Camille Ajun, the third contender, was the embodiment of grace and precision.
Where others relied on brute strength, she relied on speed—her movements were sharp, efficient, and almost impossible to predict. Her match against Grant Olse, the academy's "Iron Tank," had been one of the most spectacular duels of the tournament. Grant had charged like a boulder rolling downhill, but Camille danced around every strike, weaving through his attacks like water slipping between cracks.
When the final blow came, it was almost poetic: a sidestep, a twist, and a single palm strike to his chest that sent the massive boy tumbling out of the ring.
Her agility and composure made her a spectacle; her opponents called her "The Windstep."
---
Then there was Adebi Monta, the masked enigma.
Many thought her delicate frame made her an easy target—until she dismantled Reece Cantoe, the academy's most feared fighter. Adebi's fighting style was unlike anything ever seen in the empire: flexible, fluid, and terrifyingly unpredictable. She moved like a spider—bending, flipping, clinging to surfaces with uncanny precision. Her twin daggers flashed like silver webs, and before anyone realised it, her opponent was disarmed and cornered.
Reece, the undefeated lion, had fallen to her speed and strategy, and with that, Adebi Monta carved her name into legend.
Her victory sent murmurs through the crowd: Was she human—or something more?
---
And finally, Gabriel Ealt, the strategist among them.
Where others focused on raw combat, Gabriel was a master of anticipation. His movements were sharp, light, and deliberate—like a dancer who knew the rhythm of every strike before it came. His light footwork was so fast that his steps left brief afterimages on the stage. In his previous matches, he predicted his opponents' strikes with uncanny accuracy, countering them before they even completed their attacks.
His strength was not brute force, but the elegance of timing—a rare mastery for someone his age.
---
Now, these five—warriors of muscle, instinct, and will—stood ready to face the five young prodigies of the Oradonian Order of Mages.
Two schools.
Two philosophies.
The strength of flesh against the brilliance of magic.
The crowd roared, the banners of both academies fluttered in the wind, and even the emperor leaned forward in his seat.
The air in the arena was thick with tension and expectation, the very atmosphere charged with anticipation. Trumpets blared once, announcing the beginning of what many called "The Duel of Eras"—a clash between two disciplines that had stood apart for centuries: the brawn of the Martial Arts Academy against the intellect of the Oradonian Order of Mages.
At the centre of the colossal arena stood a tall man in a flowing green robe, his sleeves trailing like vines in the wind. Embroidered across his chest was a deep emerald emblem—the sacred Leaf of Nazare, symbol of the empire and its ancient power. His very presence commanded silence.
He extended his staff—a polished rod carved with runes—and spoke, his voice echoing across the grounds like the roll of distant thunder.
"You two factions shall face each other," he declared, his eyes gliding over the ten young contestants. "But this shall not be a match of prearranged foes. No—fate shall decide. Within these scrolls,"—he gestured to the jade box hovering beside him—"lie the names of your potential opponents. Each of you shall come forward, one after the other, and choose. The first shall come from the Martial Arts Academy, the next from the Oradonian Order."
He paused, letting his words sink into the minds of both teams. The crowd murmured, the sound swelling like a rising tide.
"Choose wisely," he added, his tone lower now, almost solemn. "For whoever you draw shall become the test of your destiny."
A long silence followed. Dust swirled faintly between the two groups as both sides stood in rigid focus. On one side, the young martial artists—barefoot, battle-hardened, breathing like tigers ready to pounce. On the other, the mages, cloaked and composed, fingers twitching lightly around their grimoires.
The officiator's gaze swept across the martial artists.
"Now then," he said. "Who among you shall go first?"
No one moved. For a heartbeat, even the wind seemed to hesitate.
Then—without warning—Blaise Dean stepped forward.
His movement was sharp and certain, his bare feet striking the tiled platform with confidence that sent a shiver through the watching students. The boy's expression was calm, his eyes fixed on the floating box. His rod rested on his shoulder, its silver surface gleaming faintly beneath the sunlight.
A murmur swept through the audience.
"What's gotten into him?"
"That's Blaise Dean, right? The orphan boy?"
"He's not exactly the strongest—just lucky with that rod of his…"
"No, look at him. That's not luck. That's conviction."
"Conviction or foolishness?"
Even among the martial artists, Albert Ziloman raised a brow, glancing at him sideways. Camille smirked faintly, whispering under her breath, "He never does wait for orders."
Blaise stopped before the jade box. For a brief second, the faint shimmer of magic danced around it, illuminating the ten tightly rolled scrolls within. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reached in.
The scroll he drew pulsed faintly with a golden aura.
The announcer raised his hand high, the crowd leaning forward in hushed expectancy.
"Reveal," he said, his voice echoing through the silence.
Blaise Dean exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the parchment. With a crisp motion, he broke the golden seal and unrolled the small scroll. The arena seemed to hold its breath—every whisper, every heartbeat, pausing in anticipation.
His eyes darted down to the inked letters. For a fleeting moment, his face remained unreadable. Then he lifted his gaze, calm yet sharp as a drawn blade, and his voice rang clear across the coliseum:
"Siwa Loma."
A collective gasp swept through the stands.
Siwa Loma. The shape-shifter. The unpredictable phantom of the Oradonian Order.
A girl who could alter her form at will—turning flesh into steel, mist, or beast—and even detach parts of herself to attack from impossible angles. Her previous match had left her opponent unconscious, utterly bewildered as to how he was struck from behind when she had never moved from her spot.
And now, the boy who was hailed as "the fearless orphan," had chosen her.
The officiator blinked in visible surprise. "So be it," he announced formally, though his tone carried a trace of disbelief. "First pairing—Blaise Dean of the Martial Arts Academy versus Siwa Loma of the Oradonian Order."
The crowd erupted into an uproar of voices:
> "He picked Siwa? Is he insane?"
"She's a monster in disguise! Does he think his rod can hit what isn't even solid?"
"Maybe he just wants to make a name for himself before he gets crushed."
"Or maybe he knows something we don't…"
Across the arena, Siwa Loma stepped forward. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes a deep shade of violet that shimmered faintly under the sunlight. She smiled—a slow, serpentine curl of her lips that carried both amusement and challenge.
"Interesting choice," she murmured, her voice low and melodic. "I was hoping for someone who doesn't tremble."
Blaise met her gaze steadily. "Then you got your wish."
The words hung between them like a spark waiting for flame. Even the emperor himself, seated above in the royal balcony, leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
The officiator raised his staff once again, commanding silence. "The first pair is set. Now,"—he turned toward the Oradonian side—"after this round, it would be your turn to choose, but for now, it is time to fight...."