The herald's staff struck the marble again.
Boom.
The echo rolled through the Trisolarium, heavier than before, as if the arena itself had learned the weight of blood and intent. Frost still clung to the edges of one platform, melting slowly into the golden sand—Reikika's mark, fading but not forgotten.
The herald's voice rose, formal and unforgiving.
"Next duel. Midarion Ashborn… versus Rozelda Tali."
A murmur swept the stands.
Not disbelief this time—anticipation.
Midarion stepped forward, shoulders squared, jaw set. His body still ached from the earlier trials, bruises hidden beneath cloth and stubbornness, but his eyes were clear. Focused. Alive. This was it. The final gate.
Across the platform, light gathered.
Rozelda Tali emerged without spectacle, yet somehow commanded all of it.
The crowd reacted instantly.
Whispers turned into open fascination.
"By the stars—look at her—"
"That skin—she looks like sculpted bronze—"
"She must be from Bestarokh."
She moved with unhurried confidence, boots pressing into the sand as though it were firm stone beneath her feet. Her skin was dark, smooth, sun-kissed to a deep bronze-black sheen that caught the ambient light and reflected it warmly. Not shadowed—radiant. Alive. A faint blush touched her cheeks, subtle but human, grounding the power she carried so effortlessly.
Her hair burned red, braided in a tight, Viking-like crown that held discipline and defiance in equal measure. A few loose strands framed her face, softening features that would otherwise cut like steel. Piercings lined one ear, glinting faintly, while a slim silver hairpin crossed one lock—a small, deliberate rebellion against uniformity.
Her eyes were what held Midarion.
Deep amber. Flecked with red undertones. Predator eyes.
They didn't glare.
They assessed.
Measured.
Dared.
Her lips were full, set in a calm line that needed no smile to command respect. She did not look nervous. She did not look excited. She looked ready—like someone who had already accepted the outcome of the fight, whatever it might be.
Cold. Controlled. Strong.
Midarion exhaled slowly.
For a fleeting second, a memory surfaced—Theomar, standing beneath filtered jungle light, his bronze skin gleaming with sweat and sun. The question Midarion had once asked, quietly, awkwardly.
Why does your skin look different from everyone else's?
Theomar's answer had been simple.
"From where I come from, we all bear it. A divine blessing."
Midarion's gaze sharpened.
Same kingdom, he thought. Or close to it.
Something coiled in his chest—not fear.
Excitement.
He remembered the jungle. The beasts. That feeling of being hunted and alive at the same time. The way his senses had screamed warnings before his mind could catch up.
His lips curved into a grin before he could stop it.
This is going to be crazy.
He stepped into position, feet planted, body angled forward. Berserker remained sheathed at his back. He didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
Rozelda stopped opposite him, posture relaxed, arms loose at her sides. She didn't take a formal stance. She didn't bow.
Her eyes flicked over him once—fast, thorough.
Then she looked away.
Dismissed.
The herald raised his staff.
"Begin!"
They moved.
Both at once.
Midarion lunged first, testing, fists raised as he closed the distance with a sharp burst of speed. Rozelda met him head-on, bare-handed, her movements clean and efficient. Their fists collided—not strikes yet, but probes, deflections, angles being measured.
The impact snapped through the air.
The crowd leaned forward.
Midarion threw a low hook. Rozelda pivoted, her forearm snapping down to redirect it while her knee rose toward his ribs. He twisted aside just in time, feeling fabric brush skin.
Close.
Too close.
They separated briefly, circling.
No Kosmo. No spirit.
Just bodies.
They clashed again.
Midarion pressed harder, combinations flowing instinctively—elbow, fist, knee, spin. Rozelda blocked, slipped, absorbed, her footwork precise, her balance unshaken. She never overextended. Never rushed.
Balanced.
Almost casual.
Midarion landed a glancing blow to her shoulder.
She barely reacted.
That should have warned him.
Instead, confidence crept in.
I can keep up, he thought. I can do this.
He pushed.
Faster. Stronger.
Rozelda let him.
Her gaze sharpened.
Then she moved.
The shift was subtle—but devastating.
Her fist slammed into his guard with crushing force, rattling his bones. Before he could recover, a second punch drove into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. A third caught his jaw, snapping his head sideways as stars burst behind his eyes.
The crowd gasped.
Midarion stumbled, barely staying upright as pressure followed—angles shifting, force relentless. There was no wasted movement in her attacks.
She wasn't angry.
She wasn't reckless.
She was precise.
Another blow hit his abdomen. Then his shoulder. Then his thigh.
Each impact carried restrained power—and it was still overwhelming.
Midarion crashed to the sand, skidding on his side before rolling to his knees, coughing hard.
What—?
His chest burned. His ears rang.
He looked up.
Rozelda hadn't even broken a sweat.
Shock cut through him sharper than pain.
