The arena buzzed with restless chatter, the energy of the match still lingering in the air.
"Don't even start," Drift muttered, jabbing a finger at Jefferey's wide, smug grin. With a groan, he fished out a pouch of coins and shoved it into his friend's hand. "Just take the coin."
"Thanks," Jefferey said, grin never wavering as the pouch disappeared into his pocket. He leaned in with that same infuriating confidence. "Now, who are you betting on next?"
Drift shrugged, already watching the arena floor shift back into its natural state under Quincy's careful work. "Zeva Blossom, obviously. Who else?"
Jefferey gave a slow nod. "Well, just to be a contrarian, I'll take Sir Calvinel. And man's got a Soul Chamber—he's pretty much guaranteed to win against her her." Both men turned their attention back to the arena, anticipation hanging thick between them.
Elsewhere in the stands, Lia folded her arms, her eyes narrowing as the remnants of the battlefield dissolved. "So that's why Even shaped it to look like his old home," she murmured.
Dirk rubbed his chin, brow furrowed. "What he did was bold. Risky. Who knows how Samwell's going to respond to that…"
Somewhere else in the stands, "He… actually lost," X remarked, sounding genuinely surprised. His arms folded across his chest, gaze fixed on the now-settling arena. "Didn't see that coming. Honestly thought Ercale would step in if he was losing—or that thing from last time would happen again."
Sarandel's gaze stayed fixed on the arena, her expression unreadable, though her eyes narrowed just slightly. "His connection to the Demon Lord is… unclear. It is not something I can read easily. Whether it is friendship, manipulation, or something else entirely, I cannot yet say."
X gave a helpless shrug. "Like you said before—there's no point trying to figure out what goes on in his head."
In another section of the crowd, Amara sat frozen, staring at the arena floor as though it might offer answers. Her lips moved in disbelief. "You… lost?" The words came out brittle. "How did you lose? You didn't even use that strange magic! You just… lost?" Her mind reeled. It didn't add up, none of it. "You didn't use anything. You let him win—didn't you? That's the only way this makes sense…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost pleading with herself, because to her, what had happened was utterly nonsensical.
In a VIP stand, Samwell's fist was clenched so hard his nails broke skin. Blood seeped between his fingers and dripped onto the polished floor.
"Y-You're bleeding," Matthew pointed out hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I know, boy!" Samwell snapped, his tone sharp enough to make Matthew flinch and drop his gaze. The old man's eyes stayed locked on the arena as his voice dropped to a growl. "That wretched failure… how dare he bring even more shame to our family name?" He uncurled his bloodied hand, watching the crimson droplets fall before slowly curling it back into a fist. *I will kill him,* he thought to himself. No—he promised to himself.
In another VIP stand, Zara let out a faint sigh, her posture slumping. "Well… that was the expected result. I only hope Clara isn't too torn up by it."
Prince Mark shifted beside her, hesitantly placing a careful hand on her shoulder. The sudden contact sent a jolt straight through Zara, stiffening her posture.
"Don't look so saddened," Mark said firmly, his tone attempting reassurance. "After all, in the next match, you'll see Calvinel beaten. That should cheer you."
The combination of his reminder and his touch broke through her gloom like a sudden burst of light. Zara's face shifted almost instantly, her gloom for Clara vanishing in an instant—a fact that, given Clara herself wasn't even gloomy, was probably for the better. Her eyes lit up with renewed fire, her fist clenching tightly at her side. "You're right, Mark. It'll be good to watch that scum get torn apart!"
*I don't think she's going that far though!?* Prince Mark thought with unease.
In yet another VIP stand, "He had no more surprises to pull, it seems," remarked the Emperor of Aeruna, his tone calm and assessing.
Tianteng, standing respectfully beside him, inclined her head. "With respect, my Emperor, I believe he was holding back."
The Emperor's gaze slid toward her, one brow lifting. "And why would you think that?"
She offered a subtle shrug. "I cannot explain it. I simply… feel that he did."
"Alright everyone!" Quincy's voice rang out as she flew through the air after restoring the arena to its natural state. "The next match is about to start, so get ready!" she declared, her voice carrying easily across the stands. She descended toward the center, hovering just above the arena floor, her presence commanding attention. With a grand, theatrical flourish she stretched both arms outward toward the eastern and western walls. Her fingers curled upwards, then lifted in a slow, deliberate motion, and the heavy stone responded—the walls shuddered and rumbled as they grinded open to reveal the combatants within.
"On one side!" Quincy's voice rose sharply, brimming with energy, "We have the woman who has bested The Wandering Swordsman and The Martial Artist! A fighter whose skill with the blade has yet to be matched by any opponent! It's Zeva Blossom, The Blade!"
From the west wall, Zeva strode forth, the same unwavering confidence radiating from her as in every match before. The crowd erupted, her supporters shouting her name with feverish excitement.
"There she is! Out to win again!" Wolf called from the stands, rubbing his hands together like a man savoring the thought of a feast.
"On the other side!" Quincy continued, pivoting toward the east, "We have the knight who gave us two of the most spectacular matches of the year—the one who defeated The Warhammer and The Champion! It's Sir Calvinel the Victorious!"
From the east wall, Calvinel strode forth from the opening, his entire form encased in shining plate, even wearing a helmet masking his face for once. Yet that didn't stop him from bowing extravagantly, turning his head and gesturing to the stands as though each lady there had his undivided attention. The audience roared with laughter and delight at his theatrics. Beneath his helm, his lips curved in a smirk. "Let's see how well my plan works," he murmured to himself, brimming with confidence.
Quincy clapped her hands once, sharp and commanding. The arena trembled, stone groaning as it shifted, morphing back into the battlefield of yesterday's last match. Shattered weapons lay strewn across the dirt, fake bodies frozen in their scattered positions, etc. "Since this arena didn't get used properly last time, since someone forced a surrender too quickly, we're reusing it," Quincy said with a pointed smirk. Raising one hand high above her head, she held the moment.
"Alright!"
Her arm cut downward in a swift, decisive arc—
"BEGIN!"