The herald stood upon the small stone balcony overlooking the Arena of Valor, his polished boots aligned neatly, his formal coat pressed and immaculate. He lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips, adjusted it slightly, then straightened his posture.
The moment he spoke, his voice boomed across the arena—clear, excited, and commanding.
"Citizens of Valor! Warriors of every land! Welcome… welcome… to the Duel Tournament of the Arena of Valor!"
The response was instant.
The stadium erupted.
Thousands of voices surged together, applause and drums crashing like thunder against stone walls. Flags waved wildly from the upper tiers, and the sound of stomping feet rolled through the arena in waves.
The herald waited, letting the noise swell—then raised his free hand.
Slowly, the crowd quieted.
"My name," he continued proudly, "is Herald Corvin Ashmere, appointed voice of the Arena and witness to every blade, every fall, and every rising warrior upon this sacred ground!"
Another roar followed.
Nathan sat quietly among the stone seats, hands resting together, his back straight.
Beside him, Noah remained calm and composed, eyes forward, absorbing every word.
On Nathan's other side, Lyra leaned forward eagerly, barely able to stay still, while Mira sat with her arms relaxed, gaze roaming across the vast circular stadium.
They didn't shout.
They didn't cheer.
They carried themselves like Atlon competitors—present, observant, restrained.
Until…
"THIS TOURNAMENT," the herald declared, "marks the proving ground for the next generation of warriors, especially the 200W tournament!"
Lyra jumped to her feet.
"YEAHHHH!" she shouted, fists raised. "LET'S GO!"
A few people nearby laughed. Someone clapped her on the back in shared excitement.
Mira glanced sideways, unimpressed but amused. "Control yourself," she murmured.
Lyra dropped back into her seat, grinning. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."
Mira didn't reply. Her eyes had already returned to the arena—watching the competitors below, studying their posture, their movements, their confidence. She wasn't just watching. She was measuring.
The herald didn't rush. He let the murmurs settle before continuing, his tone clear—meant not just for competitors, but for every spectator packed into the stone tiers.
"This tournament," he said, sweeping a hand across the arena, "is designed to measure the warrior, not the weapon, not the title, and not the bloodline."
The projection above the arena shifted again, forming simple figures locked in combat.
"Each match is fought one-on-one. Once you enter the arena, you stand alone. No allies. No signals. No outside guidance of any kind."
He lifted a finger.
"If anyone interferes… from the stands or the field… both the offender and the competitor associated with them will be disqualified."
That earned a few sharp nods from veterans in the crowd.
"All competitors will be equipped with a standard magical light helmet and chest armor upon entry," the herald continued. "These will become invisible once the duel begins. They serve two purposes."
Lyra leaned closer to Noah. "That's actually kind of cool."
Noah nodded. "Efficient. Clear conditions."
The projection zoomed in on the armor.
The herald pointed his finger down to the projection in the arena ground.
"First… protection. Fatal injuries will be prevented. This is a duel, not an execution."
A ripple of approval moved through the stands.
"Second… judgment. When your armor shatters, your match ends. No second chances. No arguing with the result."
He paused deliberately. "You will have ten minutes in this match."
A glowing timer appeared briefly, ticking down.
"If neither armor breaks within that time, as I'm the referee here also, I will declare a decision based on dominance, technique, and control of the arena."
That caught the attention of many competitors. Some straightened. Others frowned.
"The arena terrain will change randomly before each match… stone, sand, grass, or mixed ground. Adaptability is part of the test. Complaining about the terrain will not change it."
A few chuckles echoed.
"When your number appears on the magical screen," the herald said, "that is your signal to step forward and proceed to the Arena ground."
"Speaking of ID number," the herald added, gesturing upward as a series of glowing numbers flashed briefly, "It determines your tier and match eligibility. It is not a ranking of pride… but a system of balance."
He let that sink in to the people.
"Gold Tier will face Gold Tier. Silver faces Silver. Bronze faces Bronze. Advancement is earned… not given."
"This arena," he said firmly, "is a place of honor."
Then his voice hardened, just slightly.
"And remember this above all else… respect."
The projection flickered, showing two figures bowing.
"You will bow before and after each match. Taunting, insults, provocation, or unsportsmanlike conduct will not be tolerated."
A red sigil flashed briefly in the air.
"One warning. One violation. A red card."
The sigil vanished.
"Disqualification. Removal from the tournament. No appeals."
The stadium fell quiet for a moment.
Then the herald straightened, lifting his trumpet once more.
"This is not a battle of emotions," he continued. "It is a battle of heart. Of discipline. Of worth."
Nathan exhaled slowly.
Mira's posture remained still, focused—her nod earlier already a promise kept.
This wasn't chaos.
It was structure.
And everyone in the arena now understood exactly what kind of stage they were standing on.
.
.
The herald paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. A faint smile crossed his lips—not proud, not boastful, but full of expectation.
"For now, show your skill," he said clearly.
"Show your passion."
"And show your worth… as warriors of the future."
For a heartbeat, the arena was silent.
Then the response exploded.
Cheers surged upward, rolling through the stands like a rising tide. Flags waved wildly. People stood, clapped, shouted names—some in hope, some in challenge.
The herald raised his hand once more.
His expression changed.
Not the expression of a empty kind… but the heavy kind. The kind where everyone understood the cost.
"Now," the herald said, lifting his trumpet slightly, "let us begin."
.
.
He turned toward the center stage, where the golden jar rested beneath the sunlight.
"We will draw… a random match from the Gold Tier."
Nathan, Noah, Lyra, and Mira leaned closer together instinctively.
Mira's gaze dropped to her arm.
Gold ID — 14.
Her fingers flexed slightly.
"…Could be me," she murmured, almost to herself.
