The morning sun spilled across the four great arenas, their stone floors polished smooth by generations of duels. Flags snapped in the wind, each arena draped in the sigil of its beast — Dragon Turtle, Tiger, Azure Dragon, and Phoenix. Drums rolled, echoing through the compound, signaling the continuation of the tournament.
The registration had already ended the day before, 128 names etched into the clan record. Now the culling began in earnest.
Crowds filled the stands, their shouts mingling with the cries of vendors selling roasted meats and steaming rice cakes. Marshals in crimson armor lined the arenas, their runic auras subdued but ready to flare at the first sign of danger. Medical adepts waited with stretchers and glowing salves, their jade pendants swinging with every restless step.
And then the matches began.
The first of the morning was a clash in the Tiger Arena. Arven, son of Tal'Rael, strode to the field with a spear balanced across his shoulders. His opponent, Lurpee, son of Maekor, called forth a lumbering Stonehide Boar whose tusks glinted with runes etched by a beastmaster's hand.
The horn sounded, and the arena floor shook as the boar charged. Dust exploded upward, tusks carving furrows into the stone. Arven did not flinch. With practiced calm, he twirled his spear and thrust his palm forward, runic aura flaring.
"Piercing Fang!"
The spear thrust shot forward like lightning, aura sharpening the tip into a drill. The crowd gasped as it met the boar's tusks in a screech of stone and steel. Sparks flew.
But Lurpee was no fool. He drove his boar onward, its tusks swinging wide, tearing chunks of stone free. He himself circled, daggers glinting, hoping to flank Arven the moment the spear was locked.
Arven's eyes narrowed. His aura surged again, this time not through his spear but his feet. He vaulted high, landing on the boar's back with impossible grace. His spear butt cracked down on the beast's skull, stunning it.
Lurpee lunged. Arven spun. Wood met steel, sparks ringing once more. The duel stretched into minutes of strikes and counters, dust rising in choking clouds. Finally, Arven swept his spear low, hooking Lurpee's ankle and slamming him to the stone. The tip of his spear stopped just shy of his throat.
The crowd roared.
The second battle unfolded in the Dragon Turtle Arena. Niarina, daughter of Solmar, faced Jorek, son of Veyla.
Niarina was all grace, a whip coiled at her hip, her summoned beast a lithe Serpent Panther that moved with eerie silence. Jorek towered in contrast, hammer in hand, his Ironclad Hound snarling beside him.
The clash was brutal. Jorek swung his hammer in arcs that cracked the arena floor, each blow enough to pulverize bone. But Niarina danced around them, her whip snapping in sharp, serpent-like lashes.
"Binding Coil!" she cried, aura rushing down her weapon. The whip wrapped around Jorek's wrist, yanking the hammer wide.
The Serpent Panther lunged, fangs sinking into the Ironclad Hound's neck. The beasts tumbled, snarls shaking the stands.
Jorek roared and tore the whip free, lunging with his other fist, but Niarina spun, sliding beneath his strike, and with a flick of her wrist snapped the whip across his chest. Sparks flew as it clashed against his aura barrier.
The fight raged, the beasts tearing into each other, their blood staining the sand. Finally, with a final cry, Niarina twisted her whip around Jorek's neck, pulling him off-balance. Her Panther pinned the Hound beneath its claws, and the marshals stepped in, hands raised.
"Victory, Niarina!"
The crowd thundered again, some cheering, some jeering, but all thrilled.
The third match rumbled through the Phoenix Arena. Two cousins, blood against blood — Ryn, son of Havel, wielding twin curved blades, against Velra, daughter of Marris, whose Windstrider Hawk circled high above.
The battle was chaos. Velra commanded the skies, her hawk diving in shrieks of steel-tipped talons. Ryn fought like a storm on the ground, blades weaving in deadly arcs.
"Sky Rend!" Velra cried, aura channeling upward. The hawk split into three afterimages, each diving from a different angle.
The crowd gasped. Ryn crouched low, aura crackling around his legs. With a roar he exploded upward, blades flashing in a hurricane spin.
Steel met talon, feathers scattered, blood sprayed. Hawk and man crashed to the ground in a tumble of dust. The marshals nearly stepped in, but at the last second Ryn's blade halted against Velra's neck.
The fight ended. Silence held for a moment before the stands erupted into cheers.
And then came Zed.
By now, his name was whispered with curiosity. Not because of his power — none believed he had any — but because of his persistence. He had already passed through four matches. Some said luck, others said his opponents were weak. But all knew he was the boy who had summoned a zombie, the laughingstock of the summoners.
And yet… he kept winning.
His first match, he had slipped behind his opponent, tripping him with footwork too fast to follow, ending with a dagger poised at his spine.
The second, he had used his staff, pinning an opponent's sword arm with a twisting disarm that left the blade clattering to the floor.
The third, a clash of daggers, he had bled but struck truer, driving his opponent to yield by sheer pressure.
The fourth, he had worn his foe down, letting them exhaust themselves before striking with a sweeping leg and forcing them into submission.
And now, his fifth.
The Azure Dragon Arena shook with anticipation as he stepped forward, daggers gleaming at his belt. He summoned nothing. The crowd laughed, muttering.
"Fool boy still won't use his beast."
"Zombie's too rotten to help."
"He'll be cut down for sure."
His opponent was Darius, son of Menvar, a broad-shouldered youth with a glaive nearly as tall as himself. His beast, a Crimson Horned Lizard, rumbled into view, eyes glowing with heat.
The horn sounded.
Darius struck first, glaive sweeping wide. Sand sprayed, the air shrieking with the blade's arc. Zed ducked, rolled, and sprang to his feet, daggers flashing.
The lizard lunged. Its tongue shot like a spear. Zed twisted sideways, the tip grazing his cheek, blood running hot down his skin.
The crowd gasped.
Darius pressed, glaive chopping down like an executioner's blade. Zed darted left, sand spraying beneath his boots. Aura flared faintly around him, Asura's Breath sharpening his reactions, every bruise and cut turning his body into a sharper weapon.
They clashed in a storm of steel. Dagger against glaive, agility against raw power. Zed slipped inside, striking with precise jabs, only to be forced back by the lizard's snapping jaws.
Minutes dragged like hours. Sweat poured. Zed's arm bled from a shallow cut, but his eyes only grew sharper.
And then came the opening.
The lizard lunged again, maw wide. Zed vaulted off its snout, daggers reversed in his grip, spinning midair as Darius swung upward. The glaive missed by a hair.
Zed landed behind him.
One dagger clattered to the stone, the other pressed against Darius's neck.
The crowd fell silent.
Darius froze. His beast halted mid-lunge, sensing its master's peril.
"Yield," Zed whispered.
Darius's jaw tightened, then slowly, he raised his hand.
The Azure Dragon Arena erupted in noise — cheers, laughter, disbelief. Some praised his skill, others sneered still, but none could deny it.
The boy with the zombie had claimed yet another victory.
That night, as the marshals tallied the results, the numbers grew clear. Out of 128, half were already gone.
To be crowned champion, one would need seven victories. Seven grueling battles across three days and four arenas. One loss meant elimination.
And Zed now stood with five wins behind him, his path narrowing, his chances questioned, but alive.