I'm sitting in the stands reserved for fighters. In theory, it's a privilege. In reality, it's a cage with a perfect view of what the world applauds. The stone is warm beneath my fingers, but my hands are trembling anyway. Not from fatigue. Not from cold. Not from fear of the next fight. No. It's something else.
I keep seeing Tharok. I keep seeing his empty gaze, the way he held a throat like an object, the way he crushed life without even speeding up his breathing. And the more I replay the scene… the more one detail eats at me. The 1st Earth Warrior Master. The one who destroyed my life.
I saw his face seven years ago, a night that never ended inside my head. I saw him again in my nightmares, in my silent breakdowns, in every flame I lit while thinking "never again." And now… Tharok looks like him. Not just a little. Two drops of water. The same facial structure. The same jaw. The same disgusting calm. The same absence of doubt. That kind of presence that doesn't ask permission to exist.
My stomach twists. My breath becomes too short. I clench my teeth so hard it hurts. A hand rests on my forearm. Brask. He says nothing for a moment. He just stays there, like a wall.
Then, softly: "Hey. Look at me."
I turn my head. His gaze is firm, but not aggressive. Not like a noble. Not like someone trying to lecture. Just… real.
"Breathe," he says. "Right now."
I want to answer "shut up." I want to say "you can't understand." I want to push him away. But I can't. I breathe. Once. Twice. Brask tightens his grip slightly.
"You're not in your village," he murmurs. "You're not alone. You're here. And you're in control."
I stare at the stone, then close my eyes. I hold onto something simple: the noise of the crowd, the warmth of the light, the feeling of fabric on my skin. Details. The present. The trembling slows. I open my eyes again.
"You okay," Brask breathes.
I nod. A lie. But at least I'm not on the edge anymore. The gong sounds.
Match 7 — Oryn de Braiselune (Fire) VS Aelyon Maréclair (Water)
Oryn enters the arena with cold calm. He doesn't seek the looks. He doesn't salute anyone. He walks like everything is already decided. His fire isn't even crackling yet: he keeps it for later, like a knife hidden in a sleeve. Aelyon Maréclair steps forward. More composed. More fluid. A flowing presence. He has that thing Water users have: a tranquility that makes it feel like they can absorb any blow.
They face each other. The referee announces: "FIGHT!"
Aelyon attacks first. A blade of water forms, thin, sharp, thrown diagonally to force Oryn to move. Oryn pivots, barely dodges. Aelyon follows immediately: a compressed jet, faster, aimed at the torso. Oryn steps back, but not enough. The impact slams him into the ground, soaks his uniform, steals his breath for a second.
The crowd reacts. Some laugh. Others look surprised. Oryn rises slowly. And he smiles. Not a happy smile. A cruel one.
He ignites his fire. Not an explosion. A concentrated flame, thinner than Brask's, more nervous. He runs it along his forearms like an extension of his nerves. Aelyon retreats slightly. He understands: Oryn isn't here to "look good."
Oryn charges. Aelyon tries to raise a wall of water. Oryn doesn't hit it head-on. He slides to the side, and his fire licks the edge of the wall. The water evaporates in places, not enough to break the defense, but enough to open a gap. Oryn slips through. Punch. Aelyon takes it, steps back. Knee strike. Aelyon blocks, but his balance breaks for an instant. Aelyon finally answers in close combat: a compact water shove into Oryn's chest.
Oryn is thrown backward. He rolls, rises, breathing hard. The fight tightens. Aelyon gains ground at range, Oryn gains ground up close. Aelyon tries to exhaust Oryn with micro-attacks, Oryn saves his energy, waits for the exact moment.
Then Aelyon sets a trap: the ground turns slippery beneath Oryn, a film of water meant to make him fall. Oryn stumbles. Aelyon launches a wave, larger, meant to slam him down for good. The crowd rises.
And Oryn… almost disappears in a sharp movement. He throws himself forward instead of back. He cuts through the wave at the moment it breaks, burning just enough water around him not to be swept away. His shoulder smokes slightly. But he's already there. Too close.
Aelyon doesn't have time to rebuild a defense. Oryn grabs him by the collar. And ignites his fire right under the chin, not to burn… but to shock, to steal breath, to force the body to give in. Aelyon staggers. Oryn follows with a sharp strike behind the ear. Aelyon's body falls.
A moment of silence. Then the referee raises his hand. "K.O.! Victory: Oryn de Braiselune!"
Oryn steps back, breathless, but shows nothing. He simply turns away, leaves without looking at the stands. He won. And yet… it doesn't feel like I watched a victory. I watched a guy who learned how to hit to survive.
Match 8 — Brontios Orageval (Superbolt) VS Eolan Hautvent (Air)
Brontios' name triggers a reaction before he even enters. The stands stir. Bets are shouted. Politicians lean forward. Eolan Hautvent arrives first, focused, face tight. Pure Air, no variant. He looks solid, but I see his throat tighten when Brontios appears.
Brontios walks like a man who doesn't need to prove anything. His gaze is cold. Empty of pleasure. Empty of anger. Just… functional.
The referee announces: "FIGHT!"
Eolan starts well. He compresses the air, tries to create a zone, control distance. He sends cutting gusts, fast, meant to force Brontios to move. Brontios barely moves. He only tilts his body slightly. The gusts pass. As if Eolan isn't aiming at the right place.
Then Brontios raises his hand. Lightning gathers. Not normal lightning. A vivid blue glow, pure, painful to look at. Superbolt.