Lyra clasped her hands together tightly. "Please not yet," she whispered. "I want to watch first. Just one match."
Noah turned to her, his expression slightly serious. "Lyra, you're not in a gold tier… why are you worried?"
Lyra swallowed, "Yeah, I know, but I'm…nervous, and worried about Mira."
Noah slowly turned to Mira, who was thinking to herself, hoping she wasn't the first competitor to fight in this first match.
Nathan didn't say anything.
His eyes drifted across the arena—not at the floor, not at the crowd, but toward the opposite side.
.
.
Across the stadium, within Aurelia's section, Irena sat upright.
Her posture was straight. Her hands rested calmly in her lap. Gold ID — 90 lay visible against her sleeve.
She wasn't watching the crowd.
She was watching the stage.
Behind her, a figure emerged quietly—almost unnoticed.
A woman clad in formal musketeer attire. A long coat trimmed with fine silver threading. A dark green hood shadowed her face, but her presence was unmistakable—controlled, seasoned, deliberate.
She leaned down just enough to speak near Irena's ear.
Her words were inaudible to anyone else.
Irena's jaw tightened slightly.
For a brief moment, her fingers curled.
Then she nodded once.
At center stage, an elderly Atlon councilor stepped forward. His movements were slow but steady as he lifted the golden jar. The metal glinted beneath the light as he reached inside.
Two folded slips of paper emerged in his hand.
The herald accepted them with care.
The entire arena held its breath.
He unfolded the first slip deliberately, eyes scanning the text.
"Gold Tier… Match One," he announced slowly.
Then…
"Number thirty-one."
A pause.
"Eleanor Whitford… The Royal Guard Representative of the Anwallder Principality."
The arena erupted.
From one side of the arena, the vomitory rose to open, and Eleanor stepped forward confidently onto the grounds.
Short dark-red hair. Broad shoulders. A tall, powerful frame that showed years of training. She carried her spear and shield with ease, the shaft resting naturally against her palm.
Light steel armor hugged her form, embedded with faintly glowing amethyst crystals.
Supporters from Anwallder rose to their feet at the top tier of the arena, chanting her name, stomping the stone beneath them, and drums played by their people.
Eleanor lifted her spear slightly in acknowledgment, metal shield at her side with Anwallder symbol on its middle, her lips curling into a confident smirk.
"And her opponent is…"
The people fell silent.
Nathan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced beneath his chin. His eyes never left the stage.
Noah crossed his arms, expression unreadable.
Lyra held her breath.
Mira closed her eyes briefly.
"Please not me."
The herald smiled.
Then raised his voice.
"Number ninety… Irena Fletcher! Princess of the Kingdom of Aurelia!"
The stadium exploded.
Cheers clashed with gasps. Whispers raced through the stands.
Irena stood—not with pride, not with ceremony—but alert. Ready. Her eyes were sharp, her breathing steady. She headed down the hallway, downstairs to the vomitory entrance to the arena grounds.
.
.
Around the stadium, voices overlapped—no single one louder than the other, but together forming a restless current.
"Isn't she that Aurelia prodigy?" a woman whispered to her companion. "The one trained under royal musketeers?"
A man nearby scoffed quietly. "Strong aim, sure… but this isn't a firing range. No muskets allowed. That's her weakness."
Another replied, more thoughtful. "Still… her footwork is clean. I've seen her move from past tournaments. She doesn't rely on brute force."
"She's fast," a younger competitor murmured, eyes narrowed. "Too fast for her size."
Someone else leaned in. "But light weapons mean less reach. One wrong step against a spear and it's over."
A deeper voice added calmly, "Status doesn't win duels. Skill does. And Aurelia doesn't send untested champions."
A woman farther up the stands crossed her arms. "Princess or not, this is her first public duel at this scale. Pressure alone could break her."
Another voice countered softly, almost impressed. "Or sharpen her."
The murmurs continued—strength weighed against weakness, reputation against reality—until the noise blended back into the roar of the arena.
"Can she really beat Eleanor?"
"She's a musketeer… what's she going to do, punch her?"
"Look at Eleanor's body build. This won't last long."
A man scoffed nearby. "Overhyped… you people, just watch the match and see who's gonna win or lose."
Another voice replied calmly, cutting through the doubt. "It's not about size. Or rank. It's about skill bro."
Farther away, a female champion narrowed her eyes, studying Irena carefully.
On the royal balcony, Queen Ileria clasped her hands together, her expression composed but tense. King Icarus stood beside her, silent—his gaze fixed on the field, waiting for her daughter to appear in the vomitory.
Meanwhile, inside the vomitory entrance.
Irena inhaled.
Then exhaled.
Eleanor adjusted her hair in the arena grounds.
She struck her spear against the ground with a solid thump.
Light flared as her helmet and chest armor formed around her—then vanished into invisibility.
From another side of the arena, the vomitory rose to open, and Irena walked out onto the grounds with a calm and fierce confidence that grabbed everyone's attention.
She drew her short dagger.
The white grip was clean. Simple.
Her armor formed.
Then faded.
She didn't take a stance.
She simply stood there—eyes closed, dagger held loosely at her side, breathing slow and even.
The arena floor shifted violently. Stone cracked into sand. Sand softened into soil. Grass burst forth until the field settled into a wide, open stretch of green.
The crowd murmured again.
Nearby in the stands, three competitors leaned together.
A teenage girl tilted her head. "Why a short dagger?"
A young man shrugged. "Against a spear? Bad idea."
A woman crossed her arms. "Looks careless."
A shy mage girl spoke softly, hesitant. "It… it doesn't matter. Close-range weapons can dominate if the user's fast enough."
They fell quiet.
.
.
.
The herald raised his voice once more.
"Competitors… bow in respect."
