The crowd was losing their minds, chanting for their respective fighters, the entire arena shaking with raw emotion.
Both fighters stood on opposite sides of the cracked arena, chests heaving, bodies slick with blood and sweat.
Kairo Veldris gripped his blade tighter, his lighter armor dented and torn, one eye half-swollen shut. His breath came in ragged bursts, but his eyes still burned with Crimson Reach pride.
One more strike. Just one. I can end this. I just need to get past his axe as quick as possible, since he relies so much on his swings.
Garok Thane planted his feet wide, massive axe held in both hands, his heavy plate armor cracked in several places, blood dripping from deep gashes. His steel-blue eyes were cold and unyielding, the stubborn fury of Stormcrag etched into every scar on his face.
He's fast… but I'm still standing. One solid hit and it's over. I'm almost out myself.
Kairo smirked through bloody lips, trying to rattle his opponent.
"You're breathing like an old man, Stormcrag. That axe getting heavy? Come on — show me what your 'iron will' really looks like before I put you down."
Garok's lips curled into a savage grin, voice a low growl.
"Talk all you want, pretty boy. Your speed won't save you when I bury this axe in your skull. Stormcrag fights until the end. You Crimson Reach types always break when it matters."
The tension in the arena thickened. The crowd was on the edge of their seats — some screaming for Kairo, others roaring for Garok.
The announcer's voice cut through the noise, laced with dark excitement.
"THIS IS IT, FOLKS! BOTH WARRIORS ON THEIR LAST LEGS! SPEED AND TECHNIQUE VERSUS RAW, UNBREAKABLE POWER! WHO WILL DELIVER THE FINAL BLOW?!"
Kairo moved first.
He dashed forward in a final, desperate burst of speed, blade glowing with concentrated mana. He poured everything he had left into one ultimate technique — Crimson Tempest Slash — a whirlwind of glowing red arcs that spiraled toward Garok like a storm of blades.
Garok answered with a roar that shook the arena.
He charged straight into the storm, axe raised high, channeling all his remaining strength into his most powerful strike — Iron Judgment Hammer — swinging the massive weapon downward with earth-shaking force, the head glowing with raw, destructive mana.
The two final attacks collided in the center of the arena.
BOOOM—
A violent explosion of red and iron-gray energy erupted outward, cracking the reinforced floor and making the mana barriers flicker wildly. Dust and debris blasted upward in a massive cloud.
Kairo's tempest overwhelmed Garok's raw power. The red arcs pressed forward, slicing into Garok's armor and drawing fresh blood.
Garok's eyes widened for a split second, as he felt his balance falter, his swing slowing under the relentless storm of slashes. No...not yet!
Then his grip tightened.
With a guttural roar, he forced the axe through the tempest, the sheer weight and stubborn will behind the blow shattering Kairo's technique.
The axe came down.
Kairo tried to dodge at the last moment, but he was a fraction too slow.
The heavy blade caught his left arm.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening — bone shattering, armor-crumpling, flesh-tearing.
Kairo's scream cut through the arena as his arm was severed cleanly at the shoulder, blood spraying across the sand in a wide arc.
He staggered backward, clutching the stump, face pale with shock and agony.
The crowd went wild.
Stormcrag fans erupted in savage triumph.
"YES! THAT'S HOW WE DO IT!"
"GAROK! GAROK! GAROK!"
Crimson Reach supporters remained standing, speechless.
In the VIP box, Lord Thorne Varkis of Stormcrag shot to his feet, pumping his fist with raw, unfiltered pride.
"THAT'S MY WARRIOR! STORMCRAG STANDS!"
Kairo dropped to one knee, breathing ragged, blood pouring from the stump. His blade clattered to the ground beside him.
Garok stood over him, axe dripping, chest heaving, but his cold eyes showed no mercy.
The announcer's voice rang out, full of dark thrill.
"AND THERE IT IS! A CLEAN FINISH! KAIRO VELDRIS IS DOWN! THE WINNER… FROM STORMCRAG… GAROK THANE!"
The Stormcrag section exploded in celebration while Crimson Reach fell into stunned silence mixed with angry shouts.
Garok raised his axe high, roaring in victory as the crowd chanted his name.
The first match of the Grand Bout had ended in brutal, bloody fashion.
And the south had just gotten its first taste of what the day would bring.
