Pain tore through Calvinel's body, excruciating, overwhelming pain, so sharp it nearly drowned his thoughts. For the first time—perhaps in his entire life—he screamed. "Agh—ugh—ah!" His heart thundered in his chest, every beat sending another wave of agony through him. His breathing came shallow, ragged, and his right foot felt caught between fire and frost, searing and numb all at once. The true torment began when Zeva ripped her sword free. He grunted, staggering back, blood spilling in a wet trail across the ice. It was a miracle he remained upright at all, let alone managing to keep from collapsing on his own frozen ground.
"A foot carries a lot of nerves," Zeva said coolly, dragging two fingers across her blade to wipe away the blood. It fell in a heavy splatter against the ice with an audible plop. Her gaze lowered to his mangled foot, a small grin tugging at her lips. "What was it you said? Something about me needing proper footing to dance?" She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. "Then let us see how you manage to fight without a proper foot."
Calvinel swallowed hard, the reality of her words sinking deeper than the wound itself. Still, behind the steel of his helmet, he forced his familiar charming grin to surface, strained and shaky though it was. "F-funny," he wheezed, huffing through clenched teeth, "you… you can be really funny when y-you want to be."
The crowd's roar faltered. A few—very few—who loathed Calvinel cheered more loudly, Zara's voice cutting through with a victorious, "Yeah! That's what you get!" Most of the spectators kept their energy but with a more subdued edge, uneasy after hearing his unmasked cry of pain. Several women in the stands even turned away, unable to watch him struggle like this.
"What a vicious strike!" Quincy's voice rang across the coliseum, straining to match the tense atmosphere. "Can The Victorious recover from such a blow, or is this the end of him?!"
In the fighters' waiting room, Amos crossed his arms, brow furrowed. "I… don't think he's winning this fight anymore."
"No," Bryanard admitted grimly, surprising those around him. "I do not think so either." He knew when a battle had already been decided.
Back in the arena, Calvinel grit his teeth, forcing his trembling arms to raise his greatsword. "Come on," he rasped, his voice raw. "I-I'm not done yet… let's keep going."
Zeva tilted her head slightly, closing her eyes. She drew in a deep breath, exhaled slow, and in the next instant surged forward.
With the ground frozen solid beneath her, Zeva knew she couldn't rely on the same flowing footwork of the Blossom family's style. But it didn't matter. She simply changed her rhythm. Instead of stepping and pivoting as before, she let the slick ice become her partner. Her movements shifted into something that resembled a dancer gliding across a stage, every spin and slide smooth and deliberate. She moved like a ballerina with a blade, skating across the arena floor with uncanny balance, her sword cutting arcs that were both elegant and lethal.
She slid forward on one foot, her body low, blade sweeping upward in a glittering spiral. Calvinel barely managed to raise his greatsword in time to deflect, but the force rattled through his arms, sending fresh pain into his already weakened frame. Before he could recover, Zeva twirled on her heel, the spin carrying her around him, her sword lashing out in a blur. The flat of his blade caught the strike, but not cleanly—the edge glanced off, slicing deep into his shoulder plate. The once-pristine armor groaned under the pressure, etched with new lines of damage.
Zeva never slowed. Her skates across the ice turned into a flowing assault, her blade darting in from angles Calvinel struggled even to follow. She slid past him with a pirouette, the tip of her sword nicking across his thigh before she swayed back into another strike, this one hammering against his guard so hard it nearly tore the greatsword from his grip. His arms shook, muscles screaming, each defense slower than the last. Every clash rattled him further, every missed block leaving another cut or dent behind. His armor, once shining as if untouchable, now looked battered as though it had endured not one battle, but a campaign's worth.
"That's… The Jester's swordsmanship…" Roland muttered in the waiting room, his eyes narrowing as the others turned toward him.
"What do you mean?" Hittag asked, frowning.
Roland rubbed the back of his neck, gaze fixed on the arena. "The Jester—Haldoria's strongest. The queen's personal guard and advisor. That's his style she's using."
The room fell into silence, everyone leaning closer to the viewing window, their gazes locked on the impossible elegance unfolding in the arena.
In the arena, Calvinel was collapsing under the weight of her relentless grace. His arms trembled violently as he barely blocked the two strikes he managed to see coming. The rest struck true, denting his chestplate, carving into his shoulder, biting into the weak points of his armor. His right foot screamed with agony every time he shifted his weight, blood smearing the ice wherever he stepped. His strength was fading fast. "O-okay," he panted, his voice breaking beneath his helmet. "One more clash… and l-lets call it, alright?"
Zeva slowed, giving him a faint shrug. "Sure. I feel bad for hitting you this long anyway." She slid her blade back, settling into a ready stance.
Calvinel mirrored her, raising his greatsword with the flat side outward as though preparing to weather one last charge.
"Looks like we're about to see one final clash, everyone!" Quincy cried, voice straining with anticipation. "Is this the turn that changes everything, or is The Victorious about to lose his name along with the match!?"
Zeva leaned low, her sword trailing, and burst forward across the ice with frightening speed. But just as she closed the distance, Calvinel let his greatsword slip from his grip. The heavy blade slammed into the ice with a dull thud as he lifted his hands skyward, preparing to invoke his Soul Chamber. He had waited for this moment—close enough that she couldn't escape the range, trusting his armor to absorb whatever she managed to land.
"Soul Chambe—"
A faint tink-tink-tink rang out as several small shapes struck the ice. The crowd froze, the shift in sound cutting through the roar of thousands. Crimson spurted across the frost. Calvinel blinked down in disbelief, his mind blank as he stared at his hands—his fingerless hands. His severed digits scattered at his feet, staining the ice red. His breath caught in his throat, disbelief overtaking even the pain. Slowly, almost numbly, he lifted his gaze back up.
Zeva stood before him, her sword resting at her left hip, its edge glimmering faintly. She held her stance calmly, poised for another slash.
"You want to know why I'm doing this to you, Calvinel?" Her voice was steady, sharp, without hesitation.
Before he could answer, she moved in one clean motion. Her blade sang as it cut through the air, and in the next instant his left arm fell, severed clean at the elbow.
"Because you have access to the Healing Springs," she explained coldly. "Which means I don't have to hold back against you."
Shock and blood loss finally overcame him. Calvinel's legs buckled as the world spun. His body crumpled backwards, collapsing onto the ice with a heavy thud.
For a heartbeat, the coliseum was silent. Even Quincy's voice faltered. Then, shaking herself free of the shock, she thrust her arm into the air and cried out, "The winner of this match is—Zeva Blossom, The Blade!"