Eleanor bowed briefly, rising with a confident smirk.
Irena bowed deeply—then lifted her gaze, sharp and unwavering.
"Champions and spectators alike, take your places and steel your resolve. The moment you've been waiting for is upon us!"
The stadium erupted.
Nathan felt his medallion's pulse quicken, his grip tightening unconsciously.
The horn sounded.
The duel had begun.
.
.
.
The horn sounded—low and deep—rolling through the arena stone like thunder trapped underground.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Small dust drifted lazily around their boots. Sunlight poured through the open dome, catching on steel, banners, and the faint shimmer of emblems waiting to awaken. The crowd swelled—then fell quiet—thousands of people holding their breath at once.
Herald Corvin's voice cut cleanly from the balcony to the Arena field.
"Combatants… let the match, begin!"
Eleanor stepped forward first.
Her boots sank firmly into the flat grass. The spear rested naturally in her grip, long shaft angled with practiced ease, shield steady at her side. She didn't rush. She never rushed. Her movements carried the weight of someone who knew exactly how much space she controlled.
From the Anwallder side, the stands erupted.
"LET'S GO, ELEANOR!"
"CRUSH HER!"
"GLADIATOR QUEEN!"
Eleanor's lips curved into a small, confident smirk. She rolled her neck once, loosening her shoulders—calm, familiar. Like this wasn't a match.
Like this was home.
Irena barely changed at all.
She stayed light on her feet, posture relaxed, dagger held low at her side. Not defensive. Not aggressive. Just… ready. Her gaze never left Eleanor's centerline.
Nathan leaned forward without noticing.
"She's calm," he muttered.
"She always is," Mira replied quietly, eyes fixed on the grass field.
Eleanor advanced again, faster now. The spear swept outward in a wide, probing arc—strong, deliberate, meant to test distance and reaction.
Irena stepped inside the range.
Not back.
Not away.
Inside.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
She pivoted sharply, shoulder dipping as her heel snapped upward—not a full kick, just enough. It struck Eleanor's chest armor with a solid clang, metal ringing across the field.
Eleanor slid half a step back.
Surprised—
Then smiling wider.
"Oh?" she murmured.
She came again, spear flashing—shorter thrusts now, smarter angles. The shield followed, closing space, her reach cutting off escape paths.
Irena moved like water threading through stone.
She didn't block. She redirected. A sharp chop to the shoulder joint. A low kick to the thigh. A palm strike that cracked against chest plating—not to break it, just to shake the breath loose.
Murmurs spread.
"That's not dagger-only technique…"
"She's fighting like a brawler…"
"No, look closer. That footwork… musketeer discipline."
Lyra leaned forward, eyes wide. "She's not trying to overpower her…"
"She's wearing her down," Noah said quietly. "Bit by bit."
Eleanor rotated slower than Irena struck—but her mind was sharp. Every movement was read. Every flank remembered. She absorbed the pressure, adjusted her stance, let the hits land where they could be managed.
Irena felt it then—not fear, not doubt.
Just the narrowing of space.
The fight tightening.
Her breath shortened by a fraction as her stance drew in, weight settling lower, choices thinning into precision.
From the topmost royal balcony, Queen Ileria sat in her raised semi-throne reserved for royalty alone, her fingers tightening against its ornate armrests as she looked below. King Icarus upon a matching seat at her side.
"She's holding back," she said softly.
King Icarus nodded once. "But Eleanor isn't."
Around them stood and sat royals from distant lands—princes, princesses, and ruling leaders—while Queen Rhea and King Nalon occupied places beside their own, all watching and observing the scene below.
Meanwhile, below the arena field.
Another kick landed—this one square. A faint fracture cracked across Eleanor's chest plate.
The crowd exploded.
"AGAIN!"
"DON'T LET UP!"
"SHE CAN'T KEEP UP!"
Eleanor exhaled hard—then laughed beneath it.
"That all?" she said, voice carrying just enough to sting. "You move well. But movement doesn't win wars."
She surged forward. The spear snapped in—a sudden feint—then the shield slammed outward. The impact forced Irena back. Grass sprayed. A follow-up thrust skimmed close enough to tear fabric, grazing skin.
Irena twisted away, boots skidding, a bruise already blooming along her ribs.
The Herald leaned forward. "Eleanor's adapting! She's cutting off the flanks!"
Energy burst outward.
Eleanor's gladiator emblem flared first—heavy, raw, pulsing like a war drum. Brawler sigils layered over it, tighter and faster, wrapping her frame as her breath sharpened and her eyes burned.
Adrenaline.
Momentum.
Power.
Irena stood still.
Bruised. Grass-streaked. Breathing steady.
Then something else stirred.
A quieter glow traced along her form—clean musketeer lines, precise and controlled—woven with something unfamiliar. Older. Not loud. Knowledge moving beneath skin rather than exploding outward.
The air around her shifted.
Eleanor frowned.
"How did she…" Her grip tightened on the spear. "She's not supposed to fight like that."
"She's mixing forms," a councilor muttered.
"No," another corrected, voice low. "She's understanding them."
Irena lifted her dagger again.
A simple stance.
Open.
Inviting.
Almost careless.
Nathan's chest tightened.
"That's a trap."
.
.
Eleanor saw it. And smiled—serious now.
"Good," she said, rolling her shoulders as her emblems surged brighter. "Let's end this."
She charged—no restraint, full commitment. The spear drove forward like a judgment.
Irena moved.
Not back.
Not aside.
Forward.
And for a single, breathless moment—
The entire arena went dead silent.
.
.
The silence shattered.
Irena moved first.
Not with hesitation—
but with intent.
Her foot dug into the grass and she vanished from where she stood, body cutting sideways in a sudden burst of speed. Gasps followed her movement, eyes scrambling to keep up as she slipped past Eleanor's spear line.
