Once the stage was repaired—its cracked stone mended by the arena's ancient runes, the air humming with renewed anticipation—Thornborne moved first, his form dissolving into a fluid cascade of molten magma flames. He streaked across the space in a blazing arc, re-materializing on the arena floor with a resounding thud, the ground sizzling beneath his feet as embers danced in the air.
A rugged warrior now stood in the sunlit arena, his chiseled, shirtless physique etched with cracks like parched earth, each fissure pulsing faintly with an inner glow that hinted at volcanic origins. Layered beaded necklaces adorned his chest, clinking softly with each breath, while spiked black leather armor encased his shoulders and arms, exuding a fierce, primal edge that spoke of countless battles. His wild, windswept hairstyle—shaved on the sides with longer, tousled strands on top—lent him a fierce, untamed look, framing a handsome face defined by a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and piercing dark eyes that burned with unyielding resolve. A full, well-groomed beard accentuated his angular features, adding a rugged nobility that seemed carved from the earth's core itself.
A few female spectators couldn't resist stealing several-second glances at Thornborne's throbbing chest, his handsomeness rivaling the GodKing's own in a way that set their pulses racing—his rugged form a sculpted testament to primal strength. Yet, the memory of the men's earlier fate, struck down by the GodKing's wrath for ogling his disciple, sent a deep disturbance rippling through their chests. Their gazes darted away from Thornborne's chiseled frame, expecting a similar fate to crash upon them.
But after a tense moment, no retribution came. A murmur of relief spread among them—some beginning to believe the GodKing's ire wasn't sparked by mere procreation, but by those who dared covet his disciple. With that realization, their tempered lust surged free once more, eyes returning to Thornborne's striking features, some already dreaming of the powerful heirs their clans might produce should a marriage alliance be forged.
Meanwhile, high above in the veil of time, Ezmelral tilted her head, her brow furrowing with puzzlement. The cracks spiderwebbing across Thornborne's upper chest—like fractures left by a weapon plunged into parched earth—nagged at her curiosity. "What's wrong with his body?" she asked Raiking, her voice laced with wonder.
He met her gaze, his crimson eyes steady as he unraveled the tale. "Much like Solomon's father is titled the 'Void King' for his legacy in Void Essence, there once existed an Entity so attuned to Fire Essence that he ascended it into a unique power: Flameonic Essence. Unfortunately, he was slain by an escaped Void General. His Essence dispersed to a nearby planet, infusing its people with its fiery legacy—"
"I assume that's where Thornborne is from?" Ezmelral asked, her voice tinged with curiosity as she leaned closer to Raiking, eyes darting back to the warrior below.
Raiking nodded, his crimson gaze steady as he continued. "Just as your lookalike bears the GodKing's Bloodline, the royal family of Planet Aculeus traces its lineage to an ancestor who comprehended Fire Essence so deeply she was blessed with the Flamonic Bloodline. This granted her Flamonic Essence and a rare 3% chance for her descendants to inherit it."
"I see," she murmured, processing the connection, then tilted her head. "What about the cracks on his body?"
He glanced at Thornborne's cracked chest, his tone carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "Those who inherit the Flamonic Bloodline face a counterbalance: their bodies endure a volcanic-like eruption, a constant internal blaze that fractures their flesh."
Her eyes widened, concern flickering. "Does that mean he's dying?"
"Yes," Raiking replied, his voice somber.
"Is there no cure?" she pressed, her voice softening with empathy.
"The GodKing's blood might hold the key," he said, his words deliberate, hanging in the air like a rare offer.
"Why hasn't it been given, then?" she asked, her brow furrowing.
"He has no reason to," Raiking answered simply, leaving the implication to settle.
Ezmelral fell silent, her mind racing. Maybe that's why he's here—fighting for the tournament's wish. Aloud, she ventured, "So... he wants to win the GodKing's blood?"
"More than likely," Raiking conceded. "But as a future ruler, his wish could aim higher—power, alliance, or redemption. We'll only know if he claims victory."
Ezmelral turned her gaze to Thornborne's opponent—a luminous ocean-born being who radiated an otherworldly grace, her skin shimmering like liquid silver rippling beneath an unseen tide. Bioluminescent patterns danced across her face and body, glowing with the rhythmic pulse of the sea's heartbeat, as if her essence were woven from its depths. Elongated, coral-like ears framed her features, while strands of flowing aqua hair drifted like currents in an endless ocean, swaying with an ethereal weightlessness. Her gaze, calm yet piercing, held the serenity and mystery of the abyss—both alluring and untouchable, a living embodiment of the ocean's beauty and its unfathomable depths.
