By dawn the Phoenix Pavilion's Grand Arena had become the heart of the Latian grounds. Lanterns still burned pale in the morning haze, dew beading on crimson banners that hung from tiered eaves. The clan square thrummed—low temple bells, merchants hawking tea and sugared nuts, the shuffle of thousands of feet as spectators filled the stone terraces. Elders in formal robes settled along the high gallery, guests from allied clans and emissaries from the royal court fanning out below them.
Five Marshals in scarlet sashes stood at the corners of the great ring, their beasts sealed but a gesture away, and a line of medics in pale blue waited behind them with stretchers and sigil-satchels. The scent of incense mingled with the sharp tang of steel and oil.
The herald raised a horn wrapped in phoenix silk. His voice rolled like thunder across the stone.
"Today, the champions of each arena shall be chosen! From Dragon Turtle, Tiger, Phoenix, and Azure Dragon, only four shall rise—and from them, one shall stand crowned as the Champion of the Latian youth!"
The roar of the crowd shook banners loose, their tassels fluttering like flames.
The Dragon Turtle Arena came alive first. The stone ring, carved with the shell patterns of the ancient beast, gleamed wet with dew. Two youths strode to meet each other: Arven, son of Tal'Rael, his shoulders broad beneath lacquered leather, his glaive gleaming with inscriptions of lightning; and Varrek, a lean fighter with a hooked scar across his cheek, gripping twin sabers that hissed as he crossed them.
The horn blared.
Varrek exploded forward, sabers spinning in a storm. Sparks leapt as Arven's glaive met the storm with a booming sweep, each clash ringing like temple bells. Varrek's runic aura flared crimson, his footwork sharp and feral, darting low with slashes meant to carve tendon and vein. Arven stood firm, his glaive a barrier, then a spear, thrusting with thunderbolts crackling down the length of its edge.
The crowd leaned forward as Varrek vaulted over a sweep, his sabers spinning like a whirlwind aimed for Arven's exposed back. But the glaive turned with uncanny speed—Arven pivoted, foot sliding in perfect balance, the blade catching both sabers in a lock that shook the ground. With a roar, he surged runic energy through the shaft, lightning crackling down into Varrek's arms.
Varrek cried out as sparks burned into his flesh. His sabers dropped. Arven's glaive swept once, the flat of the blade catching Varrek across the chest. The blow hurled him to the ground, breath gone, arms twitching from the electric surge.
The Marshal stepped forward, raising a hand. "Victory, Arven!"
Cheers thundered, lightning crackling still faintly on the victor's glaive as he saluted.
In the Tiger Arena, the ring carved with striped stone and flanked by growling statues, Serana, daughter of Kairis, faced a lean youth named Orian. She carried a chained hammer etched with runes, each head spiked and heavy; Orian wielded a bow, his arrows glowing with pale fire.
The horn sounded.
Arrows streaked, blurring fast enough to hiss. Serana swung her hammer in whirling arcs, chains rattling as steel heads deflected arrow after arrow. One struck her shoulder, skidding sparks, but she pressed forward, aura roaring around her like a golden storm.
Orian danced backward, nocking three arrows at once, releasing them in a crescent. They arced like falling stars, meant to strike from every angle. Serana roared, planting her feet. She swung the chained hammer in a full circle. The chain blurred; sparks spat as arrows shattered midair. With a grunt, she flung one spiked head forward.
The chain extended like a serpent, hammer-head slamming into the ground beside Orian. Stone shattered. Dust blinded him. Before he could retreat, the second hammer-head came from the side, whipping through the dust like a predator. It caught him square in the chest.
The blow knocked him from his feet, air leaving him in a gasp. The Marshal dashed in, hand raised before the second strike could land.
"Victory, Serana!"
The Tiger Arena erupted, her supporters stomping the terraces in rhythm as Serana twirled her chained weapon overhead, aura blazing.
Across the square, the Phoenix Arena flared into focus. The carved wings of its stone floor seemed to glow beneath the rising sun. Zed, son of Varun, stepped into the ring. He carried nothing flashy—only the staff he had crafted, its surface plain, joints hidden in shadow. His opponent was Malek, a fierce youth known for brute strength, wielding a cleaver-like sword nearly as tall as himself.
The horn cut the silence.
Malek roared, charging like a bull, sword swinging down with the force to split stone. The crowd gasped at the sheer weight of the blow. But Zed was already gone—feet whispering across stone, Shadowfoot Movement carrying him like smoke. The cleaver split only air.