Steel flashed.
Her dagger struck—not wild, not desperate—but precise.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
The blade cut the weakened seams of Eleanor's chest armor, slicing cleanly along the fractures already forming. Sparks flicked outward. The sound wasn't loud—just sharp, unmistakable.
A clean cut.
The crowd surged in shock.
"She cut it…!"
"That armor…!"
From the stands, Mira's eyes widened slightly. Not in fear. In awe.
"She didn't force it," she murmured. "She waited for the cracks."
Nathan's jaw tightened. His fingers laced together, elbows pressed into his knees.
"She's pushing now…"
Irena slipped past Eleanor's shoulder, light, fast—too fast for most.
But not for Eleanor.
A hand shot out.
Strong.
Unyielding.
Eleanor caught Irena mid-motion, fingers locking onto her arm and shoulder with brutal precision.
"Oh no—!" Lyra gasped.
Eleanor didn't hesitate.
She twisted, yanked Irena off-balance, and slammed her forward.
The shield crashed into Irena's back.
Not a strike.
A collision.
The impact thundered across the grass field like a collapsing wall.
CRACK.
Irena's armor flared violently, light spiderwebbing across it as her body was hurled forward. She struck the ground hard, rolling once before skidding to a stop.
The stadium erupted—then froze.
"That slam—!"
"She grabbed her—!"
"God… is she okay."
Nathan sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes never left the field.
"…That was heavy."
Noah's expression darkened. "That wasn't just strength."
Mira didn't speak. Her fists were clenched now—not in fear, but focus. Watching. Learning.
On the royal balcony, Queen Ileria's breath caught.
Her hands gripped the armrests fully now.
"Irena…"
King Icarus stood halfway from his seat, then forced himself still. His jaw tightened, eyes sharp, unblinking.
"…She can take it."
Beside them, King Nalon's brows lifted slightly. Queen Rhea's fingers pressed together, her expression tense but controlled.
"That slam…" Queen Rhea murmured. "That was no ordinary counter."
"No," King Nalon agreed quietly. "That was a gladiator's answer."
Eleanor stood tall above Irena, chest rising and falling, shield still forward, spear angled low. Her armor was cracked—but she was smiling.
A real smile now.
"That's more like it," she said under her breath.
Irena lay against the grass, one knee bent, one hand pressed to the ground. Her armor flickered—fractured, but intact. Pain pulsed through her back, sharp and deep, stealing her breath for a moment.
The herald leaned forward instinctively.
His voice rang out—controlled, steady.
"No foul!" Corvin declared. "Legal contact! Armor impact only!"
He watched closely—but his tone carried concern, not judgment.
"Competitor Irena Fletcher—status?"
Irena didn't answer right away.
The crowd held its breath again.
Then—
Her fingers curled into the grass.
Slowly, she pushed herself up.
Kneeling.
Breathing steady.
Bruised.
But conscious.
The noise returned in waves—shock, disbelief, rising tension.
"She got slammed by a queen gladiator…"
"That wasn't normal—"
"And she's still moving…"
Eleanor tilted her head slightly, spear rolling once in her grip.
"…You're tougher than you look," she said, genuinely now.
Irena lifted her gaze.
Calm.
Focused.
Unbroken.
And the duel—
Was far from over.
.
.
.
Mira's hands were clasped tight against her chest now.
"She got up…" she whispered, half hope, half fear tangled together.
Lyra leaned forward so far she barely noticed she was standing. "Please… just… don't stop now."
Noah said nothing. His eyes tracked every breath, every shift of balance. Calm. Measuring.
Nathan, though—Nathan wasn't just watching anymore.
He felt it.
Not power. Not spectacle.
Resolve.
On the field, Irena straightened fully.
A sharp cough broke the silence.
She turned slightly away from Eleanor—and a thin trace of blood spilled from the corner of her mouth, dark against her lips. The aftermath of the slam finally caught up to her, pain blooming deep in her back and ribs, stealing the air from her lungs for a brief, dangerous moment.
The crowd tensed.
Murmurs spread fast.
"She's hurt…"
"That hit was too much…"
"Looks personal."
But Irena didn't stagger.
She lifted one hand calmly, wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her glove, and exhaled slowly. Then—almost casually—she adjusted her green and white musketeer hat back into place.
Her eyes lifted.
Clear.
Steady.
A faint smirk tugged at her lips.
Not defiance.
Confidence.
Herald Corvin leaned forward again, concern breaking through his trained neutrality.
"Competitor Irena… status?"
Irena glanced up toward him from above, nodded once.
Simple.
Firm.
'I'm fine.'
Eleanor had paused too. For a heartbeat, uncertainty crossed her face—not fear, but calculation. She turned slightly toward the herald, as if to confirm—
Legal.
Clean.
No foul.
Corvin gave a short nod back.
Eleanor exhaled, rolled her shoulders once, and then her gaze snapped back to Irena—harder now. Sharper.
"No more games," she said, voice steady, carrying across the grass. "I'll end this. Right here!"
She charged.
No hesitation. No restraint.
The spear surged forward with her, shield ripping free from her arm as she hurled it in a wide, curved arc—fast, heavy, meant to corner, not crush.
Irena didn't flinch.
She didn't even step back.
Her head tilted slightly. Her shoulders shifted just enough.
The shield passed inches from her face.
It slammed into the barrier wall behind her with a deafening clang, embedding itself deep into the reinforced stone.
The people in arena gasped as one.
Irena turned her head slowly, eyes flicking to the shield lodged in the wall.
Calm.
Measured.
Planned.
Then she turned back.
Eleanor was already there.
