The echoes of the previous match had barely faded from the arena when the next call rang out. The name spoken by the Elder was instantly familiar—Ralph Galehart. His entrance stirred neither tension nor excitement. He rose from the bench as if beginning a casual morning stretch and walked toward the center of the field. His steps were unhurried, his gaze steady—devoid of impatience or thrill.
Some participants turned their heads to watch, while others remained still, not expecting much from the upcoming bout. Blitz didn't even glance down from the sky. Zigrane pointedly looked away. Michael gave only a sidelong glance toward the arena. Torren murmured dully:
"Doesn't seem like it'll take long."
And he was right. It ended even faster than expected.
The Elder, watching with detached attention, barely nodded before silence fell over the arena again. A single burst of magic. A swift movement. And that was it. The match was over.
"Victory goes to participant number 156, Ralph Galehart," announced the official voice.
Ralph didn't look the least surprised. He gave a brief nod to the Elder and turned to leave without even glancing back at the field. His expression didn't shift—calm, almost indifferent. There was no pride, no smugness. It was a match he was expected to win, and he did. Nothing more.
Short comments rippled through the benches.
"Not for nothing he's considered one of the most reliable. Everything precise, no fuss," said Renald.
"I'd say—soulless," Rob added with a smirk. "But hey, who are we to judge?"
"He just does what he has to," Michael noted, not lifting his eyes from his own thoughts.
Katsu glanced briefly at the arena, then closed his eyes again. For him, it was uninteresting background noise. Ralph's win surprised no one—it just happened, like a scene in a script already written.
Even the three mysterious participants—Deyron, Nyrek, and the third—didn't discuss the fight. They were more interested in who would go next. Ralph's match hadn't raised questions, nor sparked any theories or admiration.
By then, Ralph had returned to his seat. He crossed his arms and, paying no mind to anyone around him, closed his eyes. No celebration, no relief. Just another task completed. An ordinary victory.
The only thing preventing complete silence was the anticipation of the next match. After
Elaira and Selene's thrilling duel, expectations had skyrocketed. But Ralph… Ralph reminded them all: not every fight is a spectacle. Some are just power, plain and simple.
After that quick, cold finish, the participants once again fell into chatter. The fight had been predictable, but its abruptness still left a mark—not from awe, but in stark contrast to Elaira and Selene's emotionally charged clash.
"Well, Ralph doesn't do ceremony, huh?" one of the participants said with a stretch.
"I blinked, and it was already over."
"At least it wasn't another nerve-wrecker like Elaira's..." another laughed, though with less certainty. Her name was now spoken with respect, even by those who once doubted her.
At that moment, Elaira was approaching a certain group—Rob, Renald, and Ralph. Her steps were steady, but her expression held a hint of embarrassment. Rob, noticing her, raised an eyebrow, puzzled.
"Rob," she began, stopping in front of him. For a second, she lowered her gaze, gathering herself, then looked him in the eyes again. "I… want to apologize. For, well, you know what. I was wrong. I thought you were… peeking, and I reacted too harshly."
Rob immediately caught her meaning and broke into a wide grin, as if he'd been waiting for this moment.
"See? It wasn't me! And no one believed me!" he exclaimed with mock offense but clear amusement. "I told you I was just walking by, and you and Ralph almost beat me up!"
"I admitted I was wrong. What else do you want?" Elaira crossed her arms, trying to hide her discomfort. A faint blush still gave her away.
Ralph, listening nearby without much attention, raised a brow and turned to Rob.
"Wait… so you were actually telling the truth?"
"Of course!" Rob declared proudly. "I always tell the truth!"
"Now that's debatable..." Ralph muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching with the rarest hint of a smile. He was about to say more, but instead checked the time and looked toward the arena.
"Renald," he called, turning his head. "You're up. Get moving. The match is almost done—they'll be calling you any moment."
Renald, who had been quietly observing the entire conversation, seemed to be waiting for that cue. He stood, patted Rob on the shoulder, and nodded briefly to Ralph and Elaira.
"Got it. Time to warm up."
"Good luck," Elaira offered simply.
"Remember, we've still got bets riding on you," Rob said with a grin, miming coin tossing.
"So we're losing?" Renald replied dryly.
"Let's call it... motivational investment," Rob corrected, earning light laughter from the group.
Meanwhile, on the far bench, the Elder leaned forward again. He never interrupted, but his gaze missed nothing—not the apology, not the reactions, not the subtle dynamic between the participants. Every word, every gesture was more than casual chatter to him. It was assessment. Because in this tournament, it wasn't only magic and power being tested—but also who these people were outside the arena.
The scene near the bench quieted down. Rob, triumphant in his vindication, kept boasting. Elaira avoided further eye contact. Renald headed off to prepare. And Ralph… Ralph's mind was already deep in the next match.
And the tournament… went on.