Both fighters advanced at a measured pace, the anticipation in the air pressing down heavier with every step. Neither rushed; they let the moment stretch, feeding off the crowd's thunderous energy. Even's eyes swept across the stands—cheers washed over him, though his focus snagged on the cold contempt etched across his father's face. Matthew's gaze, wide with awe, was a stark contrast. Zeva, meanwhile, caught the chants for Even, the lingering jeers that still clung to her name after yesterday's match. Her grip tightened on her sword hilt, but her expression remained calm. None of it mattered.
They reached the elevated platform at the arena's heart. Their gazes locked, steel against fire.
"Another slow start! Fitting for the final match!" Quincy called out, wings circling high above.
"So, this is it," Zeva said, her voice low as she slid her blade free, the polished steel catching the sunlight in a sharp glimmer.
"Yeah," Even answered, unslinging the weapon from his back. It had changed, no longer the rifle he used to carry but a steam-rifle—heftier, sharper, its copper fittings hissing faint trails of vapor. "The final day. The final match."
Without another word, he raised it and fired. The crack rang out, the bullet screaming straight for Zeva's chest. A sharp tink echoed as her sword whipped up, cutting the round clean in half. Sparks flicked off her blade as she pushed into a sprint, the cut flowing seamlessly into her charge.
"And we're off! The final match between possible champions starts now!" Quincy's voice boomed as the crowd erupted.
Even stamped his foot, stone grinding and rising beneath him. A pillar of earth carried him fifteen feet into the air, giving him the height advantage. He fired again and again, steam hissing with each shot. Bullets tore through the air, but Zeva never faltered—sliding left, vaulting right, steel flashing as she bisected the rounds mid-flight. Ricochets rang off the stone, her pace only quickening.
"Looks like Even is going to play the range game and not let Zeva get close!" Quincy shouted.
Reaching the base of his pillar, Zeva hissed through her teeth as another spray of bullets came down. Even's foot struck again, and six jagged spikes of stone thrust upward at her. She twisted through them, her body flowing like water between the stabbing points. Her sword flashed, shattering one spike as her boots struck another, propelling her higher. With a sudden motion, she hurled her blade into the side of the stone column—steel embedding deep with a harsh crack.
She didn't hesitate. Her foot caught one of the jutting spikes, and she kicked off with explosive force. In the same motion she seized the lodged blade, swung herself around it, ripped it free, and hurled her momentum into an upward arc. She landed atop the platform in less than three heartbeats, sword already coming down in a brutal cleave meant for Even's chest.
He stumbled back, the strike missing by inches. Only a hasty extension of stone kept him from tumbling off the edge. His teeth clenched, his right hand lifting as the red mark on his skin flared. A blade of blood pooled into his grip.
"Is this what you're like without holding back?" he spat, breath sharp as he steadied himself. "The rest never stood a damn chance!"
And then, in a surge of pride or folly, he charged.
Zeva met him head-on. Her style exploded in full force the instant their blades clashed. Her sword spiraled upward in a blur, disguising the sudden horizontal sweep that slammed into his guard. She twisted, heel grinding on the stone as her blade flowed low, sweeping for his legs. He barely jumped back before she spun again, her steel rising in a curved arc, snapping down mid-motion into a vicious falling strike.
She didn't stop. Each move bled into the next, every attack chained flawlessly with her footwork. A wide slash became a piercing thrust from behind her back. A feint left her sword spinning loosely between her fingers before she caught it mid-air, snapping it into a sudden vertical arc that traced a gleaming path toward Even's throat. Her movements were art and storm alike—fluid, relentless, petals blooming into thorns.
Even couldn't keep up. His blood blade parried once, twice, but each clash sent vibrations through his arms. Zeva pressed harder, her strikes crashing from angles he couldn't predict, her dance suffocating. Steel kissed his side, then his arm, then his chest in shallow but punishing cuts. Each one drove him back until his knees buckled beneath the pressure.
He collapsed, coughing up blood, one hand pressed against the stone platform for balance.
"What was Even thinking trying to fight her like that!?" Quincy shouted above, disbelief ringing in her voice.
Zeva stood over him, blade steady, her breath calm despite the storm she'd unleashed. She clicked her tongue, eyes narrowing.
"Are you an idiot?" she asked coldly, looking down at his kneeling form.
"No." Even snapped, his voice sharp as he pressed his hands together, drawing in every drop of blood he had spilled across the stone. The crimson liquid swirled between his palms, condensing tighter and tighter until it pulsed with dangerous pressure. "You are!" he roared, thrusting his hands forward. The mass of blood exploded outward in a blast like buckshot, a hundred crimson shards streaking toward Zeva.
Her eyes narrowed. She slashed through several, sparks snapping against her blade, but too many slipped past. One tore into her left shoulder, another grazed her right hip, a third carved a shallow line across her cheek. Dozens more struck her armor, their impact dulled, but the sheer force of the volley drove her backward.
She hit the edge of the platform and fell, the crowd erupting as Quincy's voice rang above them. "That was Even's plan! To unleash his blood magic!"
Cheers surged through the arena. Zeva twisted midair, gritting her teeth, and rolled at the last moment to bleed off the fall's momentum before slamming into the ground. She came up on one knee, breath steady, glaring up at Even as he leveled the barrel of his steam-rifle down at her.
*That blood magic is going to be a problem,* she thought coldly, tightening her grip on her sword. Her mind flicked through options until a dangerous idea surfaced. She straightened, setting her stance again, eyes locked on him with renewed intent.
The first exchange was over. Now it was time for the second.