The spear crashed toward her—one strike, then another. Steel met steel. Grass tore beneath their boots as Irena deflected, twisted, ducked. Short exchanges. Fast breaths. A hit to the shoulder. A scrape along the arm. The rhythm was brutal now—no crowd, no banners, just survival.
Then—
Eleanor drove forward with her full weight. Like a power charge.
Irena was thrown into the wall, hitting it hard.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Stone scraped her back as she slid half a step down, armor rattling, chest tight with pain. She pressed a hand briefly to her ribs, jaw clenched.
Eleanor didn't slow.
The spear thrust came again.
Too close.
Too fast.
And then—
Irena moved.
She turned sharply, body twisting as her dagger snapped upward. The blade caught the spear shaft—not stopping it, but redirecting it. Steel screamed against stone as the spear was forced sideways—
And stuck.
Embedded deep into the wall beside the shield.
Eleanor's eyes widened.
Irena's left hand shot out as she threw her short dagger to the grass with her right hand, gripping the spear shaft—not to pull it free.
But to anchor herself.
Her thigh-length, slinging cape at her waist whipped behind her as she jumped, launching her body upward into a spinning arc—
A full 360-degree turn.
Teeth clenched.
Muscles screaming.
Anger—not wild, not reckless—but focused, burning hot.
Her right kick landed.
Hard.
Into the side of Eleanor's invisible helmet armor.
The impact cracked like thunder.
The spear tore through Irena's slinging cape as she passed, fabric ripping free—but the damage was already done.
Eleanor was wrenched sideways, her balance ripped apart mid-motion.
Her helmet shattered mid-fall, fragments scattering across the grass as she hit the ground hard, rolling once before stopping.
Silence exploded across the arena.
Even Corvin froze—his speaking trumpet slipping from his hands as his mouth fell open.
Irena landed heavily too, knees buckling as she hit the ground beside the wall, breath ragged, palms pressed to the grass.
For a heartbeat—
Nothing moved.
Then Eleanor coughed.
A small streak of blood touched her lips as she lay on the field, dizzy, eyes unfocused.
The arena grounds lit up in green.
A clear signal.
A winner.
The shock rippled outward.
Mira's hands flew to her mouth.
Lyra froze, mouth parting slightly.
"That… that was… kinda personal," she muttered, disbelief heavy in her voice.
She didn't cheer. She didn't move.
She just stared—like her brain was still trying to catch up.
Noah's lips curved into a quiet smile.
Nathan clenched his fist hard, breath leaving him in one sharp exhale.
"Yes."
From the royal balcony, Queen Ileria stood abruptly, disbelief etched across her face.
King Icarus rose more slowly—then smiled, pride warm and unmistakable.
Beside them, Queen Rhea exhaled softly. "She finally got her."
King Nalon nodded once. "Clean. Earned."
Around them, princes, princesses, leaders, and councilors stared in stunned silence—the old councilor gripping his staff tightly, eyes shining.
Below, Corvin stared at the field—then at the glowing arena grounds.
His trumpet hit the stone.
Silence stretched.
No cheers.
No screams.
Then—
From the Aurelia section—
children's voices broke through.
"LET'S GO!!"
The sound spread like fire.
The people in arena roared.
Mira smiled—warm, inspired.
Lyra threw her hands into the air, shouting until her voice cracked.
Noah nodded quietly, satisfied.
Nathan watched the field—eyes locked on Irena as she pushed herself upright again.
Bruised.
Breathing hard.
But standing.
Unbroken.
Victorious.
.
.
.
The roar didn't fade—it layered.
Shock gave way to disbelief. Disbelief turned into awe.
From the lower stands, voices overlapped in wild bursts.
"Did you see that kick…?!"
"She shattered Eleanor's helmet!"
"That was a trap… she planned the wall the whole time!"
"No—no—she planned the shield first!"
People were on their feet now. Some clutching their heads. Others laughing in disbelief, hands raised like they'd just witnessed something unreal.
From Aurelia's section, the children were still shouting, jumping, tugging at each other's sleeves.
"She won! She won!"
"That was Irena! That was really her!"
"I told you she could do it!"
Their cheers spilled outward, pulling the rest of the arena with them.
"IRENA!"
"IRENA!"
"IRENA!"
The chant grew heavier, deeper—no longer just excitement, but respect.
Mira let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
Her smile was soft, almost trembling. Her eyes shone—not with tears, but with something brighter.
"She didn't panic," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. "Even after that slam… she stayed herself."
Lyra spun toward her, practically glowing. "DID YOU SEE THAT?! She used the wall! The shield! The spear—everything!"
She laughed, voice cracked, hands still thrown high. "That was insane! She fought like… like she already knew how it would end!"
Noah leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"Well," he said calmly, though his eyes were sharp with approval, "that answers every question."
He nodded once. "She didn't just win. She understood her opponent."
Nathan didn't speak right away.
He stood slowly, fists still clenched at his sides, eyes locked onto the field where Irena stood—bruised, breathing hard, but upright.
Unyielding.
"…She didn't chase power," he said finally, voice low. "She waited for the right moment."
Mira glanced at him.
Nathan's jaw was tight—but there was something steady there too.
Pride.
On the small upper balcony, Herald Corvin finally found his breath.
He bent, retrieved his trumpet with slightly shaking hands, then straightened—clearing his throat as best he could.
"…By arena judgment," he announced, voice ringing louder now, steadier with effort, "the winner of this duel—Competitor Irena Fletcher!"
The crowd exploded again.
Beside him, the girl councilor pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide. "That wasn't brute force…"
The old man councilor nodded slowly, staff tapping once against the stone. "No. That was awareness. Timing. Understanding consequence."
He smiled faintly. "Rare. Especially at her age."
Corvin looked back down at the field once more—at Eleanor being attended to, at Irena standing on her own.
"…A match that will be remembered," he said under his breath.
