The Weight of the Arena
The arena floor was soaked with sweat and blood, its stones scarred by endless clashes.
Every step Lyra took into that ring echoed louder than thunder in the hearts of those who still sat, battered and broken.
Kaen's breath caught as he watched her.
Her figure, slender but unyielding, carried no hesitation. Unlike so many before her, she wasn't dragging her feet. She wasn't trembling. Her stride was fire—steady, sharp, alive.
But Kaen could see it. Beneath that flame, she carried the same exhaustion, the same wounds that marked them all. Her shoulders stiffened under invisible chains. Yet she refused to bend.
Kaen (inner monologue, teeth gritted):
Lyra… don't burn yourself out. Not here. Not like this.
---
The Opponent Appears
Her opponent emerged from the untouched group.
He was a mountain of a trainee—broad shoulders, unscarred face, uniform immaculate. His blade gleamed under the pale sun as though it had never tasted blood. He carried himself with the arrogance of someone who had never been tested by survival, only sharpened by privilege.
The untouched survivors behind him smirked, their arms crossed, eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation.
Untouched Trainee (calling out):
"Show them how real soldiers fight."
The fighter tilted his chin, eyes locking onto Lyra with calm disdain. He didn't even ready his stance fully—just rested his blade lazily against his shoulder, as if she weren't worth his full attention.
Lyra stopped, her own blade sliding from its sheath with a crisp, clean ring. Her knuckles tightened on the hilt, her amber eyes narrowing like sharpened glass.
Lyra (coldly, voice steady):
"Take me lightly, and you'll regret it."
The man chuckled, shaking his head.
Opponent (mocking):
"Regret? You'll be lucky to last a minute."
Verya's Signal
Above, Verya's arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His cloak rippled faintly in the breeze, but his eyes remained fixed on the two combatants.
Verya (booming):
"Begin."
The word thundered across the arena, and the air itself seemed to tighten.
---
The First Strike
The untouched fighter moved first, and he moved like lightning.
His blade came down in a wide, brutal arc—heavy, merciless, the kind of strike meant to break through armor and bone alike.
Gasps echoed through the survivors' ranks. Even Kaen's fists clenched.
But Lyra didn't flinch.
She pivoted. Her boots scraped against the dust, her body twisting like a flame bending in the wind. The blade slammed down where she had stood a heartbeat ago, stone cracking beneath its force.
And in that same breath—Lyra's sword flashed.
Her counter wasn't raw power. It was speed, precision. Her blade hissed across the man's shoulder, the tip drawing a line of crimson across his clean uniform.
Gasps rose louder. The untouched group stiffened.
Lyra didn't smile. She didn't taunt. She simply reset her stance, blade pointed forward, eyes locked.
Lyra (cold, sharp):
"First lesson: don't underestimate me."
---
Kaen's Reaction
Kaen's heart leapt in his chest. His lips parted, almost speaking her name, but he caught himself.
Kaen (inner monologue, awestruck):
She… she actually tagged him. Against that speed, that strength—she still got through.
For the first time in hours, his chest eased. Just a little.
But the relief was fleeting.
Because the untouched fighter straightened, his smirk gone, his eyes narrowing into a predator's glare.
He flexed his arm, the cut dripping, and lowered his blade again—this time with intent.
Opponent (growling, cold):
"You'll regret that."
---
The Exchange
He came again, faster this time, thrusting forward with brutal precision. Lyra's blade flicked upward, deflecting it, but the force rattled her arms. Her boots scraped back against the stone.
Before she could reset, his second strike followed—an overhead slash, heavy as a hammer.
Lyra bent low, rolling beneath the blade, dust swirling around her. She came up behind him, slashing diagonally. Steel met steel as he twisted, blocking at the last second. Sparks sprayed between them.
The two locked eyes through the clash of swords. His glare burned with fury, hers with defiance.
For a moment, time froze.
Then they broke apart, blades flashing again and again—strike, block, counter, parry. Each movement sharp, quick, echoing across the arena like war drums.
---
Spectators' Reactions
The survivors leaned forward, breaths held.
Riku (murmuring, eyes sharp):
"She's fast. Faster than she looks."
Lyra's movements weren't reckless. Every strike, every pivot was calculated. She wasn't fighting with brute force like Daren or sheer instinct like Kaen. She was fighting like a strategist, her sword an extension of her will.
Lyra wasn't trying to overpower him. She was trying to outlast him—forcing him to spend his strength, pushing him to make mistakes.
But Kaen's heart still thundered.
Kaen (inner monologue, tense):
You can't dodge forever, Lyra. His strength… one clean hit could shatter you.
---
Lyra's Inner Fire
Her arms ached, her legs burned, her lungs screamed for air—but Lyra's eyes never wavered.
Lyra (inner monologue, steady):
I won't fall here. Not after everything. Not after Fin's screams. Not after watching Daren nearly break.
She pictured them all—Kaen's clenched fists, Fin's trembling form, Daren's broken silence.
Her blade tightened in her grip.
Lyra (inner monologue):
This isn't just my fight. I'm carrying all of them into this ring.
She darted forward, her sword flashing again, her steps fueled by that fire.
---
The Turning Point of the Start
Their blades clashed once more, steel ringing like thunderclaps. The untouched fighter snarled, forcing her back with a brutal push. Lyra staggered a step, dust swirling around her boots.
But as his blade came down again, she met it head-on. Sparks flew, steel screeched, the shockwave rippling outward.
For the first time—she didn't dodge.
She matched his strength with her fire.
Her arms shook violently, but her blade held.
