The atmosphere in the fighters' waiting room thrummed with anticipation, a restless charge that made every heartbeat feel louder in the silence. It wasn't that the people gathered here hadn't faced more dangerous, more exhilarating situations before, but this was different. This was collective. The energy pressing in on them didn't just come from themselves, it came from beyond the walls, from the thousands roaring in the stands above, a tidal wave of expectation so strong it seemed to seep into the air.
*Even I feel it, and I'm not even invested,* Ercale remarked dryly inside Xain's head.
*Right?* Xain answered, shifting on his feet as his eyes moved over the room. *I don't think I've ever really felt something like this before.*
Even and Zeva were absent, already taken to their positions to await the final match. That left the rest of the fighters crowding around the viewing window, their attention fixed on the arena outside. No one spoke. No one needed to. Every breath was held back, every shift of weight echoed too loudly against the stillness. They all just waited, caught in the gravity of what was about to unfold.
Out in the stands, the atmosphere was just as heavy, but where the waiting room had silence, the crowd had noise—a constant hum of voices, the sound of drums and feet stamping against the stone.
"Well, Drift, this is it—the final day," Jefferey said, leaning toward his friend with a grin. "Who are you betting on?"
Drift inhaled deeply, his gaze steady. "Zeva Blossom. I'm betting on the Blade." His voice carried certainty, conviction.
Jefferey nodded thoughtfully. "Then I'll put my coin on Even Mathers. Surprised the guy doesn't have a nickname yet, honestly."
"Maybe he doesn't need one," Drift shrugged, eyes never leaving the empty arena.
Elsewhere in the stands, Amara sat with her hands folded, watching the restless sea of people around her. "The energy of the crowd is… palpable," she said softly. "It's even getting to me. Perhaps what The Sage said about 'mob mentality' really was true."
Somewhere else in the stands, X let out a distorted whistle, scanning the packed seats. "I swear you can taste the anticipation."
"It makes sense," Sarandel replied evenly, her gaze fixed on the barren arena floor. "This tournament comes once a year, but this time, this year, has surpassed most, if not all of them."
In another section, Wolf bounced his leg against the stone beneath him, tapping with impatience. "Ugh, this anticipation's killing me! When's the owl-winged woman gonna come out already?"
Elsewhere, Lia folded her arms tightly across her chest, her face uncharacteristically tense. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I feel… nervous."
Dirk turned toward her with wide eyes. "You? Nervous? And not faking it?" His disbelief was clear. "That has to be a first."
In the front rows, Clara pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pound as though it might leap from her ribs. "I feel so excited! My heart's beating so fast!"
"Don't get too excited now, Clara," Elsa said with a quiet chuckle, her calmness a steady contrast. "We don't want you passing out before the match even begins, do we?"
In a VIP stand, Zara leaned forward against the railing, her hands pressed to the cool metal as she inhaled deeply. "Feel that energy, Mark. It's so potent," she said, turning to her brother with wide eyes. "Is this what it's like every year?"
Prince Mark gave a measured nod. "Mostly, yes. But this year… it's stronger than usual. I cannot blame them, considering who is fighting."
Zara turned back toward the arena, her expression softening. Even her feelings toward her brother, the simmering edge of obsession, seemed dimmed by the sheer weight of anticipation hanging in the air. Prince Mark quietly appreciated the rare reprieve.
In another VIP stand, the Emperor of Aeruna sat with his hands folded over his lap, his gaze fixed on the arena below. "I do not think I have ever felt something like this before," he murmured.
Tianteng smirked faintly, tilting her head toward him. "Do you like it, my Emperor?"
He considered for a moment, humming low before giving the smallest of nods. "I do."
Elsewhere, in yet another VIP stand, Samwell sat stiff and silent, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the armrest of his chair. The energy that had captured so many did not touch him—his thoughts were too fixed, his mood too cold. Beside him, however, Matthew was a stark contrast. Though his composure remained intact outwardly, inside he was alight with nerves, the pressure of the moment winding tight through his chest. *You have to win this. You have to show him you're not the failure he thinks you are,* he cheered quietly.
The sudden rush of air drew every gaze skyward as Quincy soared out into the arena, her broad owl wings stretched wide, catching the light. Her voice carried across the coliseum, clear and commanding.
"Welcome, everyone, to the final day of the Tournament. Of. Greatness!" she cried, her words met by a thunderous cheer. She laughed lightly, throwing her arms open. "Can you feel that energy? You're all excited, aren't you?" The roar of the crowd answered her. "Good! Because so am I! And I won't waste a single moment today!"
She swept downward, wings folding in as she descended toward the center of the arena, then hovered just above the ground. Extending one arm toward the west wall and the other toward the east, she flicked her fingers sharply upward.
With a grinding roar, the massive walls began to rise, unveiling the finalists.
Quincy's voice rang out again, cutting through the spectacle. "On one side! We have the woman who has bested all her opponents with ease once she had sword in hand! The woman who has thus far proven she has no equal! The woman who could stand as this year's champion—Zeva Blossom, The Blade!"
From the east wall, Zeva emerged. Her movements were calm, deliberate, her hand resting lightly on her sword's hilt. Her composure radiated confidence—she was ready.
"And on the other side!" Quincy continued, her voice rising with the moment. "We have the man who has fought through fire and struggle, who dared to sit boldly upon the chair of his family's patriarch, the man who also could claim this year's championship—Even Mathers!"
From the west wall, Even strode out, his eyes sharp, his jaw set. The crimson glow of the symbol etched on the back of his hand burned like a challenge, his fingers brushing the rifle slung across his back—he was ready.
Quincy clapped her hands together.
The arena answered.
The coliseum floor rumbled—not as though breaking apart, but as though unveiling something long-hidden. Massive slabs of stone folded inward and sank, giving way to a rising stage of carved grandeur. Towers of white marble thrust upward, archways linking them like the ribs of a colossal cathedral. A sprawling plaza of polished obsidian unfurled beneath, its surface etched with glowing veins that traced patterns like constellations. From the edges of the arena, colossal statues emerged—warriors, beasts, and champions of past tournaments, their features carved with reverence, looming over the battlefield like silent witnesses.
At the center, the ground elevated into a broad dueling platform, its surface engraved with intricate geometric lines that glowed faintly as if channeling the energy of the earth itself. Balconies and stone bridges arched overhead, forming layered terrain that gave the field both verticality and presence, a true stage for legends. It wasn't just a battleground—it was a monument, a coliseum within a coliseum, sculpted by earth and will to honor the final clash.
Hovering high above, Quincy raised her arm skyward, holding it there as the thunder of anticipation swelled to a breaking point.
Then, with a sharp sweep downward, her voice boomed:
"BEGIN!"