The second day of the tournament dawned with a sharp, clear sky, the kind of air that rang with expectation. By sunrise, the clan grounds were already stirring. The four great arenas — Dragon Turtle, Tiger, Phoenix, and Azure Dragon — shimmered under fresh banners hung by attendants, their colors fierce under the morning light. The scent of incense and oil from torches lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy musk of beast hides and sharpened steel.
More guests had arrived overnight. Carriages bearing the crests of distant cities stood lined near the guest pavilions, horses stamping their hooves, grooms bustling to keep them fed. The Phoenix Pavilion itself was already crowded with dignitaries and elders who had missed the first day's matches. Rumor of the opening bouts had spread, and the prospect of seeing young Latian clan heirs pit blood, aura, and beasts against one another was too grand a lure to ignore.
The marshals stood taller this morning, armored in lacquered mail, their eyes sharper. Medics had added another stretcher team — yesterday's close calls had reminded everyone how fragile the line between glory and disaster could be.
The announcers rang their bronze gongs, and the second day's brackets were unfurled. The number of participants had already been halved — today would cut deeper, and the crowds buzzed at the prospect.
Two matches opened at once.
In the Tiger Arena, the sand churned beneath a clash between Nerian, son of Halvor, and Ceryn, daughter of Vaelis. Nerian summoned a Flamefang Boar, its tusks glowing with runic heat, sparks spilling from its maw. Ceryn countered with her Mist Serpent, coils flowing like living fog. The boar charged, tusks slashing through mist, but every strike tore only vapor. Then the serpent's tail lashed out from the haze, binding the boar's legs, dragging it down. Nerian's aura flared, he leapt forward with a glaive strike, runes igniting along the blade — but Ceryn pivoted, redirected the serpent, and with a twist, sent him sprawling. The match ended with her serpent coiled, fangs poised against Nerian's throat.
The crowd roared. Ceryn bowed gracefully, hair loose over her shoulders, aura still pulsing. Nerian pounded his fist in frustration, but even he nodded in reluctant respect.
At the Phoenix Arena, Thalen, son of Yorrick, battled Ilyra, daughter of Serath. Thalen's summon was a Stonehide Panther, muscles rippling beneath mottled grey hide, claws like shards of obsidian. Ilyra answered with a Skyrazor Hawk, feathers glinting like steel. The panther bounded, tearing trenches in the sand, while the hawk struck from above in dazzling dives. The clash was a storm of dust and wings. Thalen's panther finally caught the hawk mid-swoop, pinning it — but in that instant, Ilyra drew a pair of runed chakrams, spinning them into a flashing crescent that landed against Thalen's chest. Sparks burst, his breath whooshed out, and he fell to his knees. Victory: Ilyra.
The spectators erupted again. Elders leaned in, commenting on the youths' control, their potential.
And then came the match that would silence them all.
At the Azure Dragon Arena, the gong sounded for Zed, son of Varun, to step forward.
Murmurs rippled at the name. Everyone knew him. Everyone knew the story — the boy who had drawn the worst lot, a zombie as his summon. A laughingstock. The one whose father had walked from the ceremony in silence.
His opponent was Rynar, son of Darek, a broad-shouldered youth with the swagger of someone who had trained hard and often been praised for it. At his side shimmered his summon — a Blazehorn Lynx, its sleek body wreathed in faint tongues of fire, twin horns glowing ember-red. Agile, fast, and deadly. A crowd-pleaser.
The spectators leaned forward, anticipating blood.
"Does he even dare summon it?" someone muttered from the stands.
"What would be the point? It'd fall apart before the lynx even touched it."
"Best to surrender now. Save his bones the trouble."
Zed walked calmly to the arena's center. He was lean, his movements precise, but his silence carried a strange weight. His opponent grinned, rolled his shoulders, and bowed mockingly.
"Summon your beast," the marshal intoned.
Zed shook his head once. "I won't."
Gasps rippled through the audience. Rynar barked a laugh. "You'll fight me barehanded? Fool. Then I'll end this quickly."
Even the elders exchanged glances. To refuse to summon in a clan tournament was near unheard of.
But Zed had trained in blood and shadow. He had broken bones against beasts, his body tempered by exhaustion, his mind hardened by survival. He needed no hollow crutch to prove himself.
The gong rang.
The lynx sprang, flames trailing, claws outstretched for Zed's chest. But Zed moved. He was a blur, sliding low, his boots skimming the sand. The lynx slashed air, and Zed's dagger flashed, grazing its flank before he rolled aside.
The crowd shouted in shock. His speed wasn't that of a pampered heir. It was honed, merciless speed.
Rynar roared, aura flaring. He commanded the lynx into a spiral rush, fire rippling outward in a blazing arc. Heat washed over the arena, drawing cries from the front rows. Zed darted sideways, his second dagger already in hand. He kicked off the wall, spinning midair, blades clashing sparks against the lynx's horns.