Below, the chants continued—stronger now, unified.
"IRENA!"
"IRENA!"
"IRENA!"
And at the center of it all—
Irena lifted her head.
Not soaking it in.
Not bowing.
Just standing there, breathing, steady as ever.
Victorious—not because she was loud.
But because she endured.
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The grass swayed lightly beneath Irena's boots as she stood, bruised but steady, the air still vibrating from the roar of the crowd.
She inhaled slowly, letting the adrenaline ease slightly, and allowed her gaze to sweep across the arena.
From Aurelia's section, some people clapped quietly, observing with thoughtful smiles, nodding as if savoring a lesson in strategy.
Others shouted, waving their fists and cheering enthusiastically.
"That was amazing!" one man exclaimed. "She actually… she actually did it!"
Irena's eyes shifted upward, toward the royal balcony.
Her mother, Queen Ileria, clapped warmly, a radiant smile lighting her face.
"That's my daughter," she whispered, her voice carrying the unmistakable pride of a parent.
Beside her, King Icarus leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp but softening as he joined in the applause.
"Beautiful fight. She earned it, fair and square," he said, nodding with approval.
Irena's lips curved into a small smile.
Gratitude and relief intertwined in her chest.
She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, then let her attention drift back down.
Her gaze fell on Eleanor, who was stirring slowly on the grass.
The queen gladiator's helmet fragments lay scattered around, her chest heaving slightly, dizziness tugging at her focus.
Irena hesitated for only a moment, then stepped forward, her tone soft but clear, genuine:
"May I… help you up?" she asked politely, sincerity evident in her voice.
Eleanor's eyes blinked in surprise, then a slow, faint smile appeared.
"You… you're really something, Irena," she said, wincing slightly as she pushed herself upright with Irena's hand.
"Even after that… I didn't expect—"
She shook her head, trying to shake off the dizziness, then exhaled with a soft chuckle.
"Even though I'm the queen gladiator… you're lucky you beat me. You're the first female warrior to ever defeat me."
Irena's shoulders relaxed, a small warmth rising in her chest.
She looked at Eleanor with honest admiration.
"I fought because I had to… to prove to myself I could," she said quietly. "That's all it means to me."
Eleanor's smirk widened, even as she brushed the small trickle of blood from her mouth.
Her gaze softened, respect shining through.
"Well… then you've done more than prove it. You've made a mark today."
The two warriors paused, letting the moment hang—simple, human, and deeply respectful.
Around them, the crowd's roar had begun to soften, replaced by murmurs of awe.
Parents whispered to children, pointing out the technique.
Students of combat nodded, trying to memorize the strategies that had just unfolded.
Irena offered her hand again, this time more firmly.
"Shall we?" she asked, a faint, playful glint in her eye.
Eleanor grasped it without hesitation, rising to her feet fully.
She shook her head slightly, as if clearing the last of her shock, and returned Irena's gaze.
"I suppose… even a queen must bow sometimes," she said with a grin, genuine and unguarded.
The arena seemed to pause around them, the world narrowing to that simple act of sportsmanship.
Then, almost instinctively, they both bowed to each other.
A deep, mutual bow—not exaggerated, not performative—honoring the battle they had just endured.
From the balconies above, applause rippled outward.
Queen Ileria clapped her hands together, her eyes bright.
King Icarus nodded slowly, approvingly.
Even Queen Rhea and King Nalon exchanged subtle smiles, recognizing the respect and discipline displayed.
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King Icarus leaned slightly forward on the balcony railing, eyes fixed on Irena.
His smile remained warm, but a shadow of seriousness crossed his face.
"You did wonderfully, Irena," he said quietly, almost to himself. "But remember… this is only your first victory. The path ahead will demand more than skill—it will demand endurance, judgment, and patience."
He sighed softly, pressing a hand to his chin, thoughtful. "Still… you've made a mark today. And that is enough to be proud of, for now."
Irena's gaze flicked upward toward her father.
She gave a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of his words, feeling both pride and the weight of responsibility.
Beside her, Eleanor stood and straightened her shoulders, brushing fragments of her shattered helmet from her armor.
She turned her gaze toward the herald on the balcony, then glanced at Irena.
Both fighters nodded subtly in unison—an unspoken agreement to honor the match, and to acknowledge the conclusion formally.
Herald Corvin, regaining his professional composure, adjusted his cloak and posture.
The shock and awe from moments ago had softened into focus.
He turned to the councilors, including the elder statesman who leaned heavily on his staff, and spoke in measured tones.
"The duel has concluded," Corvin said. "Competitor Irena Fletcher has demonstrated exceptional skill, strategy, and presence of mind. As a result, her ranking shall advance accordingly. Her identification remains constant, but her placement among challengers rises."
The councilors nodded.
Whispers of approval passed through the chamber.
One murmured, "Well earned. The girl's instincts… precise and controlled."
Another elder, eyes sharp behind thick spectacles, added, "And yet… she must not grow complacent. Today was only one battle. Tomorrow brings new challenges."
Corvin inclined his head in agreement. "Indeed. Next matches must be announced, so all challengers may prepare. Irena's victory does not end the arena cycle—it sets the standard."
He turned back to the balustrade, raised his speaking trumpet to his lips, and let his voice carry across the field.
"Let all present hear! The duel between Competitor Irena Fletcher of Aurelia and Eleanor, Queen Gladiator of Anwallder, has ended! Victory goes to… Irena Fletcher!"
The announcement rolled like thunder through the arena.
The green glow of her victory lit the ground beneath her boots.
The crowd erupted again—some jumping, some shouting her name, others clapping in awed silence.
Irena exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from her shoulders.
A smile flickered across her lips, but it was tempered with calm determination.
She felt glad—truly—but not yet satisfied.
