The arena was a ghost of its former chaos. The deafening roars and clashing energies had dimmed, replaced by an eerie silence that clung to the heavy air. The once sprawling battlefield beneath the Tree now resembled a sculpted war zone — jagged stone spires, deep trenches, and swirling platforms hovering like islands above the void. The very terrain seemed alive, shifting as though it too waited for the final act.
Only six remained.
Zavier stood among them, muscles tense, his silver-and-multicolored eyes glowing faintly with the pulse of the endless evolution etched into his bloodline. His dragon wings folded behind his back, casting long shadows that flickered under the pulsing glow of the Tree's omnipresent light. Every breath he took felt like a gamble — this was no longer just a fight for survival, but a crucible to prove worthiness.
Outside the translucent dome of the Final Circle, the crowds were hushed. Freya and Lyssira watched with strained expressions, hearts pounding but powerless to intervene. The barrier forged by the Tree was absolute — no aid would come from outside, no interference allowed. The tournament's finale was a lonely path.
Floating above the arena, Lunaria Vel Syntra observed with a grim seriousness unusual for the otherwise arrogant Grand Clinnore student. The millennia-old tournament she oversaw had whittled down thousands to just these few. Now, her voice rang clear across the battlefield, echoing in every participant's mind:
"The battle is over. The Tree has judged, and these six are chosen to enter the Final Circle. This is where your true resolve will be tested."
Her gaze swept over the remaining contenders. Besides Zavier, there was:
The horned warrior clad in obsidian armor, its surface etched with glowing white runes that shimmered with dimensional energy. His eyes were like twin voids, cold and calculating.
A slender woman shrouded in veils that shifted and whispered like smoke, her twin daggers gleaming under the flickering light.
Three other survivors, each battered but exuding an aura of lethal intent — a towering brute with arms like tree trunks, a lithe assassin barely seeming to touch the ground, and a mysterious figure cloaked in shifting shadows.
"This arena," Lunaria continued, voice firm, "is not a bloodbath. The Tree does not reward senseless destruction. Your task is to prove that you possess not only strength but wisdom, purpose, and vision beyond violence."
The ground beneath their feet trembled as the golden light of the Tree flared, spiraling upward into a colossal dome of shimmering energy. The dome's surface rippled like water, enclosing the Final Circle — a battlefield as dynamic as it was daunting. Platforms hovered and shifted, chasms yawned, and pillars of stone rose and fell. The environment was a test itself.
Zavier's heart hammered. He studied his opponents — all deadly, all focused. None were fools rushing blindly into death. Each was a hunter, a predator, and most importantly, a survivor.
From the corner of his eye, he caught the figures of Lyssira and Freya beyond the dome's shimmering wall. Lyssira's emerald hair fluttered in the faint breeze, worry etched deep in her features. Freya's arms were crossed tightly, a cold calm settling over her normally fiery gaze. Neither would fight — not here, not now — but their silent support was a balm for his raging anxiety.
The first strike shattered the silence.
The horned warrior's glaive cut through the air with a crack like thunder. Zavier barely dodged, feeling the rush of air as it tore past his cheek. He retaliated with a slash of his claw, igniting blue fire that licked at the enemy's armor, scorching the obsidian but failing to pierce.
A flurry of blows followed — the veiled woman's daggers slicing through shadows, the brute's raw strength throwing stone fragments like missiles. Zavier's body moved on instinct honed through countless battles: he twisted, blocked, unleashed a gale of wind with his wings to push back the assassin's sudden pounce.
The fight was a deadly dance — calculated, brutal, and merciless.
Despite his endless evolution bloodline's potential, Zavier felt every strain. His muscles burned. His scales cracked in places, revealing flashes of the raw power simmering just beneath the surface. Yet, the Tree's presence reminded him: victory here was not simply about might.
The remaining fighters circled, eyes cold and unreadable. They were not just opponents — they were mirrors, reflecting his own fears, hopes, and limits.
Between attacks, Zavier caught himself. He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore. He was fighting for a future — a future he barely understood, a future that demanded more than just power.
"I'm not the scared kid who said 'I want to enter' anymore," he thought, teeth clenched. "I'm a chosen. I have to be more than just strong."
His eyes narrowed. The endless evolution coursing through his veins wasn't just a gift — it was a responsibility. Every strike he blocked, every wound he absorbed, was a step on that path.
Outside the arena
Lyssira's hands clenched tightly around the glowing root she sat on. "He's changed," she whispered, voice thick with both pride and fear. "Not just stronger… different."
Freya gave a curt nod. "The boy's a force to be reckoned with. But this… this fight is unlike anything he's faced before."
"I regret sitting this one out," Lyssira said quietly. "But I know… he needs to do this alone."
Back inside, exhaustion threatened to claim the fighters. The air was thick with dust and blood. Each breath was a battle. The stone beneath cracked and shattered. Yet the warriors pressed on, driven by the Tree's silent will.
Inside the arena
Zavier felt a sudden surge — a fragment of the endless evolution awakening deeper inside him. He didn't think; he reacted.
Wings unfurled, sending a shockwave that staggered the nearest foes. His claws blazed with silver light, a force born from the very essence of his bloodline. He lunged forward, striking with precision honed by every trial he had survived.
One by one, opponents faltered. The obsidian warrior stumbled. The veiled assassin disappeared into shadows, only to be caught in a trap of swirling wind. The brute was sent crashing to the ground, motionless.
Only three remained.
The final moments approached.
"The Tree watches. The last to stand shall carry its favor."
Zavier's breath came ragged. His wings sagged, his scales marred, but his eyes burned with unyielding fire.
This was more than survival.
This was destiny