After her transformation, Siwa Loma no longer resembled anything human.
Her body had become a grotesque fusion of beauty and horror — scaled armor clinging to her frame like living steel, her arms bulging with monstrous strength, claws gleaming like forged blades. Her spine rippled with faint, glowing veins, and her tail split into twin serrated whips. Her face — if it could still be called that — was partly masked by a bone-like crest that gave her the look of a predator sculpted from a nightmare.
The arena fell into stunned silence. Even seasoned fighters shuddered. Siwa looked like something that had clawed its way out of a horror painting — a perfect embodiment of chaos and raw might.
But the match could not be stopped.
The rules were absolute — as long as she drew only from her innate ability, the fight remained within bounds.
And so, the battle continued under a silence thick with fear.
---
Down by the stage's side corridor, Mr. Herold approached the one figure everyone else avoided — the Scarlet Raven, Vice Dean of the Oradonian Order.
Uriel Commes stood motionless, draped in authority with his flowing robes that shimmered faintly under the torchlight. His face shaped like a smooth thoughtless face — hid all expression, yet the mere tilt of his head carried the weight of judgment.
When Herold stopped a few paces away, the Raven spoke, voice low and even, like velvet wrapped around steel.
> "It doesn't appear that your student has fully mastered this Fifth Phase of body transmutation," he said calmly. "But… she does possess remarkable potential."
Herold's knees almost gave out. He trembled from head to toe, his breath shallow, like an ant staring up at an elephant's foot, praying it wouldn't come down.
"Sir—Vice Dean, sir, I—I can explain," he stammered, every word breaking over itself. "She's—she's gifted, yes, but hot-headed. Reckless, sometimes. I'll correct that, I swear it. I'll—"
Uriel Commes raised a single hand. The air fell silent at once.
"I didn't summon you for excuses, Herold."
The Vice Dean turned slightly, his gaze catching a faint reflection of the arena's silver light.
"I summoned you to grant you something. A technique. One suited for her… temperament."
Herold blinked, unsure he'd heard correctly. "A—technique, my lord?"
"Yes," the Raven said softly. "A higher form of body transmutation. One that reduces the instability between morphic shifts. With this, she will be able to embody the essence of the creatures she imitates — not just their shapes."
He paused.
"The wings of an eagle. The strength of a rhino. The speed of a cheetah. The precision of a serpent."
Each word sent a faint vibration through the air.
Herold's panic dissolved into disbelief… then awe. "T-Thank you, my Vice Dean! This—this is beyond—"
Before he could finish, the Scarlet Raven extended one finger. A thin beam of scarlet light shot forth, striking Herold in the forehead.
The world around him blurred. Symbols, incantations, and diagrams of the human form twisted into animal sigils flooded his mind in a torrent of searing knowledge. For a heartbeat, he thought his head would split open. Then, just as suddenly, the pain vanished.
He gasped, clutching his temples.
The power he had just glimpsed was overwhelming — divine.
By the time he gathered himself, the Scarlet Raven had already turned away, his cloak trailing across the marble floor like flowing blood.
Herold's thoughts raced wildly. Why would the Vice Dean reward me instead of punishing me?
But he dared not question it. He only bowed deeply, murmuring, "Thank you, my lord," before hurrying off.
When he reached the other teachers' box, they swarmed him instantly.
"What did he say?"
"Are you dismissed?"
"Did he threaten you?"
Herold only smiled faintly, letting the suspense stretch deliciously. "Confidential," he said, straightening his collar.
The others groaned, cursing him under their breath.
Even the regional vice president, Anders Zitt, approached. "Herold, what did the Vice Dean want with you?"
Herold chuckled lightly, masking his nerves. "Official business. A private directive."
Anders frowned, but didn't press further. No one, not even a regional head, questioned a matter marked private by the Scarlet Raven himself.
As Herold turned back toward the stage, his heart still raced.
He told himself it was pride — gratitude, even — for the Vice Dean's generosity.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the elation, a quiet unease whispered in his mind.
The Scarlet Raven never gave anything freely.
And perhaps, without realizing it, he had just become part of something far greater — and far darker — than he could imagine.
Back on stage, the battle had turned into a spectacle of raw brutality.
Blaise Dean's body was lifted clean off the ground, hurled into the air like a rag doll as Siwa Loma's monstrous fist connected with his chest. The impact cracked through the arena like a thunderclap.
He spun midair, weightless for an instant, before crashing down hard onto the shattered tiles. The sound of his landing made even the boldest spectators flinch.
Dust rose around him in slow, shimmering waves. For a long moment, he didn't move. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, tracing a dark line down his cheek.
But then—he coughed.
And he moved.
Groaning, he rolled onto his side, forcing himself up on trembling arms. His silver rod lay a few feet away, faintly glowing, as though calling out to him.
As long as he was still conscious, the match continued.
There was no bell, no mercy, no pause.
"Why won't you stay down!" Siwa bellowed, her voice distorted by her monstrous transformation. Each step she took cracked the floor beneath her.
Her aura radiated heat and power, warping the air around her like a forge's breath.
"Blaise, surrender!"
"Give up already!"
The students from the martial arts school shouted from the stands, their voices overlapping in panic. They couldn't bear to watch anymore. Siwa had gone beyond reason—beyond control. No technique or willpower should have been enough to stand against that kind of power.
But Blaise wasn't listening.
He reached for the rod, his fingers brushing its cool surface. A pulse of energy shivered through his arm the moment he touched it.
He knelt, closing his eyes, breathing slowly. The chaos faded. The sound of the crowd dulled to a distant hum. Even the throbbing pain in his ribs dimmed to silence.
Inside that stillness, he remembered the words — carved into the ancient text he had studied for nights without sleep.
The words that spoke of a union between soul and steel.
"Rios Belum Werea… Rios Belum Zhalik… Rios Belum Werea…"
The chant was soft at first, a whisper almost drowned by the wind. But with each repetition, it gained rhythm — purpose — resonance.
A strange calm spread through him, followed by a rising current of confidence that felt almost alien. The rod began to hum again, this time in tune with his heartbeat. Lines of light crawled up his arm, tracing ancient runes along his skin.
> "You are the weapon," the ancient voice inside him whispered.
"And the weapon is you."
He rose to his feet slowly, lifting the rod. His eyes, once dim with exhaustion, now gleamed with silver fire.
The glow intensified — not blinding, but commanding. The very air seemed to vibrate with the promise of impact.
Siwa slowed her charge for just a moment, sensing the shift. Something about the boy before her had changed — his stance, his breath, even his presence.
He was no longer fighting with a weapon.
He was the weapon.
Blaise's lips curved slightly.
"I told you," he murmured under his breath, voice steady now, "I don't need to break your bones. Just your rhythm."
He sank into a low stance, rod held diagonally across his body, energy rippling around him like an echo before a storm.
The crowd went silent again.
Even the Emperor leaned forward.
This was no longer a duel.
It was evolution unfolding in real time.