She had won, yes, but she knew this was only the first step.
Eleanor looked toward her, expression softening. "Irena… you've earned it," she said quietly, brushing the dust from her armor. "I… may have underestimated you. I'm sorry for letting overconfidence get the better of me."
Irena tilted her head slightly, eyes meeting Eleanor's. "It's alright. Every fight teaches something. You've taught me more than I could have expected."
Eleanor's lips curved into a faint, genuine smile. "Then… keep that work, Irena. You have the skill, the mind, and the heart. Don't let anyone… or anything… dull it."
Irena's chest rose with a quiet sense of pride, and she nodded firmly. "I won't. I promise."
Eleanor gave a soft laugh, brushing her bloodied hair back from her face. "Good. I expect to see you even stronger next time. And… perhaps, next time, I'll have to be more careful."
Irena chuckled lightly, a mix of relief and confidence warming her. "I'll be ready."
The two women exchanged a final glance—a mixture of respect, recognition, and unspoken friendship forged in battle.
Around them, the arena began to hum with the residual energy of awe and admiration, but in that moment, it was quiet between them.
Victory had been claimed, respect had been earned, and the future loomed—full of challenge, yet promising.
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Meanwhile, Lyra stayed unusually still in the stands, her hands clenched lightly at her sides.
Her eyes tracked the green glow fading from the grassy arena below, following Irena as she steadied herself after the duel.
She didn't cheer this time.
She didn't clap.
Instead, she absorbed Corvin's announcement like a sponge, letting the weight of the words settle in her chest.
Mira, seated a short distance away in the same tier of the arena seats, noticed Lyra's silence.
She frowned slightly, reading the tension in her friend's posture.
Lyra's lips were pressed into a thin line, her gaze sharp and serious.
Mira let a soft sigh escape her, almost to herself, then turned her gaze downward toward the field.
"This… this is only the beginning," Mira whispered under her breath, voice low but fierce. "I can't… I won't let myself fall behind. Not now. Not ever."
Her fists clenched at her sides.
Her heart beat fast, fueled by determination and the adrenaline lingering from Irena's earlier duel.
The roar of the crowd faded into the background as Mira tightened her focus, imagining herself stepping onto that grassy field—her next match, her next challenge.
At her side, Noah remained still, leaning slightly forward in the tier, silent as always.
His eyes swept the arena—every competitor, the grassy field, the spectators around him, even the royal balcony above.
He didn't react, didn't speak, but his gaze was sharp, calculating, as if he were recording every movement, every subtle detail for later.
Nathan, observing from a nearby seat in the stands, glanced at Noah after noting Lyra's quiet focus.
He leaned slightly closer and asked softly, "Are you okay?"
Noah's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Better than okay," he replied calmly, voice carrying quiet confidence. "I feel… active. Alert."
Nathan nodded once, eyes lingering on the field just long enough to reaffirm his focus, then exhaled subtly and turned his gaze fully back to Irena.
Meanwhile, atop the upper balcony, Herald Corvin raised his speaking trumpet once more.
The arena seemed to still; murmurs quieted, the cheering fading to a respectful hush as all eyes turned toward him.
He cleared his throat, a flicker of thought crossing his face.
Something important had been left unsaid.
The old man councilor, gripping his staff tightly, leaned slightly toward Herald Corvin.
"Herald…" he called quietly but firmly.
Corvin turned his head back toward the councilor, slightly puzzled.
"The… the format," the old man added, his eyes narrowing with gentle insistence.
Corvin's eyes widened as realization hit him. His hand went to his mouth for a brief moment, then he muttered under his breath, almost swearing at himself,
"By the gods… how did I forget this?"
He straightened immediately, adjusting the trumpet with both hands. His voice carried authority now, tinged with genuine embarrassment:
"Before we proceed… all competitors and spectators must hear this."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle, his chest rising and falling as if trying to calm himself.
"My sincerest apologies. I… I completely forgot to mention this earlier… please forgive the oversight."
A ripple of surprise passed through the arena. Spectators murmured softly, some exchanging raised eyebrows, others leaning forward in curiosity.
Irena and Eleanor, standing on the grassy field below, both froze mid-breath, processing the sudden clarification. Irena's eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful, realizing the scope of what lay ahead. Eleanor's lips pressed into a thin line, a mix of mild irritation at the oversight and renewed calculation flashing across her sharp gaze.
From the tiers, Lyra's hands tightened slightly at her sides, her eyes flicking between the field and Corvin, absorbing the news.
At her side, Mira sat, leaned forward slightly, her jaw firm, absorbing the weight of the announcement for herself. The corners of her eyes flicked toward the grassy field, imagining her own upcoming matches and mentally preparing for the battles ahead.
Even Nathan and Noah, standing quietly nearby, had their attention sharpen. Subtle nods passed between them, acknowledging the new context and the opportunities—and risks—the double-elimination format created.
A hush fell over the arena. The earlier cheers and chatter faded to a respectful silence, all eyes now fixed on the herald, waiting for him to continue.
Even the royals from the top balcony quieted—Queen Ileria and King Icarus leaned slightly forward, absorbing the information, their expressions thoughtful.
"This tournament follows a double-elimination format," Corvin continued, his voice steady and clear now, regaining full command. "Meaning… losing once does not end your chance. There exists a loser's bracket. Competitors who fall there may still earn their way back to the winner's bracket and continue fighting. Victory is earned by skill, endurance, and heart… not by a single match alone."
He leaned slightly forward, he added, his tone firm but fair:
"However… it is not automatic. Each competitor must decide if they wish to continue. If a fighter chooses not to enter the loser's bracket—if they surrender—their journey ends. The choice is theirs. But those who step forward, despite the setback, can fight again, learn from their mistakes, and reclaim their place in the winner's bracket."
