No steel remained in Alvios's hand. For the first time since he'd stood in this arena, there was no Libertas to channel his flow, no runes to help him translate will into effect. Only himself, and whatever waited deep inside him for a conscious call he still didn't quite know how to shape. For one heartbeat, that felt heavier than any opponent he'd faced so far.
An old memory pushed itself forward in that moment, clear as an image that had never quite faded. His father stood before him in the yard of their house, the training sword already put away, the wind unusually still around the two of them.
"Alvios, your mother and I want you to become stronger than I could ever have become." Young Alvios had only looked up at him back then, puzzled, too young to understand what his father was getting at. "You know, I've only mastered swordsmanship, and that to perfection," his father had continued with a gentle smile. "Learn both paths, Alvios. The Aetherium and the flow of the blade."
An ordinary day, and yet in this moment it felt almost like the present. Alvios stood face to face with himself once more, with the boy who back then had never really listened when it came to Aetherium—his weakness, to this day.
"Come on," he murmured to himself, hands held flat before him in the stance he'd once seen in his mother's books. "I managed it once. I can do it again."
The air began to tremble, and Alvios made his first move. "Fulmen… awaken," he forced out, his voice brittle with uncertainty, barely more than a whisper—and it was exactly that doubt which seemed to rob the formula of its power before it could even unfold. A bolt of lightning shot from his hand, thin, faint, barely more than a spark clinging desperately to its own existence. Herkule's shoulder took it like a scratch a child could have left.
"Weak," the orc said simply, though it didn't sound malicious, more like the honest verdict of a man who'd seen enough fights to tell talent apart from mere courage. He advanced with calm, heavy steps, both fists raised in rhythm with his stride, and spoke a formula Alvios couldn't quite make out. Two waves of fire rolled toward him—Ignis Volatilis, small but fast fireballs that any ember Aetherar could summon in his sleep. Alvios slipped through them, closer than he would have liked, and felt his clothes catch fire. He tore his coat from his body before the flames could take hold, and for a moment he almost regretted having worn it at all.
"Sorry, Mom," he murmured, glancing briefly at the scorched fabric. "You sewed that for me." Then he lifted his head again, determination in his eyes. Herkule just grinned broadly at that, clearly amused by so much sentimentality in the middle of a fight.
Alvios tried again, this time with both hands, the same two words on his lips once more. Two bolts struck Herkule's upper body, barely stronger than the first. Mocking laughter echoed through the arena. "Try as many times as you like," the orc called out, not out of contempt, but with the grin of a fighter who knew how to appreciate solid resistance. Up in the stands, Nouel and Raiiko followed the fight without a word, while Viktoria covered her eyes, as if that alone could ward off the next hit.
A second wave of fire broke loose, the heat barely bearable, but Alvios turned out of its path in time and ran straight at Herkule, without catching fire, without attacking blindly. The orc did the same, flames gathered around his fists, but Alvios slipped beneath the attack with both hands ready. "Fulmen," he pressed out between his teeth, and a gust of light struck Herkule directly in the eyes—no powerful hit, barely more than a flicker, but enough to rob him of his sight for a moment. The orc roared, and the crowd went wild. "Finish him off!" a rough voice called from the stands, followed by another: "Live up to your name, Herkule, or do you want to shame us?"
Barely had he recovered when Herkule let go of the flames. His fists changed, the skin on them turning gray and cracked like freshly broken rock—Ferrum, the will-element of earth, which needed no spoken words, only the raw intent to strike hard enough to break bone. He charged forward and swung at Alvios's ribs; only a hasty leap to the side spared him from spending the rest of the fight lying on the ground. The impact split the red sand open, as if a boulder itself had struck it.
Viktoria cheered him on undeterred, both arms raised in triumph, while Alvios searched his mind for a solution. He closed his eyes and pictured how the Aether had once flowed effortlessly through his hands, without struggle, without doubt. "Fulmen—take this," he whispered, and another bolt was on its way, short, bright, but still too weak to really accomplish anything. Herkule barely felt it stronger than a mosquito bite and straightened up again with a dark look. "You worm," he growled, real bite in his voice this time, and shifted into a full fighting stance. "You're in my way, human." A fireball, nearly as large as Alvios himself, rushed toward him, born not of fear but of genuine fighting spirit.
"Don't give up, my prince!" Viktoria called from the stands, while Nouel shouted urgently: "Dodge. Now." Alvios reacted, but the fireball still grazed his right arm. "Damn, that burns," he forced out as he rolled quickly aside, avoiding greater harm—only to find that his sleeve, too, had fallen victim to this fight. Herkule grinned knowingly across at him, and for a long moment both stood motionless facing one another, as if time itself had paused to savor this single look.
