Some months earlier, long before the chaos of the tournament, John had taken it upon himself to train Zethar personally. Away from the noise of cities and the bloodstained arenas, they trained within John's realm—a vast land of endless green fields beneath an endless sky.
The realm itself felt alive. Warm winds rolled through the tall grass like waves upon the sea, carrying the distant sounds of the other six children sparring amongst themselves. Laughter, clashing steel, bursts of power—all of it blended into the atmosphere of the peaceful world John had created.
Above them, the sun shone brightly, bathing the grasslands in golden light.
Yet despite the beauty surrounding him, Zethar's thoughts were elsewhere.
He stood motionless in the field, staring down at his trembling hands. Frustration clouded his face. The others were improving rapidly, mastering abilities that once seemed impossible, while he remained stuck in place, unable to understand the mysterious power sleeping inside him.
John noticed immediately.
The moment he saw the distant look in Zethar's eyes, he slowly walked toward him, the grass bending softly beneath his feet. Unlike his usual carefree attitude, his expression now carried calm seriousness.
"Zethar," John said gently.
The sound of his voice snapped Zethar from his thoughts. He looked up quickly.
John stopped beside him, folding his arms as the wind tugged lightly at his clothes. His gaze drifted toward the horizon for a brief moment before returning to his student.
"The power you wield…" John began quietly, "is something extraordinary."
Zethar listened carefully, his breathing slowing.
"It is not merely strength," John continued. "It is not some simple ability meant for battle alone. The Wheel of Arianrhod is an ancient force… one long forgotten by this world."
The atmosphere itself seemed to grow heavier as he spoke those words.
"In the distant past, only a chosen few were ever granted that power. Kings sought it. Gods feared it. Entire civilizations worshipped those who carried it."
Zethar's eyes widened slightly.
John crouched down so they stood eye level.
"The Wheel of Arianrhod governs more than speed or light," he said softly. "It touches fate itself. Destiny bends around its wielder like threads around a spinning wheel."
A breeze swept through the field, causing the tall grass to sway around them.
Zethar stared at John in awe, but uncertainty still lingered in his eyes.
"But… master," he said hesitantly, clenching his fists, "how can I use it?"
His voice cracked slightly with frustration.
"All I can do is imbue things with light to make them a little faster. That's it." He looked down again. "Everyone else is getting stronger… but I can't even understand my own power."
John smiled warmly, though there was a hint of seriousness behind his eyes.
"You're not at that level yet to use the Wheel freely," he said. "But you will be, if you keep training."
Zethar leaned forward, hanging on every word.
John looked up at the evening sky for a moment before continuing.
"Right now, the power of the Wheel only answers when you're in true danger. Not the kind of danger that makes you nervous. Not the kind that makes you afraid. I mean the kind where death is standing right in front of you."
His voice grew quieter.
"When your body is broken... when your strength is gone... when there is absolutely no way left to win..."
John clenched his fist.
"That's when the Wheel responds."
Zethar's heart pounded in his chest.
"The Wheel will spin," John continued, "and when it does, you'll become stronger than you were before. Strong enough to overcome the obstacle that nearly killed you."
A look of wonder spread across Zethar's face. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he imagined the legendary Wheel turning behind him in battle.
"That's amazing!" he exclaimed. "So every time I'm in danger, I just get stronger?"
John chuckled softly and shook his head.
"Not exactly."
The excitement on Zethar's face faded slightly.
"Every gift comes with a price."
John's expression became stern.
"You're still young. Your body isn't ready to handle the Wheel's full power. Right now, it can only spin four times."
A heavy silence fell across the arena.
Moments ago, the stadium had been roaring with excitement, voices crashing together like thunder beneath the vast skies of Valdyros. But now, after witnessing the devastating blow Honcho had unleashed upon the young boy, the crowd sat frozen in stunned disbelief.
All eyes were locked upon Zethar's motionless body.
Whispers began to spread like wildfire through the stands.
"Is… is he alive?"
"That punch should've killed him…"
Some of Zethar's friends gripped the railings in anger, fury burning in their eyes. To them, this was no longer a tournament match—it was brutality.
"How could an upper-class fighter strike a child with that much force?" one shouted bitterly.
"He went too far!"
Their outrage echoed among the spectators, many nodding in agreement while others simply stared in horrified silence at the arena floor below.