A hush fell over the arena. Even those who had not fought yet felt the gravity of the words.
"The true test," Corvin concluded, "is not simply to win once, but to endure, to rise after a fall, and to prove that your heart and determination can carry you through every challenge."
He paused, letting the words sink in, then turned his gaze downward toward the grassy field, where Irena and Eleanor stood recovering. "Today's duel was your introduction, your first meeting with the arena and with each other. Remember this: every competitor here will present a new challenge. Study them. Learn them. Adapt."
Irena's expression hardened slightly.
Her brows drew together as she absorbed Corvin's explanation.
She straightened her shoulders, letting the reality of the tournament settle—not as a burden, but as a challenge she was ready to face.
She realized her victory against Eleanor, while meaningful, was only the beginning.
Eleanor's sharp eyes flicked toward Corvin, processing the new information about the double-elimination format. A faint, almost sly smile curved her lips. 'So… there's a chance we'll meet again,' she thought, a spark of excitement—and challenge—lighting her gaze.
"Good," she murmured, loud enough for Irena to hear. "I like the sound of that. Means this isn't over."
Irena's own eyes narrowed slightly, the corners of her lips tugging down in a serious line. Her voice, low but deliberate, carried a weight that made Eleanor pause:
"Then next time, don't underestimate me. I won't give you an easy fight."
Eleanor's smile faded into a focused, respectful grin. She extended her fist, steady and deliberate, toward Irena. "Deal," she said, her tone firm.
Their knuckles met in a quick, sharp bump—a silent pact, both an acknowledgment of today's match and a promise for the battles yet to come.
Countless opponents awaited, each with skills she had yet to comprehend.
Every match would be a test, a lesson.
Every near defeat would teach her something crucial.
Yet, above all, she reminded herself of one truth: strength alone would not carry her.
She needed focus.
Strategy.
And most importantly, a resilient mind.
She inhaled deeply, letting the cool arena air fill her lungs.
Muscles in her legs ached from the battle, ribs still sore from the slam, but she didn't flinch.
She clenched her fists lightly, rolling her shoulders to release tension.
Her green-and-white musketeer cape shifted slightly behind her as she pivoted, scanning the crowd, the arena, the banners, and the stands above.
Her eyes met Mira's across the tiers.
Mira gave a subtle nod—a silent message of encouragement.
Irena returned it with a small, steady smile, unspoken words passing between them: We'll see each other in the next match. Be ready.
She then looked down at Eleanor, who was brushing dust and blood from her armor, gathering herself with quiet dignity.
Irena offered a respectful nod.
Eleanor returned it, acknowledgment clear in her sharp, calculating eyes.
Irena's lips pressed into a thin line.
Her voice barely audible, firm and resolute, she muttered to herself:
"Focus. Keep moving. Learn every move, every pattern. Don't let a single victory make you complacent."
The crowd's roar had softened to murmurs and whispers, but the arena still buzzed with energy.
Corvin raised his trumpet again, signaling the next duel.
Tension for the upcoming matches coiled like a spring, waiting to release.
Irena adjusted her stance slightly, ribs reminding her of the battle's toll, but she didn't let it deter her.
Her mind was clear, resolve sharpened.
She was ready—not just to fight, but to endure, to grow, and to face every challenge the arena had in store.
The sun shifted across the stadium, casting long shadows over the grassy field.
It felt as though the world itself were holding its breath, waiting to see what would come next.
And Irena… she was ready.
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Herald Corvin lifted his speaking trumpet one last time.
"Now that the match is over, you may leave the arena grounds," he announced clearly.
Irena and Eleanor nodded at him, then at each other—no words needed, just respect and the quiet understanding that this wasn't the end.
Irena's eyes flicked to the arena wall, where the spear and shield had been lodged during the duel.
She stepped over, carefully retrieving her short white dagger from where it had landed.
Then she picked up Eleanor's spear and shield, balancing them lightly in her arms before turning back.
"Here," she said softly, offering them to Eleanor.
Eleanor blinked, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You didn't have to…"
"I know," Irena replied, shrugging slightly, "but it feels right. You'll need them for the next match."
Eleanor's grin widened, sharper now, respect clear in her eyes.
She took the weapons, adjusting them in her hands. "Well… I suppose I should return the favor one day," she said lightly, though her tone carried the weight of a promise.
Irena nodded once, quietly. "I look forward to it."
With that, Irena adjusted her green-and-white cape, dagger secured at her side, and began walking toward the right-side vomitory, her steps steady and measured.
Eleanor lingered for only a moment longer, thoughts turning over the match in her mind, then headed toward the left-side vomitory, her armor brushing off dust and fragments of her broken helmet as she went.
From the tiers above, Lyra and Mira watched silently.
Their hands were clenched lightly at their sides, eyes fixed on the two fighters.
Even from high up, they could sense the intensity and mutual respect between them.
Noah's gaze tracked every movement with sharp focus.
Nathan glanced at him briefly, then returned his attention to the field, giving a small, approving nod as Irena passed out of view.
Step by step, the two warriors disappeared into their separate hallways, the arena slowly returning to its normal rhythm.
Whispers and chatter began to rise among the spectators, replaying the duel's moments, sharing excitement and admiration.
The first match was finished—but the tournament, and all the challenges ahead, had only just begun.
Irena's mind stayed clear, each step reminding her of one thing: she had to keep learning, keep growing, and remain ready for whatever came next.
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The small vomitory gates on either side of the arena slowly swung closed after Irena and Eleanor disappeared from view, the heavy hinges creaking softly as if sealing the duel behind them.
The grass underfoot, once scorched and disturbed from their battle, gradually settled back into place, returning to a uniform green, like the arena itself was taking a deep breath after the first dramatic fight.