She's… not even serious.
He pushed himself up, legs trembling.
The crowd murmured, surprised now—not disappointed, but unsettled.
Midarion wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and laughed weakly.
"Damn," he muttered. "You're… strong."
Rozelda tilted her head slightly.
For the first time, she seemed interested.
They clashed again.
This time, Midarion didn't try to overpower her. He listened.
To the sand shifting beneath her feet.
To the air moving when she stepped.
To the faint sound of muscle tightening before impact.
His senses sharpened, narrowing the world into fragments—motion, sound, pressure. He moved before he thought, slipping past blows by instinct alone. A punch passed where his head had been. A kick cut through empty space as he ducked beneath it.
Gasps rose from the stands.
"He's dodging—"
"No—he's predicting—"
Rozelda's eyes flickered.
She adjusted.
Feinted left, struck right.
Midarion reacted anyway, twisting just enough to avoid a direct hit. The blow still clipped his shoulder, sending pain down his arm—but he stayed standing.
Again and again, she dropped him.
Again and again, he rose.
Each time slower.
Each time more battered.
But his eyes never dulled.
Even restrained, her strikes carried enough force to end the fight. And yet—he kept moving.
Rozelda frowned.
This wasn't annoyance.
It was disbelief.
She stepped back, breathing evenly.
For the first time since the trials began, Rozelda spoke.
"…Why?" she asked, voice calm but edged with genuine curiosity. "Why are you still standing? This is just a trial."
Midarion wiped blood from his chin, chest heaving.
He laughed once, hoarse.
"Just a trial?" He shook his head. "This is my whole life."
Her eyes stayed on him.
"I wasn't supposed to be here," he continued. "I was given this chance. Failure isn't an option." He straightened as much as his body allowed. "A warrior doesn't stop because the ground hurts. He stops when he's dead."
Silence rippled outward.
Rozelda stared at him.
Then—she smirked.
"I like that," she said quietly. "Very well."
She rolled her shoulders once.
"No more restraint."
Her Kosmo ignited.
Red light flared around her body, heat rippling through the air like sunlight distilled into force. The pressure hit the stands in a wave, heavy and undeniable.
Midarion swallowed.
Then he forced his own Kosmo out.
It flickered.
Weak. Unstable.
But it was there.
For seconds only.
That was all he ever had.
They vanished.
The world blurred as they collided again, speed tearing through the arena faster than the eye could track. Fists and feet struck in rapid succession, shockwaves cracking the sand beneath them. The sound was thunderous—impact after impact, Kosmo screaming under strain.
Then—
Everything stopped.
Rozelda stood upright, breathing steady.
Midarion lay on his back.
Silence.
A heartbeat passed.
Then Rozelda winced.
Her hand pressed lightly against her ribs.
Crack.
Pain flared belatedly.
Her eyes widened.
He—?
A clean hit.
Perfectly placed.
Almost shattered.
The crowd exploded.
Cheers, gasps, shouts of disbelief.
"That punch—!"
"He landed it!"
From the Black Post's room, Theomar's jaw tightened.
For the first time since the duel began, his eyes widened—not in fear, but in something closer to pride.
Rozelda looked down at Midarion—then froze.
He was moving.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But moving.
Midarion pushed himself upright, tears streaming down his face—not from fear, but frustration, rage, refusal.
"It… can't end like this," he whispered.
He reached for Berserker.
Steel sang as it left the sheath.
Even now, even broken, Midarion's eyes flicked to Rozelda—not with hatred.
With awe.
"You're…" he breathed, voice barely audible. "You're incredible."
The sun caught her again as she stood before him—unbowed, unshaken—and for a fleeting moment, despite the pain, despite the blood, Midarion thought she looked magnificent.
He poured everything he had left into his Kosmo.
Forced it.
For half a second—
Something answered.
Not light.
Not properly.
A dark purple surge erupted, fractured and violent, tainted with something wrong. A demonic pressure slammed outward, cracking the platform beneath his feet.
The Captains stiffened.
Eyes widened.
Recognition—and alarm.
Then Midarion collapsed.
Unconscious.
Silence swallowed the arena.
The herald hesitated—then struck the staff.
"Victory—Rozelda Tali."
Medics rushed in.
Rozelda stood frozen, staring at where Midarion had fallen.
What… was that?
An hour later, Midarion woke, disoriented.
His left hand throbbed—only now did he realize it was broken, wrapped tightly beneath layers of bandages, the pain dulled earlier by adrenaline.
"I have failed. i am out," he said covering his teary eyes with his right hand.
Reikika was there.
"You're not out," she said firmly. "No one said that."
The results would be decided by all three trials.
As they returned to the arena, the tension was unbearable.
Names were called.
Fates decided.
Above them all, the Captains gave orders in silence.
The storm had not passed.
It had only begun.