High above the stadium, seated upon a grand throne carved from black stone and gold, the King of Valdyros observed the scene with narrowed eyes. Beside him stood his royal guard, Zyrenith Nova, her silver gaze fixed upon the battlefield below.
How could a boy survive an attack like that? she wondered silently.
Her eyes drifted toward Honcho, who still stood in the arena, breathing heavily after releasing such monstrous power.
That one has talent, she admitted to herself. A frightening amount of talent. Perhaps… I should take him as my student.
But then her gaze shifted back to Zethar's fallen body.
Doubt crept into her thoughts.
As for that boy… I don't know—
Her thoughts stopped abruptly.
Her eyes widened.
A heartbeat.
Slow.
Heavy.
Powerful.
She heard it clearly.
Thump.
The sound echoed in her ears like a war drum beneath the earth itself.
Thump.
Zyrenith Nova quickly looked around in confusion, her sharp senses searching for the source. Yet no one else reacted. The crowd remained silent. The king remained still.
No one else could hear it.
Far below, standing amongst the spectators, John heard it too.
A grin slowly spread across his face.
"Finally," he muttered beneath his breath.
Then—
Zethar moved.
Slowly… painfully… his fingers twitched against the shattered stone beneath him.
Gasps erupted throughout the arena.
The boy's body trembled violently as he pushed himself upward inch by inch. Blood dripped from his arms. His legs shook beneath his own weight. Every movement looked agonizing, as though his body was being held together by sheer willpower alone.
Yet he stood.
The entire stadium fell deathly silent.
Nobody dared speak.
Nobody dared breathe.
Even the wind itself seemed to stop.
Honcho's eyes widened in horror as he stared at the boy standing before him. Confusion twisted across his face, his mind unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
"What…?" he whispered.
His voice cracked.
"What?! How are you still standing?!"
For the first time since the battle began, fear crept into Honcho's eyes.
"I hit you with everything I had!" he shouted, taking a step back. "That attack should've ended the fight!"
Zethar remained silent.
His head hung low, his body trembling, blood running down his face onto the broken arena floor.
Then slowly…
He lifted his head.
And the look in his eyes made the entire stadium uneasy,
Zethar began to walk forward slowly, each step heavy against the shattered stone of the arena. The entire stadium had fallen into a suffocating silence. Tens of thousands of eyes were fixed upon the lone figure who had somehow survived an attack that should have erased him completely.
Dust drifted through the air around him like ash from a dying world.
Then something appeared above Zethar's head.
A wheel.
Dark, ancient, and unnatural.
It hovered silently above him, its surface covered in strange markings that seemed to shift and twist like living shadows. As Zethar took another step, the wheel began to turn.
Click.
The sound echoed throughout the arena.
Another step.
Click.
The wheel rotated further.
A cold chill spread through the crowd as the sound continued with every movement he made, each rotation louder than the last, like the turning gears of fate itself. The atmosphere grew heavier, pressing against the lungs of everyone watching.
Arcos stared upward, his expression tightening. "What… is that?"
Beside him, Phoenix could only shake her head slowly, unable to tear her eyes away from the wheel. "I don't know…" she whispered. For the first time since entering the tournament, genuine uncertainty crept into her voice. "I've never seen anything like this before."
Truthfully, no one had.
Not the fighters.
Not the spectators.
Not even the elders watching from above.
This was something entirely unknown.
The wheel continued spinning until, at last—
CLANK.
A deafening metallic sound exploded through the stadium as the wheel completed its full rotation. The noise struck the arena like thunder, causing many in the audience to flinch violently. The wheel locked into place above Zethar's head for a brief moment before slowly fading into nothingness.
The instant it vanished, the entire atmosphere changed.
Honcho instinctively staggered backward, his eyes widening with fear he could not hide. His heartbeat thundered in his chest as a cold sweat rolled down his face.
"W-what was that?!" he shouted, panic leaking into his voice.
But Zethar said nothing.
Not a single word.
His eyes remained locked onto Honcho with an expression so cold, so menacing, that it sent a shiver crawling down Honcho's spine. There was no rage in Zethar's gaze.
That was what made it terrifying.
It was calm.
The calm of something that had already decided the outcome.
Honcho's breathing became uneven. For the first time in the fight, doubt began creeping into his mind. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run, yet pride chained him in place.
Then anger overtook his fear.
"You think some cheap trick can scare me?!" Honcho roared, forcing confidence back into his voice.
