The arena was silent.
Not from a lack of excitement—but from the kind of anticipation that turns even whispers to dust. The crowd held its breath as the first match of the second round was called:
"Match One: Eryon Solaris versus Selar."
Professor Kaelen's voice echoed through the coliseum. Eryon stepped forward into the light, heart steady. Across the ring, Selar moved with the same calm, confident grace he had shown in his first match. No tension. No wasted motion.
They faced one another, two different storms about to collide—one blazing with momentum, the other honed like a blade of wind.
"Begin."
Eryon shot forward first, just as planned. No hesitation. His blade swept out with aggressive purpose, testing Selar's reaction time.
Selar dodged without retreating, gliding to the side and using a narrow opening to counter with a swift palm strike. Eryon twisted his torso and deflected the blow with his shoulder, forcing space again.
From the stands, Kael's voice rang out. "Don't follow his pace!"
Eryon heard it. Felt it. He was slipping into Selar's rhythm.
He changed direction mid-charge.
A feint—then another. Eryon circled faster, slashing from unpredictable angles, forcing Selar into defense. His sword hummed with each motion, striking sparks from Selar's bracers.
Selar responded in bursts—fast counters, sudden jabs, sweeping low kicks—but the unpredictability Eryon had practiced was working. Slightly.
They danced in close combat, a whirlwind of calculated risk and precision. Selar struck high, Eryon ducked low. Eryon slashed wide, Selar spun inside the arc and landed a quick jab to Eryon's ribs.
Pain flared—but Eryon smiled.
He had baited that opening.
With his free hand, he clenched the inner grip of his blade and poured energy forward—red, hot, and raw.
The blade flared with a shallow surge of flame.
Selar's eyes widened.
Eryon brought the sword down—not in a clean arc, but in a heavy, unexpected hammering slash aimed at Selar's center mass.
Selar leapt back, but not fast enough.
The sword grazed his shoulder, flame licking through his uniform. The crowd gasped.
Selar staggered and righted himself. Blood trickled. His stance was still firm—but not untouched.
For the first time, Selar looked angry.
He charged.
What followed was a flurry—Selar abandoning defense for speed, pressing in with rapid strikes that forced Eryon into retreat. The plan nearly fell apart.
But Eryon didn't break.
He bent. Absorbed. Redirected.
And when Selar overcommitted—just slightly—Eryon pivoted and brought his sword up with every ounce of control he had.
The tip touched Selar's throat.
Selar froze.
Kaelen raised his hand. "Match over. Victory: Eryon Solaris."
The crowd erupted.
Eryon lowered his blade, panting. Selar gave a short nod, jaw tight but respectful.
As Eryon walked from the ring, he looked briefly toward the shadows beneath the high seats.
Vaen Solarius was watching again.
So was Alice.
And neither looked surprised.