Herkule sent another, smaller fireball, and Alvios answered with the same weak bolt as before, aimed directly at the orc's eyes. This time Herkule blocked with his forearm—no warrior of his caliber fell for the same trick twice. Both tried again, and Herkule's flame overwhelmed Alvios's bolt with ease, fire spreading right at his feet. He had to win this fight through his own strength, he knew that now with painful clarity. He couldn't rely on the foreign power that had broken out of him uncontrolled during the qualification round—not in a fight without weapons, without runes, only with what he himself could carry.
He reached for his torn-off sleeve, still lying in the sand, and ran at Herkule, when a familiar voice sounded in his head—not from within himself, but from a time long past. His mother, young, and of a beauty no description could do justice to. "Alvios, are you listening to me?" He saw himself as a boy at the window, gaze fixed on his father harvesting potatoes outside, while his mother sat patiently beside him. "Alvios, are you listening to me?" she repeated, and back then he had only smiled at her angelically, eyes closed, without really listening. His mother sighed, crossed her arms, her expression darkening. "This is very important, so listen this time." She began again. "Everyone in this world carries an Aether flow within them. For most, it's similar, but for no one is it the same."
This time young Alvios listened attentively. His mother leaned toward him and stroked his head gently, warm as only a mother's love could be. "The flow is powerful in each of us, but it can also be your downfall. It's like a shield—your Aether gathers within you and protects you from danger." She straightened, gaze turning to the window, hand resting on the frame. "So be careful when you use it. The more you spend, the less protected you become."
Alvios was grateful he'd actually listened that day—that of all things, he remembered this now, could be no coincidence. He stopped in front of Herkule and suddenly threw the scrap of cloth in his face. The orc swatted it away wildly, firing off another flame at close range—but his eyes had deceived him. Alvios was long gone from where Herkule expected him, standing silently behind him instead, waiting for his opponent's confusion. "Where are you, you worm?" Herkule bellowed, spinning wildly in search. Alvios straightened up, hand already raised for a counterstrike. "Here I am—right behind you," he said, almost cheerful despite everything. "Fulmen mitte," he whispered, barely audible, but this time without the faintest tremor in his voice—and in that exact moment, as the enraged orc spun around, his bolt shot straight into Herkule's eye.
The orc staggered, crashed to the ground, but the hit wasn't enough to defeat him. Blind with pain, Herkule fired wildly in every direction, repeating the same formula over and over in haste, without landing a single hit. The crowd roared, the Aether itself seemed to cheer along, and the dwarf king watched the scene from his seat, transfixed. Alvios dodged every shot with ease. When Herkule could finally see clearly again and found his opponent standing before him unharmed, his face twisted into a mix of fury and genuine embarrassment. "Is this supposed to be a joke?" he panted, breathing heavily, his flow visibly beginning to wane.
He spoke a new formula, slower this time, more focused. A flame formed in his hand, small at first, almost harmless—but it burned brighter than the will to win of most here in the arena, and grew with every breath. Alvios realized at once that the climax of this fight was announcing itself. With a single forward motion of his large hand, Herkule set the now doubly large, doubly bright orb into motion. It glided slowly toward Alvios, almost leisurely. "What, it's this slow," he murmured, puzzled, without dropping his guard, eyes fixed on it. Herkule, meanwhile, just laughed, his eyes still red from the Fulmen strike. "Solaris Cor," he spoke in a deep voice, and in the same breath a light flared up that threatened to swallow the entire arena.
A lone orc up in the stands looked anything but thrilled at the sight. "Damn it, stop that! You'll take us all with you!" he bellowed down, but Herkule no longer answered. Alvios ran to the edge of the arena, the fireball following him leisurely, until it, too, finally came to a halt just a few steps away from him. The light grew so blinding that spectators, dwarf king, Viktoria, Raiiko, and Nouel alike were all dazzled equally. Silence—then a massive explosion.
"Protect the people!" the dwarf king called to his companions, with an urgency rarely heard in his voice. The water-man among them rose calmly, spoke his own formula without a trace of haste, and water sank from nowhere out of the sky, forming into small streams and finally into a protective wall along the stands, just in time before the shockwave reached it. The explosion dissipated against it into a faint tremor. "Phew, don't give me such a scare, you young whippersnappers," the king breathed out in relief. "Hehe, you can always count on me," the water-man laughed, and in a voice that hardly matched his otherwise friendly nature, he added: "I won't let anything happen to these people." The succubus woman beside them fanned herself, bored. "Oh dear, my king, you shouldn't get so worked up. Better watch out for your bones, we wouldn't want you breaking a hip." The king indulged the teasing with visible enjoyment. "Pah, I'm still more fit than most of you."