"Can he win?" Ezmelra l asked, her curiosity piqued by the aquatic figure's unreadable grace.
Raiking's crimson eyes observed the luminescent warrior, his tone measured. "Water Essence is often underestimated... but when wielded by its native species, the tides of battle become unpredictable."
"No legendary tales for her?" Ezmelral probed, searching for a history to match the spectacle.
"Her people need no legends," he replied. "They are a bloodthirsty race, honed by the sea's brutality. Their killing intent is among the fiercest in the Cosmos."
"So she fights only for glory?"
"In essence," Raiking conceded, a note of warning in his voice.
Before she could question further, the Keeper of Balance stepped forward, her ten arms rising in a graceful arc that seemed to command the very flow of the cosmos, drawing all eyes like gravity's inexorable pull. "The rules stand unchanged," she declared, her voice a resonant chime of equilibrium, echoing across the parted red sea and stilling the murmurs below.
Thornborn raised his hands slightly, palms open as if tasting the air's hidden currents, his cracked, earth-like skin glowing faintly with inner embers. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he brushed them downward—trails of Essence lingering like faint sparks along his fingertips. From the centers of his palms, two spikes erupted with a sharp crack, dark and glistening like obsidian forged in volcanic depths. He snatched them mid-air, and the instant his grip closed, fire ignited along their edges—thin, controlled flames racing like molten veins, casting flickering shadows across his bearded face and windswept hair.
He exhaled once, a deep rumble that cracked the ground subtly beneath his feet, faint fissures spiderwebbing outward like parched earth thirsting for rain. Shifting his weight, he dropped into his battle stance—one leg extended forward, the other braced low and grounded behind. His forward arm leveled across his chest, spike angled to intercept like a sentinel's guard; the rear arm coiled high behind his shoulder, poised to strike like a predator's claw. It was a stance of brutal discipline—an F-shaped guard evoking the twin-blade warriors of ancient legends, balanced for high or low assault, firelight dancing on the spikes like twin suns hungering for release.
The Keeper of Balance turned her gaze to Caeruleus Profundus, who stood without a formal stance—her shimmering, silver-like skin rippling faintly, bioluminescent patterns pulsing in rhythmic waves, her readiness etched in the calm flow of her aqua hair and the abyss-deep serenity of her eyes. No movement betrayed tension; she was the ocean incarnate—still, yet poised to surge.
With a final nod, the Keeper announced: "Begin."
Caeruleus was the first to move—she dashed forward in a fluid surge, but before her feet could touch the ground, her body dematerialized into a cascading stream of liquid silver, rippling toward Thornborn like a tidal wave given lethal intent, the air humming with the subtle rush of unseen depths.
Fire met water as Thornborn swiped his lower spike horizontally in a blazing arc, flames trailing like comet tails, then drove his upper spike vertically downward in a crushing slash. The strikes intersected the gushing oceanic movement, splitting it into a cross-shaped rift—the flow parting like severed veins, brushing past him in harmless sprays of mist and foam.
But in a quick, insidious twist, the parted waters reversed direction—curving inward in a pincer attack, the twin streams coiling like predatory serpents aiming to crush him from both sides.
Thornborn twisted his body with feral grace, swiping in a wide arc to slash the torrent from the right—the spike's flame edge carving through the water in a hiss of steam. His rotation completed seamlessly, facing the left surge as he raised both spikes in a cross-like pose, bracing for impact. The wave slammed home, skidding him backward across the stone in a spray of sparks and foam, his boots gouging furrows in the arena floor.
He switched his stance mid-slide, digging his heels in with a grunt—his body halting abruptly, the relentless wave crashing against his crossed spikes like a battering ram against an unyielding gate, water foaming and splintering around the flames.
But the fluid attack was strange, deceptive—it began to cling, seeping onto his fingertips like living ink, crawling up his hand, his wrist, the torrent diminishing as it coated his entire arm in a sheath of swirling water, cool and insidious.
The tension subsided momentarily; Thornborn stared at his enveloped arm, confusion flickering in his piercing dark eyes. Then, in a sudden lash, his left arm swung wildly—of its own accord—toward his neck, the water controlling it like a puppeteer's string.
He mustered every ounce of strength, muscles bulging as he halted the betrayal mid-swing, the fist stopping inches from slicing his throat. But the flames from his spike collided with his face in a searing graze—pain exploding across his skin, the smell of singed beard filling the air as he struggled to wrest back control, his arm trembling like a beast fighting its leash, the water's grip unyielding and cold.