Zed slid low, staff snapping up to strike ribs. Malek twisted, sword catching the blow, sparks spitting. Again the sword descended, heavy, brutal. Zed met it not with force but with flow—staff unscrewing, length shortening into twin rods. He struck once, twice, thrice—blows hammering into Malek's chest and arms with impossible speed.
Malek staggered, aura flaring red, forcing his body to endure the punishment. He swung wide, desperate. Zed twisted. The rods rejoined, forming a spear. A spring-loaded blade hissed out from one end. The crowd gasped as the plain staff became weapon of death.
The blade stopped at Malek's throat, just as his own sword hovered above Zed's shoulder. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Malek's grip slackened.
The Marshal's voice rang out: "Victory, Zed!"
A storm of whispers followed—admiration, suspicion, awe. The youth with only a zombie summon, fighting like this? He bowed once, calm, hiding the fire burning in his chest.
The Azure Dragon Arena roared next. Its ring, scaled with blue stone, shimmered faintly under the rising light. Niarina, daughter of Veyra, strode forward in robes of frost-blue. Her aura shimmered cold, every step riming the ground in ice. Her opponent, Kelen, carried a massive shield and mace, runes glowing earth-brown.
The horn blared.
Kelen charged, shield up, mace swinging. The ring trembled as he slammed it down, cracks racing across the stone. Niarina raised her hand. Frost blossomed—ice spears lanced outward, shattering against the shield. She raised her other hand, runic frost condensing into a bow.
Arrows of ice hissed forth, one after another, striking the shield. Cracks spidered across its surface. Kelen roared, pressing forward, mace sweeping wide. But the ground froze beneath his boots—slick, treacherous. His step faltered.
In that instant, Niarina loosed her last arrow. It pierced the shield dead center. Frost raced outward in a breath, covering shield and arm in white crystal. Kelen tried to lift the mace. It did not move.
The Marshal raised his hand. "Victory, Niarina!"
The Azure Dragon Arena erupted with cheers, frost still curling in the air as she lowered her bow of ice.
Four champions stood. Arven of Dragon Turtle. Serana of Tiger. Zed of Phoenix. Niarina of Azure Dragon.
The herald's horn cut the air once more.
"Finalists! Step forth to the Phoenix Arena, where the Champion shall be crowned!"
The square erupted as the four walked into the grand ring. Elders leaned forward, eyes gleaming. Marshals shifted, beasts stirring faintly within their seals. The crowd's roar rolled like a storm.
The first duel was Arven against Serana. Lightning met chains. Glaive clashed hammer, sparks and thunder echoing across the stone. Serana's chain wrapped the glaive, yanking it aside—but Arven surged, lightning exploding down the shaft, shocking her to the ground. The Marshal declared him victor, his aura crackling in triumph.
Then came Zed against Niarina.
The ring fell silent as they faced each other. Niarina's frost-blue aura shimmered like a winter storm. Zed's staff rested lightly in his grip, his stance calm as still water.
The horn.
Frost exploded from Niarina's hands, spears racing across the ring. Zed moved like shadow, Shadowfoot carrying him through the storm, staff spinning to deflect shards, each deflection ringing like a chime. He closed the distance. The staff shifted, unscrewing mid-strike—nunchaku snapping into her guard, blurring faster than eyes could follow.
Niarina raised a wall of ice. The strikes cracked it like glass. She countered with frost arrows, one skimming Zed's shoulder, drawing blood. He twisted, spear-form flashing, blade lunging for her side. She spun, frost coiling around her arm into a whip, lashing out.
Steel met ice in a clash that shivered the ring.
The duel raged—blade against frost, staff against whip. Zed's movements grew sharper, Void Fangs flashing as he struck with a rhythm honed in the forest: feint, strike, vanish. Each blow pressed her harder, each dodge carried him a step ahead.
At last, his staff shifted once more—three-section form snapping out, chain whirling. It wrapped her frost-whip, tearing it aside. He surged in, blade pressing against her throat as his other hand twisted her arm behind her back.
The Marshal raised his hand. "Victory—Zed, son of Varun!"
The arena erupted. A roar shook the Phoenix Pavilion as thousands screamed his name. Elders leaned forward, eyes wide with something between awe and suspicion. Guests whispered furiously, wondering what had just been born from ashes.
Zed stood in the center of the ring, chest heaving, staff lowered. He bowed once to the elders, once to the crowd. His face calm. His heart ablaze.
The Champion of the Latian youths had risen.