The water wall had protected all the spectators, all except Alvios—he had dodged in time, but half his upper armor had shattered under the shockwave. Viktoria leaned far over the railing, as if about to leap down herself in the next moment. "My prince!" Nouel held her back with a firm hand. Alvios glanced up at her briefly, calm and composed despite everything. "Trust me, Viktoria. I'll manage it." Then he turned back to Herkule, paused for one breath, and called out across the arena in a firm voice: "I, Alvios Erigor, will win this fight." He pointed his outstretched finger at his opponent. "I will defeat you—that's my promise." There was no hatred in these words, no arrogance, only the pure will not to give up.
Herkule only let himself be provoked briefly. "Just a human," he grumbled, already amused again. "And a small one at that." He stomped forward, the ground trembling beneath his steps, his flow now noticeably weaker than at the start of the fight. An ordinary fireball flew toward Alvios, who let it sweep past him with style, closing the distance with quick steps of his own. Herkule fired again, larger this time, and the orb grazed Alvios's hip before slamming into the arena wall with full force—an impact that seemed to please even the ancestors. "You can dooo it!" Viktoria screamed from the stands, both arms raised high, while Nouel and Raiiko had now risen too, to fully take in the tension.
Herkule began gathering his Aether in his hands again, the same formula, the same destructive power, but this time it visibly took him longer. Alvios seized the moment and ran, over torn-up ground, over rubble and sand, until only ten steps separated them. "Radices Vocant!" Herkule forced out with a hard stomp, and jagged stone spikes shot up from the ground right in front of Alvios—one last attempt to stop his opponent before the flame was ready. Alvios leapt sideways, rolled over his shoulder, and was back on his feet in the next breath, without losing a single step of speed. In these moments he seemed different from the earlier rounds—calmer, more collected, fully himself. Seven steps. "I need to get closer. My bolts still have no range." Six steps. Herkule's fireball glowed brighter than ever, and the orc grinned, certain of his victory. "I'm winning, human boy." Five steps. Four steps. Close enough.
Both unleashed their attacks in the same instant. "Fulguris Ictus!" Alvios shouted, his voice steadier than he'd ever heard it in this fight. Herkule instinctively shielded his eyes with both arms, convinced Alvios would aim there again—but this bolt wasn't meant for his eyes. Herkule's gaze, fixed through his own arms on the incoming fireball, turned pale with realization, too late. Alvios's bolt struck the orb dead center, and a light broke free so immense that even the Aether, the king, everyone simply couldn't bear to look away. A gigantic explosion followed, Ignis and Fulmen and the dust of the arena mixing in the air, and when the smoke finally cleared, two silhouettes stood motionless, barely recognizable.
The dwarf king's son whispered uncertainly: "Papa, looks like it's over." The king nodded slowly. "Yes, my son. It's over. But who won?" As the last dust settled, both fighters were still standing, both drenched in blood, Alvios's armor reduced to shreds, Herkule's armor long since destroyed. Then Alvios collapsed. A cry from the ancestors swept through the arena, delighted by such a magnificent fight. Herkule, barely holding onto his strength, could only manage a tired, satisfied grin.
The king had already raised his hand to declare the fight over, when something in Herkule's gaze began to fade. From generation to generation, from battle to battle, this arena had known a single rule: only one could be left standing in the end. Herkule sank to the ground, motionless, only a last spark of his flow keeping him alive. Nouel stared down, unmoving, jaw clenched tight. Viktoria pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting with all her might against the tears. A brief shadow of worry crossed even Raiiko's brow, but none of the three gave up hope.
"Get up!" Nouel bellowed, his voice bringing the whole arena back to life once more. "Get up, Alvios!" From the orcs' side, the first cheers for their own champion had already begun—"Up you get, Herkule!"—while Viktoria's voice easily drowned out Nouel's, and Raiiko simply repeated quietly: "Come on, Alvios. Get up." His flow stirred in his hair, one last tremor of Aether around him, before his fingers moved first.
"Oh man, guys, you're too loud," Alvios murmured, slowly turning his head toward the stands. Nouel sank back in relief, Viktoria burst into tears of joy. "My prince, you idiot, why do you make us wait so long?" Raiiko gently laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled quietly across at Alvios.
With his last strength, Alvios pushed himself up off the ground, slow but purposeful, knowing a long road still lay ahead of him, even in moments like these when giving up would have felt easiest. He rose fully and raised his hand, without saying a word. He hadn't won because his flow had been the stronger one—he had won because he'd believed in himself, and because he had never given up, and never would.
"About time," the king smiled, "let's bring this fight to its well-earned end." His voice carried the sound of the Aether itself. "The winner is… Alvios."
Alvios let himself sink to the ground and looked over at Herkule. "You're strong. Thank you," he said quietly, barely audible to the others. "Fighting you made me stronger." He stood one last time and walked slowly toward the arena's exit. "May we one day stand opposite each other again—to measure our strength anew."
The showdown ended in a narrow victory for Alvios. But fate was far from finished with him—the next round would begin all too soon.