The roar of the crowd slowly died down as medics rushed into the arena to carry Kairo away on a stretcher. His severed arm had been quickly sealed with emergency magic, but the Crimson Reach section still muttered in bitter disappointment.
Indura sat in the waiting area with Shadow beside him, arms loosely crossed, golden eyes calm as he watched the aftermath.
"That was… instructive," he said quietly. "Kairo was faster, more technical. He could have won if he hadn't tried to match Garok's power head-on at the end. He got greedy for the finishing blow instead of wearing him down. One mistake and it cost him everything."
Shadow nodded, voice low and respectful. "He fought with pride for his city. But pride without patience is a dangerous thing."
In the VIP box, the three rulers observed with measured expressions.
Lady Phoenix leaned back gracefully, amber eyes thoughtful. "Kairo showed excellent speed and precision. A shame he let emotion cloud his judgment in the final exchange."
Lord Kael Voss of Emberhold stroked his silver-streaked beard. "Garok's raw durability won the day. Stormcrag fighters are built like that — they endure what others cannot. But if Kairo had stayed mobile longer, he might have bled Garok dry."
Lord Thorne Varkis of Stormcrag allowed himself a rare, gruff smile. "My man did what he was trained to do. Stand and break. That's Stormcrag's way."
Not far away, Jin sat with Hanz, his masked face impassive. Hanz was still buzzing with energy, but Jin felt… nothing.
Just another fight, he thought. Speed versus power. Predictable. I could win it in a breath, if I were in my other body. He stood up quietly. "I'm leaving."
Hanz blinked. "What? The next match is about to start!"
Jin didn't answer. He simply turned and began walking toward the exit, the roar of the crowd fading behind him.
The announcer's voice suddenly boomed across the arena again, full of theatrical flair.
"AND NOW… FOR THE SECOND MATCH OF THE GRAND BOUT!"
The crowd leaned forward in anticipation.
"FROM EMBERHOLD… A DEADLY SHADOW OF THE FORGE, MASTER OF DUAL BLADES AND ILLUSIONARY STEPS… LYRIA VELSHAR!"
The gate on one side opened.
Lyria Velshar stepped into the arena with fluid grace. She was a dark elf — tall and lithe, with deep violet skin, long silver-white hair tied in a high ponytail, and sharp, glowing emerald eyes. Her armor was lightweight and form-fitting, dark green and silver, with flowing cloaks that seemed to shift like smoke. Twin curved blades rested at her hips. She moved like liquid shadow, every step silent and precise.
The Emberhold section cheered loudly.
"Lyria! Show them the speed of the forge!"
From the Crimson Reach side came immediate taunts.
"Another knife-ear? She'll break against real steel!"
The announcer continued with rising hype.
"AND HER OPPONENT… FROM CRIMSON REACH… A RELENTLESS BLADE OF THE PHOENIX, KNOWN FOR HIS UNBREAKABLE DEFENSE AND COUNTER STRIKES… DARIEN SOLVANE!"
The opposite gate opened.
Darien Solvane walked out with heavy, confident steps. He was a human warrior, broad-shouldered and muscular, with short-cropped brown hair, a square jaw, and piercing gray eyes. His armor was heavy crimson plate reinforced with golden phoenix motifs. He carried a large tower shield on one arm and a straight sword in the other. His presence was solid, like an unmovable wall.
Crimson Reach fans roared in support.
"Darien! Hold the line!"
"Make her regret stepping into our arena!"
The two fighters stopped a short distance apart in the center of the red sand.
Lyria's emerald eyes narrowed as she studied Darien, twirling one of her blades lightly.
Heavy armor, strong defense, slow movement. He'll try to weather my attacks and counter with that shield. If I stay mobile and use illusions, I can dismantle him piece by piece. Quick finish — target the joints...or use "That".
Darien planted his shield firmly, sword ready, gray eyes locked on Lyria.
Fast. Agile. Dark elf agility means she'll try to dance around me. I need to force her into close range where my power matters. End it with one solid counter when she overextends.
The tension between them crackled.
The announcer's voice rose with excitement.
"TWO WARRIORS. TWO STYLES. ONE ARENA. SPEED AND ILLUSION VERSUS DEFENSE AND COUNTER! WHO WILL BREAK FIRST? THE SECOND MATCH… BEGINS!"
The crowd roared as the fighters took their stances.
Jin, already near the exit, paused for a moment and glanced back at the arena. His silver eyes narrowed behind the mask as he recognized Lyria.
