: Damon Ashblood]