Eolan understands too late. He tries to compress air to launch himself away. Brontios strikes. A single bolt. Dry. Clean. A detonation that makes the entire arena vibrate. Eolan is thrown to the ground as if his body has been cut off from its own will. He rolls, stops. His eyes stay open, but he doesn't move.
Silence. Even the crowd takes a second to understand. "K.O.! Victory: Brontios Orageval!"
Brontios doesn't celebrate. He doesn't even look at Eolan. He leaves. Like it was an administrative formality.
I feel Brask swallow. "…He shut him down," he murmurs.
I don't answer. Because I felt something else. Not power. Coldness. That kind of power that doesn't tremble, doesn't doubt, doesn't suffer. That kind of power that is terrifying.
Aftermath and the Night
After the round of sixteen, they announce what comes next: In three days, the quarterfinals will begin. Three days of rest. Three days of healing. Water Kingdom doctors arrive in the official complex. They wear no armor. They wear sacred symbols, pale bands, and a calm aura. Sacred Water. I see it at work on the wounded: a luminous, gentle water that settles on the skin and closes wounds as if the body suddenly remembers how to heal. Infections vanish. Fever drops. Pain calms. It's almost unreal.
Brask gets treated. His shoulder, his ribs, the old bite marks — all of it loosens, repairs. He breathes easier. Oryn almost refuses to be touched. He eventually gives in, but keeps that wall of a gaze. Me, I let the water pass over my thigh, my fingers, the small combat burns. It closes the flesh. But it doesn't touch the rest.
The next day, Brask suggests going out. "Neutralis," he says. "Just… walk. Eat. See something other than the arena."
I accept. We move through the city streets like two shadows in the middle of a festival too alive. Food stands, decorative weapon sellers, artisans carving elemental symbols for tourists. Children run with colored ribbons.
But the looks turn. Toward us. Whispers. "That's him…" "The Red Fire one…" "Arin…" "And the other, the one who beat Abyssel…"
I keep my head high. Brask tries to act like it doesn't affect him, but I see it: he straightens slightly, like he refuses to look weak. We buy food. Spiced bread. Grilled meat. Something sweet that Brask devours in two bites. But me… I'm not there. My mind keeps spinning. Tharok. His gaze. His face. That discomfort.
I feel the answer approaching, like a blade in the dark. I stop. "Brask."
"What?"
I look at him. "I want to go to the Earth quarters."
He blinks. "Are you insane?"
"I want to know who he is."
"Aydan… no. That's bullshit. That's not our ground. It's watched. And if we get caught—"
"I'll go alone."
Brask clenches his jaw. He sighs. Long. "Fuck…"
Then he lifts his eyes. "I'm coming."
I don't say thank you. I just nod. We wait until evening. We cover ourselves, avoid places too bright. Neutralis is neutral, but not naïve: the royal quarters are separated, guarded, and Earth has more guards than the others.
We follow a wall, slip through an alley, pass under an arch. The Earth quarter is darker. Not dirtier. Colder. The colors are duller. People speak less. Guards are everywhere. Even the lanterns seem to shine sparingly, like light itself is unwelcome.
Brask breathes softly. "We just look. Nothing else."
I don't answer. We move forward. And we find him. Tharok.
He stands in an inner courtyard, surrounded by two men. He isn't training. He's talking. Someone stands before him, slightly higher on the steps. A heavy, stable presence. Even without visible aura, I feel the weight. Tharok lowers his head slightly. "Father."
My heart slows. I stay still, hidden behind a column. Brask freezes too. A servant approaches, head bowed. "1st Master… Gaïa."
The world stops. My heart… stops beating. I don't hear the city anymore. I don't hear Brask. I don't hear my own breath. Just that name. Gaïa.
My blood boils. I see my father on the ground. I see my mother. I see the night. I see a man standing, calm, without mercy. I want to step out. I want to run. I want to kill him. Right now.
Brask grabs my arm so hard it hurts. "NO," he whispers. "No. Look at me."
I turn my head, trembling. "You have no chance," he breathes, voice breaking. "None. A Master… isn't a student. It isn't a match. It's a massacre."
He tightens his grip. "Look at Elëv. Even him… you know what a Master is. You want to die here, right now?"
I shake. I breathe wrong. I stare at Gaïa from afar. And I carve his face into my memory. Again.
I step back. Then another. Brask pulls me. We leave the quarter like two fugitives.
When we're finally out of sight, Brask releases my arm. "Fuck… Aydan…"
I stare at him. He searches my eyes. "What was your plan? What were you gonna do? Throw yourself at him? Die?"
I breathe. My voice comes out like poison. "I have to kill Gaïa."
Silence. "I have to take revenge."
My aura grows heavy without me wanting it. Pressure. Threat. Something filthy rising. Brask looks at me like I just changed in front of him. His face closes. Disappointment. "…It's always that," he says. "Always. I thought you weren't like that."
Something breaks inside me. I scream. "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING!"
Brask freezes. I keep going, too fast, too loud, too cruel. "You don't understand the pain of losing people you love! You don't understand! And you'll understand the day your parents die!"
Silence. The worst silence. Brask doesn't answer. His face empties. Like I just stabbed him. He steps back slowly. Then turns away. "…"
He leaves. Without a word. I stay there, motionless, throat dry, heart on fire. I just won a fight against Earth. And I may have just lost my best friend.
I lower my head. My hands tremble. Then… A presence. Behind. In the shadows. A calm voice, almost amused. "Thaeldan…"
The voice continues, lower, like a confession. "It seems your son wants my death."
A soft laugh. Then footsteps fading away. And silence returns. But this silence… has nothing neutral left.