Her again, he thought. I met her once during a hunt in the eastern ruins. She fights with deception — illusions, dual blades that strike from nowhere. She'll try to make him chase shadows until he tires. An Assassin...this match is hers already.
He turned away and continued walking.
The second match of the Grand Bout was about to ignite.
The bell rang.
Darien exploded forward like a crimson battering ram, shield raised, sword already swinging in a heavy overhead arc.
CRASH!
The first clash was pure violence. His blade slammed down with enough force to crack the reinforced arena floor. Lyria twisted at the last instant, her body flowing like smoke, throwing dust over him, then gripped her twin curved blades, flashing as she sliced across his armored side in a rapid double strike.
Sparks flew. Darien didn't even flinch. He pivoted and slammed his shield forward like a battering ram, the impact sending Lyria skidding backward across the sand, skidding to a halt.
What was that?! Darien thought. Did she try to blind me with dust?! How pitiful!
The Crimson Reach section roared.
"That's it! Pin her down!"
Stormcrag and Emberhold fans booed, but many were already nodding — the big man's raw power was undeniable.
Darien pressed immediately. He charged again, sword swinging in wide, crushing arcs that forced Lyria to keep moving. Each missed strike carved deep gouges into the arena floor. When she tried to counter with a spinning slash, he met it with his shield, the clang echoing like a bell.
"You're fast," Darien growled, voice steady and confident. "But speed means nothing if you can't break through."
Lyria smiled thinly, emerald eyes sharp. She darted in low, blades weaving in a dizzying pattern. One blade scraped across his thigh plate while the other flicked toward his exposed neck. Darien blocked the neck strike with his bracer and countered with a brutal elbow that clipped her shoulder, spinning her away.
The crowd was losing it.
"Crimson Reach! Break her!"
"Emberhold! Don't let him corner you!"
In the stands, Indura watched with relaxed interest, arms crossed.
"He's strong," he murmured to Shadow. "Built like a fortress. She's dancing around him, but he's not giving her any room to breathe. Something about that elf doesn't feel right."
Shadow nodded quietly. "His defense is solid. Most opponents would already be broken. But you're not wrong... That elf, she hasn't used any skills yet."
The fight continued its brutal rhythm.
Darien landed another heavy blow — a shield bash that sent Lyria tumbling across the sand. She rolled to her feet, breathing harder now, a thin line of blood trickling from her lip.
"He's got her! Finish it!"
Then something shifted.
Darien swung again — a powerful diagonal slash that should have forced Lyria to retreat. Instead, she stepped into the strike, blades crossing in a defensive X. The impact rang out, but this time she didn't stagger back.
Darien felt it immediately.
A strange, crawling sensation spread from the point of contact across his armor. It was subtle at first — like static under his skin — but it grew warmer, then hotter.
What the… he thought, frowning as he pressed the attack. Something feels off. Ever since I hit her the first time…
Lyria's emerald eyes flashed with quiet satisfaction. She danced away, blades spinning in a hypnotic pattern.
"You hit hard," she said softly, voice carrying just enough for him to hear. "But you never asked what you were hitting."
Darien charged again, shield leading. This time when their weapons met, the strange heat flared stronger. He ignored it, swinging his sword in a brutal overhead strike.
Lyria parried, then countered with a lightning-fast slash across his chest plate. The blade didn't cut deep, but the moment it touched, the sensation spiked — a burning itch spreading through his veins.
Darien shook it off, roaring as he slammed his shield into her side, sending her skidding.
The crowd cheered wildly for him.
But inside his armor, something was spreading.
He could feel it now — faint threads of ember-like energy crawling through his body, latching onto his muscles, his mana flow.
Every time he struck her, it had gotten worse.
What did she do? he thought, a flicker of unease breaking through his confidence. I'm slowing down… .
Lyria smiled as she circled him, blades spinning lazily.
"You're starting to feel it, aren't you?" she whispered. "The Forge's Gift. Every time you touch me… you feed it."
The arena floor was already cracked and stained with blood.
Darien stood breathing heavily, shield arm trembling, his heavy crimson armor dented and slick with sweat. He could feel it now — the strange, burning itch spreading deeper through his veins, sucking at his mana like roots drinking water.
Something's definitely wrong, he thought, panic flickering behind his eyes. I can feel my mana deplete faster, and threads clinging to my body, and yet...