Rynar lunged in too, wielding a spear inscribed with flame runes, thrusting for Zed's chest. Zed twisted, the tip grazing his arm, pain flaring — but he let the momentum carry him close. His dagger licked out, slicing through the shaft of the spear near its middle. Wood splintered, fire runes flickered and died.
The fight turned brutal. Zed pressed in, dodging claw strikes by inches, rolling, pivoting, his daggers flashing with ruthless precision. Every strike was meant to kill — but at the last instant, turned shallow, in respect of the rules. His aura surged, Asura's Breath guiding him, veins burning with clarity.
And then he struck.
The lynx lunged high. Zed slipped beneath it, blades crossing its chest — not to kill, but to stagger. In the same instant, he pivoted, crashing his boot into Rynar's knee. The boy buckled, the lynx howled. Zed twisted behind him, an arm coiling like steel around Rynar's throat.
And then — silence.
A dagger kissed the skin of Rynar's neck, cold and merciless.
The marshal froze, then raised his arm. "Victory! Zed, son of Varun!"
The crowd erupted. Half jeers, half stunned silence, and a thread of awe. No beast. No grand summon. Just skill. Speed. Precision.
"Impossible…" someone muttered.
"He didn't even need a summon."
"That… that was a hunter's fight. A killer's fight."
Elders whispered behind their fans. Guests from other clans leaned forward. Some smirked, some frowned. But all had seen what Zed had done.
Zed released his opponent, stepping back, calm as still water. He bowed once to the marshal, once to the audience, and walked from the arena without looking back.
And for the first time, no one laughed at the summoner with the zombie.
The buzz had not yet faded when the Dragon Turtle Arena thundered to life.
This time it was Kaelen, son of Brutus, against Maeril, daughter of Theonis. Kaelen summoned a Runebone Stag, antlers glowing blue with stored energy, its hooves sparking lightning. Maeril answered with a Bloodfang Ape, its roar rattling stone, eyes crimson with frenzy.
The stag charged, antlers arcing like twin lances of light. The ape met it head-on, claws raking, teeth snapping. The arena shook with their clash. Kaelen thrust his longsword, runes pulsing to channel the stag's lightning into the blade, striking arcs across the ape's chest. Maeril laughed wildly, aura blazing, urging her beast forward despite the burns. The ape hurled boulders torn from the arena floor itself, each one smashing against shimmering barriers cast by marshals to protect the crowd.
The battle stretched brutal, neither side yielding. At last, Kaelen's stag lowered its antlers, crackling with full power, and drove the ape back step by step. Maeril leapt herself, dual axes flaring with crimson aura, but Kaelen parried, forced her down, and with a final strike of lightning, pinned her beast in submission.
The crowd rose to their feet. Kaelen raised his blade in salute. The marshals had to drag the unconscious ape back, medics rushing to stabilize it. Maeril spat blood but laughed still, vowing vengeance in the next tournament.
The cheers had hardly settled before the Tiger Arena roared again.
Syrien, son of Kareth, faced Delyra, daughter of Veylan. Syrien's summon was a Frostmane Lion, its mane a wreath of icy mist, every step freezing sand into glass. Delyra countered with a Runic Vulture, wings vast, eyes glowing violet.
The lion prowled low, leaving trails of frost. The vulture circled, talons dripping violet energy. When it dove, Syrien's aura surged, his twin scimitars coated in ice as he slashed upward, sending shards spiraling to meet the attack. Delyra's vulture screamed, wings breaking the frozen wave, but Syrien darted forward, striking with relentless precision.
The sand turned battlefield — freezing and shattering under every blow. The vulture fought viciously, tearing with claws that burned with corrosive energy, one strike nearly taking Syrien's shoulder. But he rolled, countered, and finally drove his scimitars into the arena floor, unleashing a dome of frost that froze the vulture mid-flight. With a final burst, he shattered the ice, the beast collapsing, unable to rise.
The marshal's gong rang. Victory: Syrien.
The medics rushed in again. This time two stretchers carried both beast and summoner — Delyra gasping, her arms burned from overexertion.
By the time the sun dipped lower, the rest of the day's matches played out across the four arenas — eight battles total. Zed's shock victory remained the talk of every tongue, but Kaelen's lightning stag and Syrien's ice-bound precision stood out too, names whispered among the crowd as favorites for the days to come.
As the gongs tolled dusk, the marshals declared the close of the second day. The preliminaries would resume in the morning, and by noon the finals would begin, carrying on until dusk. The true strength of the clan's youth would soon be revealed.
And somewhere among them, a boy who had once been dismissed as nothing had already changed the shape of whispers.