Chapter 11 – The Arena of Wands and Fists
The Grand Arena of Arcana Academy was rarely silent. It was built for spectacle: tiered stone seats that rose into the sky, banners that rippled with enchantments, and a floor of polished marble that glowed faintly under sunlight. Today, though, it was more than a stage. Today, it was a judgment.
Word had spread like wildfire. By mid-morning, the stands overflowed with students, professors, even groundskeepers—all whispering about the "fracture boy" who had faced shadows in the Darkwood. Some came to see a hero. Others came to see a fraud exposed.
Karl Draven stood at the edge of the arena floor, fists tightening at his sides. His simple training clothes looked almost laughable against the sea of wands, robes, and enchanted charms glittering around him. No armor, no magic—just muscle and will.
Across the floor, Ronan Vale was a picture of polished arrogance. His robes shimmered with silver runes that pulsed like heartbeat veins. His wand, long and carved from obsidian wood, glowed at the tip. He bowed slightly to the professors in the upper stands, then turned and sneered at Karl.
"Do try to make this quick, Draven," Ronan said, his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear. "I'd hate for anyone to think I enjoy humiliating you."
A ripple of laughter spread through the students.
Karl didn't answer. He rolled his shoulders, breathed deep, and fixed his gaze on Ronan.
Headmaster Orwen rose from his seat above. His voice carried, steady as stone. "Karl Draven, Ronan Vale. By order of this council, you will duel. Victory shall not be determined by death, but by incapacitation or surrender. Any further… accidents will not be tolerated. Do you both understand?"
"Yes, Headmaster," Ronan said smoothly, bowing.
Karl nodded once.
"Begin."
---
Ronan wasted no time. His wand flashed, and a blast of fire roared across the floor like a tidal wave. The crowd gasped as flames curled high.
Karl leapt aside, the heat licking his arms. He hit the ground rolling and came up on his feet, glaring through the haze.
Ronan smirked. "Impressive. A dog that can dodge."
Another flick of his wand, and the marble beneath Karl's feet cracked. Chains of lightning burst upward, snapping toward him. Karl raised his arms and caught the first strike on sheer reflex. The shock rattled through his body, muscles spasming—but he didn't fall. He planted his feet and yanked, tearing the lightning chain from the ground and hurling it aside.
Gasps filled the arena.
"He caught it?"
"No way—"
"That's not possible without spell resistance—"
Karl's chest burned, but he gritted his teeth. "You'll have to do better."
Ronan's smirk faltered. Then his eyes hardened. "Gladly."
He spun his wand, layering spell upon spell—wind slicing like blades, fire weaving between, shards of stone erupting under Karl's boots. A storm of raw power engulfed the floor.
Karl didn't run. He advanced. Step by step, through the whirlwind, weaving between strikes, taking cuts across his arms and shoulders but never stopping. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles ached.
Finally, he closed the distance.
Ronan's eyes widened. He raised his wand for a shield, but Karl's punch landed first. His fist struck the glowing barrier, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. Another punch—and it shattered like glass.
The force sent Ronan stumbling backward.
The crowd roared.
Karl pressed forward, fists flying, each blow aimed to knock Ronan off balance. But Ronan wasn't done. With a furious snarl, he pointed his wand straight down, pouring energy into the ground. The arena floor erupted into a pillar of stone that threw Karl back.
Breathless, Ronan stood tall again, sweat on his brow. "You think brute strength will carry you? Magic bends worlds. You're nothing but a crack in it."
Karl wiped blood from his lip, rising slowly. His arms trembled, but his eyes blazed. "Maybe. But cracks break walls."
He charged again.
---
This time, Ronan prepared his deadliest spell yet. His wand traced a circle of light in the air, runes flaring around it. A sphere of condensed fire and lightning formed, buzzing with unstable energy. The students gasped, recognizing a spell far beyond the academy's normal dueling range.
"Ronan—!" one professor shouted, but it was too late.
The sphere hurtled forward, roaring like a storm.
Karl had no shield. No counterspell. No wand.
So he met it head-on.
He planted his feet, muscles coiling like springs, and swung his fist.
The impact cracked like thunder. For a heartbeat, the arena went white with light and sound. When the smoke cleared, Karl stood at the center of a smoking crater, his fist buried in the shattered remnants of the spell. His chest heaved, his arms scorched—but he was still standing.
The crowd was silent.
Ronan staggered back, disbelief etched across his face. "That… that's impossible."
Karl lifted his gaze, eyes burning with defiance. "Nothing's impossible."
He surged forward, one last strike. His fist slammed into Ronan's chest—not enough to kill, but enough to send him sprawling across the floor, his wand clattering away.
Ronan lay gasping, unable to rise.
Headmaster Orwen's voice rang out, breaking the stunned silence: "Enough! The duel is decided. Karl Draven is victor."
For a moment, no one moved. Then the arena erupted—cheers, shouts, gasps. Some cried his name like a champion. Others whispered in awe or fear.
Karl just stood there, fists still trembling, his body aching from head to toe. But in his heart, he knew one thing: for the first time, they had seen him not as an outsider, not as a fracture—
—but as a fighter.
---
That night, whispers filled the dorms.
"He broke a battle spell with his bare hands."
"No one's ever done that."
"Maybe he's the fracture… or maybe he's the weapon we need."
And in the shadows of the academy, where the Void King's influence seeped unseen, a different whisper passed:
"He resists still. Then he must be broken."
Karl Draven lay awake, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched. The duel was over, but the real war had only just begun.