Lyria circled him slowly, emerald eyes glowing with quiet ruthlessness. Her breathing was ragged, but her movements were still fluid, dangerous. Now...for the final finish!
She raised both blades.
Mana surged around her.
Suddenly, the arena filled with clones — perfect illusions of Lyria, dozens of them, all moving independently, blades flashing. They looked completely real, down to the blood on their lips and the way their cloaks shifted.
The crowd gasped.
Darien swung his shield in a wide arc, trying to dispel them, but the clones scattered like smoke only to reform instantly.
Which one is real?!
Lyria moved like lightning between her illusions.
A blade slashed across Darien's cheek, opening a deep cut. Another took his left ear in a spray of blood. A third grazed his eye, blinding him on one side as blood poured down his face.
Darien roared in pain and rage, swinging wildly.
"Enough illusions!" he bellowed, releasing a massive burst of mana from his core.
The wave exploded outward, momentarily revealing the real Lyria among the fakes.
But it was too late.
The thing inside him — had already taken root. It drank his mana ravenously, turning his own power against him. No...I must finish it now!
He had no choice.
Darien charged with everything he had left, raising his sword high for his strongest technique.
Phoenix Judgment Strike.
A blazing crimson phoenix formed around his blade as he brought it down in a devastating overhead slash, the fiery bird screeching as it descended toward Lyria.
Lyria didn't dodge.
She planted her feet and crossed her blades above her head.
Veil of a Thousand Shards.
Her ultimate technique activated the moment his attack connected.
The phoenix slammed into her guard with cataclysmic force. Her arms snapped — the left one breaking with a sickening crack as bone shattered. Blood sprayed from her mouth. The impact sent her skidding backward, feet carving trenches in the sand.
The crowd surged to their feet, hope flaring in the Crimson Reach section.
"She's done! He got her!"
Lyria bent gasping for air, as her face was covered by hair. She turned to look at Darien, revealing a cold smile through blood.
It's done.
She whispered a single word.
"Bloom."
The hidden curse of the Forge ignited inside Darien's body.
It began as a burning itch deep in his chest, faint enough to ignore for a heartbeat—then it twisted into something far worse.
Darien's eyes widened as he felt it move beneath his armor. His hand shot to his breastplate, breath catching as the sensation spread through his ribs, crawling, invasive.
"What… is—"
The first rupture came from within.
A jagged branch tore through his chest, punching past armor and flesh in a violent burst. Blood spilled from his lips as his body lurched, the force of it stealing the air from his lungs. He staggered, trying to stay upright, but his balance was already failing.
Another followed.
A thicker spike forced its way out through his torso, splitting metal as it emerged slick with blood. His body jerked violently, strength draining with each passing second, his own mana feeding the growth he couldn't stop.
He dropped to one knee, gasping, vision blurring as the sensation spread deeper.
Then it didn't stop.
The growth continued, slower now—deliberate. Thorned branches twisted through him from the inside out, breaking through his shoulders and back, forcing their way into the open as they consumed him piece by piece.
Darien tried to rise, tried to force his body to move—but there was nothing left to command. The strength that had made him unbreakable was being hollowed out from within.
His body shuddered once, a final, broken motion—
then went still.
Where he knelt, a dark, twisted bloom had taken root, its branches trembling faintly in the silent arena, fed by the last remnants of his power.
The arena fell into stunned, horrified silence.
No cheers.
No roars of victory.
Just the wet sounds of tearing flesh, the faint creaking of wood, and the horrified gasps of thousands.
Even Indura, watching from the waiting area, straightened slightly, golden eyes narrowing.
That… well...that's just wrong...!
Lyria stood shakily, left arm hanging uselessly at her side, blood dripping from her lips. She was completely out of mana, barely able to stand, but her emerald eyes burned with cold satisfaction.
She picked a fruit from the tree, and bit into it.
The announcer's voice cracked, stuttering in shock.
"I… uh… the winner… by… by lethal force… Lyria Velshar of Emberhold…"
The crowd remained deathly quiet, the horror of the tree still rooted in Darien's mangled body hanging over the arena like a curse.
Lyria turned and walked slowly toward the exit gate, limping, broken arm dangling, leaving a trail of blood on the sand.
No one cheered.
The second match of the Grand Bout had ended.
And the south had just received its first real taste of how deadly this tournament could become.