The survivors gasped, Kaen half-rising to his feet, his heart in his throat.
The untouched group leaned forward, their smirks fading.
And Lyra, sweat dripping, teeth gritted, locked eyes with her towering opponent and spat words through the clash.
Lyra (fierce, defiant):
"You'll remember my name."
---
The Storm Builds
The arena shuddered with every clash of steel. Lyra and her opponent circled each other, blades raised, sweat and dust swirling in the rising tension.
He was stronger, heavier, every swing like a thunderclap. She was faster, sharper, weaving around him like flame dancing on wind.
But already her chest heaved, her grip slick with sweat. Her body had been pushed for days—through survival trials, blood, and grief. Every part of her screamed to rest.
Still—her eyes refused to dim.
Lyra (inner monologue, gritting teeth):
I won't be crushed. Not after Fin… not after Daren… not when Kaen is still watching.
---
The Opponent Presses
The untouched fighter came forward with a roar. His strikes were brutal arcs, meant not to test but to end. Dust leapt from the stone where his blade crashed, every swing creating shockwaves that battered Lyra back.
Opponent (snarling):
"Stop running and break already!"
He slashed down. Lyra dodged to the side, the blade carving a trench in the floor where she had stood. She lunged forward, aiming for his side—but he twisted, elbow slamming into her.
Lyra gasped as the blow drove air from her lungs, sending her stumbling back.
Kaen half-rose to his feet in the stands.
Kaen (shouting):
"Lyra!"
She coughed, spitting blood into the dirt, but her knees held. Slowly, she raised her blade again, her amber eyes burning.
Lyra (voice hoarse but steady):
"You'll have to do more than that."
---
The First Wound
He didn't wait. His blade swung upward in a savage arc. Lyra raised hers in time, sparks exploding—but the sheer force drove her back, her boots skidding across stone.
Her arms trembled under the impact.
And then—his blade whipped sideways.
Lyra's eyes widened too late.
The strike carved across her ribs.
A thin line of red blossomed against her side, staining her tunic. The crowd gasped, the untouched group grinning cruelly.
Opponent (smirking coldly):
"One cut down. Nine more before you fall."
Lyra staggered back, clutching her side with one hand, her breaths ragged. Pain lanced through her body.
But her blade never lowered.
Lyra (inner monologue, voice trembling):
It hurts… gods, it hurts… but I won't fall. Not here. Not to him.
She remembered Fin collapsing, Daren kneeling beside him, Kaen's voice shaking with anger. She remembered the river turning red, their screams in the mist.
Lyra (inner monologue, fierce):
If I fall… what did all of that mean?
---
The Spark Rekindles
Her opponent charged again, sensing weakness. His blade came down like a guillotine.
But this time—Lyra didn't retreat.
She stepped forward, ignoring the pain screaming through her ribs, and angled her sword upward.
Their blades collided in a storm of sparks.
Her knees buckled, her arms shook—but she didn't give ground.
Lyra (through clenched teeth):
"I won't… let you decide my worth."
She twisted her blade, deflecting his strike, and in the same motion lunged forward. Her blade slashed across his arm, drawing another streak of blood.
The untouched trainee staggered, eyes flashing in surprise.
The survivors gasped. Riku's lips curved faintly upward.
Riku (murmuring):
"She's adapting."
Inner Voices
The clash became rhythm—his brutal arcs against her precise counters. Sparks rained, footsteps echoed, every strike pushing the limits of their strength.
But within, their voices told the truer battle.
Opponent (inner monologue, furious):
This girl—why won't she fall? She's bleeding, she's weaker, yet she still stands. What is she holding onto?
Lyra (inner monologue, burning):
They think we're prey. They think only the untouched deserve survival. I'll carve this truth into his flesh—we survived more than they ever could.
---
Kaen's Perspective
Kaen's fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Every strike Lyra took cut into him too.
Kaen (inner monologue):
She's pushing herself past her limits. Every move is pain—but she still stands. Damn it, Lyra… you'll break yourself if you keep going.
But he couldn't look away.
Because in every slash, every defiant glare, he saw not just Lyra—but the reflection of their whole group. Broken but unbowed.
---
The Second Exchange
Their blades clashed again, ringing like bells of war.
The untouched fighter snarled, shoving her back. Lyra stumbled, blood dripping from her wound, but she twisted mid-step, spinning low.
Her blade slashed across his leg.
The man roared, stumbling slightly. Dust flew as his boot slid.
Lyra straightened, panting, her chest heaving. Her amber eyes blazed.
Lyra (hoarse, fierce):
"Looks like you bleed too."
---
The Arena Reacts
The untouched group shouted in anger, their voices sharp.
Untouched Trainee (yelling):
"Finish her already!"
But among the survivors—hope flickered.
Fin, still pale and bandaged from his own ordeal, whispered weakly, eyes wide.
Fin (whispering):
"She's… she's holding her own…"
Daren, sitting heavily, his arm bound, clenched his jaw.
Daren (low, almost to himself):
"She's more stubborn than all of us combined."
---
Clash of Will
The untouched fighter growled, his pride wounded.
Opponent (snarling):
"You think you've proven anything? You're just a spark in the dark. And I'll snuff you out."
Lyra's hands trembled. Her ribs screamed. But her stance tightened.
Lyra (defiant):
"Then let's see if your pride can endure fire."
And with that—she rushed him.
Her blade flashed, fast as lightning, her eyes blazing like a star refusing to dim.
Their clash roared again, sparks scattering across the arena floor.
The duel had truly begun.