The arena of the International Ranker Association was vast, circular, and encased within transparent energy shields that shimmered faintly like glass covered in frost. Normally, the ground was a polished metallic silver that reflected the overhead lights like a mirror. But today, the entire scene was transformed into a winter battlefield.
The floor had been coated in layers of snow and jagged formations of ice. White mist hung in the air, swirling with each gust of cold wind created by the two combatants within. Spectators, judges, and high-ranking Rankers stood outside the barrier, their breaths visible despite the arena's temperature regulation systems struggling to keep up.
Two figures danced in the center of this frozen world—Friz and Friya.
Both wore the official Ranker combat testing uniforms, which they are required to wear. These clothes are designed to take power readings without causing discomfort during movement, but theirs were already covered in frost and splattered with powdery snow.
Friz stood lightly on his feet, his movements calm, precise, and fluid. His black hair caught the light, giving him a ghostly, almost regal aura. Each motion he made was measured, his icy blue eyes sharp and focused. Across from him was Friya, her long braid of pale silver hair trailing behind as she moved. Her expression carried fierce determination, and the air around her rippled with intense cold.
The two collided again.
Friz surged forward, his palm glowing faintly blue as frost began to gather around it. His movements were reminiscent of flowing water—swift and seamless. He struck outward, releasing a freezing blast from his palm.
Friya responded instantly, summoning an ice spear from the ground. She gripped it and swung, shattering Friz's frost blast in a brilliant explosion of snow and ice shards. The collision sent a wave of freezing mist cascading through the air, glittering under the arena lights like thousands of tiny diamonds.
The crowd gasped.
Above the battlefield, the massive digital scoreboard tracked their power outputs, reaction speeds, and elemental fluctuations. The numbers kept climbing.
"This is insane," one Ranker whispered from the stands. "They're just rookies, but their control…"
"…it's on par with mid-rank B combatants," another finished, eyes wide with disbelief.
At the edge of the stands, a group of high-rankers—seasoned veterans with A and even S ranks—watched with crossed arms and furrowed brows. These weren't just casual onlookers. They were scouts, examiners, and potential mentors evaluating the next generation.
"The boy," one man said, pointing subtly toward Friz, "he's using his power like a veteran. Every move is precise, no wasted energy."
"And the girl," a woman beside him added, "she's gathering energy even while attacking. That kind of dual-processing is rare at her age."
Another nodded. "They both emit a dangerous aura. You can feel it. Their ice isn't ordinary."
Back in the arena, Friz darted sideways, evading a flurry of ice spears Friya had launched. She stood in the center of the arena, her hands outstretched as multiple ice spikes formed around her like a crystalline halo. She controlled them with practiced precision, sending them flying in volleys.
Friz moved through them effortlessly.
His feet barely disturbed the snow as he dashed, ducked, and weaved between the deadly projectiles. A few he smacked aside with swift, open-palm strikes that froze and shattered them mid-air. Others he countered with perfectly timed snowball throws—condensed balls of frost that burst into freezing mist upon contact, disrupting Friya's aim.
He was calm, composed, almost casual.
But Friya was far from finished.
She continued attacking, but at the same time, subtle swirls of energy began to gather around her. Her boots scraped against the icy ground as she adjusted her stance, focusing power into the air itself. Friz noticed this but didn't immediately intervene; instead, he countered her attacks while observing carefully.
She's charging something, he thought.
The temperature dropped even further. Frost crept along the ground in thin white veins, converging toward Friya like tributaries flowing to a river. Her breath became visible puffs of vapor, and her silver hair began to lift slightly as the cold energy around her intensified.
Outside, the Rankers felt it too.
"She's going to do something," someone muttered.
"What she's going to do?"
Friya inhaled deeply. Then—
The air around her exploded in a burst of icy wind.
A pulse of cold radiated outward, causing the surrounding mist to crystallize into floating particles of frost. She raised her hands, and the cold responded to her call.
Above her, the air rapidly condensed into the shape of a massive cylindrical structure, like a floating ice cannon. Inside, countless frost bullets began to form—dense, sharp, and deadly, each one spinning rapidly.
Friz's eyes narrowed.
"She's built a Frost Barrage Array," one of the high-rankers said, impressed. "For a rookie, control power at that level is not easy."
Friya's voice rang out across the arena, clear and sharp.
"Frost Barrage—Fire!"
The barrel erupted.
Thousands of frost bullets shot forward in rapid succession, a white-blue storm of deadly projectiles that tore through the air toward Friz. Their speed was incredible, each bullet leaving behind streaks of vapor trails.
The sound was like hail smashing against steel plates—relentless and deafening.
Friz didn't panic.
He took one step back.
And then—
Something stirred within him.
As the frost bullets approached, shimmering in the cold light, a sudden sharp sensation pierced his mind.
A memory.
Not faint. Not distant. But vivid, alive, like it was happening now.
The roaring winds of a distant battlefield. The blinding clash of heat and cold.
He froze—not physically, but mentally—as the memory swallowed him whole.
He saw himself—not as Friz, but as Ice.
The name surged through his soul like an echo carried across time.
Ice.
He stood again upon a battlefield from another life, where the world was divided between searing flames and endless blizzards. Before him burned a raging inferno, a figure wrapped in flames: Blaze.
The clash of elements had begun.
The first time they truly fought.
The first time Ice had unleashed his power to its fullest.
The frost bullets slowed in his perception, blurring into the background as his consciousness slipped deeper into the memory.
The arena, Friya, the crowd—all of it faded.
The only thing left was that ancient battle, the fire that roared like a beast, and the cold that answered it like a force of nature.
He remembered.
He remembered the battle between Ice and Blaze.
And in that moment, Friz's heart pounded, his body tense—not from fear, but from the weight of that memory resurfacing, raw and untamed.