Brilliant light erupted from his body, flooding the arena in blinding radiance. The ground beneath his feet cracked apart as energy surged violently around him like a raging storm. Veins bulged across his arms as he pushed his power higher than ever before.
The crowd erupted into screams and cheers.
Honcho clenched his fists so tightly that blood trickled from his palms. "I'll crush you before you can do whatever monster trick that was!"
Then he vanished.
The sheer force of his movement shattered the ground beneath him as he dashed toward Zethar at a speed beyond anything he had used before. Sonic booms exploded behind him, tearing through the arena as his glowing fist cut through the air like a comet descending from the heavens.
But to Zethar's eyes, it was as though time itself had begun to unravel.
The roaring arena, the screaming crowd, even the violent rush of wind around Honcho's charge—all of it slowed to an eerie crawl. Every movement became crystal clear. He could see the tension in Honcho's muscles, the cracks forming beneath his feet, even the droplets of sweat drifting through the air like falling rain suspended in time.
Honcho's once overwhelming speed now felt painfully slow.
So this is my true power…
Zethar's eyes widened slightly as calm washed over him like a tranquil sea. The unbearable pain that had been twisting inside his stomach vanished completely, as though it had never existed at all.
I feel… light.
His breathing steadied.
At ease.
A strange warmth spread through his body, and with it came something far more terrifying than strength—certainty.
It almost feels like nothing can hurt me anymore.
Honcho was only an inch away now, his fist tearing through the air with enough force to shatter stone. The crowd watched in horror, convinced the attack would end the match instantly.
But Zethar simply stepped to the side.
A single movement.
Effortless.
Honcho's eyes widened in shock as his attack missed completely. Unable to stop himself, his body hurtled forward at full speed before crashing violently into the tournament wall.
The entire arena shook.
Stone exploded outward in every direction as massive cracks spread through the barrier. Dust and debris swallowed Honcho completely, and a deafening silence fell over the stadium.
No one moved.
No one even breathed.
A few moments passed, yet there was still no sign of Honcho emerging from the rubble.
Then the arena gates burst open.
Several healers rushed onto the battlefield, their expressions tense with urgency. They hurried toward the crater in the wall and began examining Honcho's motionless body.
The crowd watched anxiously.
Whispers spread like wildfire through the stands.
"Is he dead…?"
"No… there's no way…"
One of the healers suddenly took flight, soaring toward the elevated platform where the Headmaster sat observing the match. The healer leaned close and whispered the result into his ear.
The Headmaster remained silent for a moment.
Then he slowly nodded.
Rising from his seat, his long robes swayed in the wind as his voice thundered across the arena.
"This match is over…" he declared solemnly. "The winner is… Zethar."
For a heartbeat, the crowd remained frozen in stunned disbelief.
Then applause erupted throughout the stadium.
It was hesitant at first—confused, uncertain—but it quickly grew into a thunderous roar. The spectators cheered not because they understood what they had witnessed, but because they knew they had seen something extraordinary.
Among the crowd, Zyrenith Nova stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Zethar.
Confusion clouded her face.
Fear followed shortly after.
She had spent years studying ancient magic, memorizing forbidden texts and forgotten histories. She had read about legendary sorcerers capable of bending reality itself—but never, not once, had she encountered anything like this.
This power felt… wrong.
Unnatural.
It unsettled her deeply.
Meanwhile, high in the stands, John slowly rose to his feet alongside the cheering crowd. Unlike everyone else, however, his expression was not confused.
It was nostalgic.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he applauded quietly.
I never thought I'd see it again…
His eyes lingered on Zethar.
Not since the last user died.
For the first time in years, something ancient stirred within John's memories.
Something he thought had vanished forever.
The Headmaster's voice echoed once more through the arena.
"Zethar," he called out, his tone far more serious than before, "you may return to the resting rooms."
Zethar said nothing.
Still overwhelmed by the strange calm flowing through his body, he turned and began walking toward the arena gates. The cheers of the crowd echoed behind him, yet they sounded distant, muffled, almost unreal.
As he disappeared into the shadows beyond the gates, two new fighters emerged from the opposite side of the arena.
The atmosphere shifted once again.
Excitement returned.
Anticipation crackled through the air.
The Headmaster raised his hand high above the battlefield.
"LET THE SECOND MATCH OF THE TOURNAMENT BEGIN!" he proclaimed.