CHAPTER 34— THE FINALS
The arena roared with restless energy.
The exam was nearing its end.
Every match now carried weight.
Every victory meant something.
"The winner of group 6 — Marna Terragate."
A girl stood at the center of the arena, her staff planted firmly against the ground. Broken slabs of stone lay scattered around her like the aftermath of a controlled landslide, dust still settling in the air around her boots. Her breathing was heavy—but steady, controlled, practiced.
"The winner of group 5— Zephyr stormholt!"
A boy with golden hair stepped forward with effortless charm, his smile bright and confident as he waved toward the crowd. He lifted both hands, pressed a quick kiss against his fingers, and flung it outward playfully.
A few cheers turned into whistles.
Some into laughter.
He bowed slightly, enjoying it.
And then—
"And now—the second semi-final of Group 8!"
A low hum of mana gathered.
Bruble... bruble...
A stream of water shot forward, spiraling tightly as it cut through the air toward a broad-shouldered boy with a jagged scar running across his jawline. The scar twisted slightly as his expression hardened, giving his face a rough, weathered look despite his age.
The scarred boy didn't flinch.
He raised his wand —
A thick stone wall surged upward, dense and layered, intercepting the incoming stream with a heavy impact.
In the crowd.
Rowan sat forward, his chin resting against his palm, elbow digging into his thigh. His eyes didn't blink.
Didn't wander
They stayed locked on the arena.
Across from the scarred boy stood a lean figure with sharp amber eyes and long ash-grey hair tied loosely behind his head. His expression carried a quiet confidence, almost lazy—but his stance betrayed none of it.
The ash-haired boy lifted his wand.
A compressed wave of flame formed at its tip.
Dense.
Focused.
And then it shot forward.
The flames tore through the stone wall, blasting fragments apart as heat rippled through the air.
A smirk formed on the ash-haired boy's lip—
—but it didn't last.
Because behind the collapsing stone—
A second defense was already waiting.
A wall of water rose, smooth and controlled, absorbing the remaining flames with a violent hiss as steam burst outward.
Rowan leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Wow—what a layered defense!" the commentator's voice rang out. "Stone for impact, water for absorption—clean execution!"
The moment the flames subsided—
The scarred boy thrust his wand forward through the thinning veil of steam.
The mana gather around the wand instantly.
A sharp compressed projectile of wind shot forward.
Fast and precise. Invisible until it struck.
The ash-haired boy's eyes widened—
Too late.
The impact slammed into his chest.
His body jerked—
His gaze went blank—
The barrier shimmered—
Flash.
He vanished.
"And what a smooth finish!" the commentator shouted. "With that—we have the second finalist of Group 8 — Vael Thorsen!"
The crowd erupted into applause.
Cheers echoed across the arena.
But Rowan—
Remained still.
His eyes stayed fixed on Vael.
Crunch... crunch... Crunch...
Beside him, Eldric casually tossed popcorn into his mouth, his gaze flicking toward Rowan for a brief moment.
But Rowan didn't looked at him. His gaze fixed at his next opponent.
Eldric lips curved up slightly.
---
Finals — Group 8
"So ladies and gentlemen… welcome to the finals of Group 8!"
The voice boomed across the stadium, louder now, sharper, filled with anticipation.
Rowan stood near the entrance tunnel, rolling his shoulder once before tightening his grip on the axe and then loosening it again. He exhaled slowly, steadying his breathing before stepping forward as his name was called.
Rowan slowed his steps as he entered the arena.
The moment he crossed the boundary line, the atmosphere shifted.
The roar of the crowd didn't just sound louder—it felt heavier, pressing down on his shoulders like an unseen weight. Thousands of eyes settled onto him, not with curiosity like before, but with expectation.
"At one side we have Rowan vayen from the Darve City dojo. The boy who have... Quite a unique way of casting spells."
The crowd cheered.
"Go on, axe guy."
Rowan kept walking towards the Areana.
This was no longer an early match.
This was where it started to matter.
He stopped at his mark.
"And on the other side we have the second finalist. Vael Torsen."
Across from him, his opponent was already there.
A tall boy stood with quiet composure, his short black hair neatly kept, not a strand out of place despite the wind brushing across the arena. His posture was straight—not rigid, but naturally aligned, like someone whose body had been trained to move without excess. There was no unnecessary tension in his shoulders, no wasted energy in the way he stood.
3...
2...
1...
The commentator's voice thundered across the arena, echoing against the towering stone walls and reverberating through the packed stands.
"Aaaaand... Begin."
The signal rang clear.
The match had officially started.
The crowd surged instantly into a wave of sound—cheers crashing from every direction, voices overlapping, banners fluttering under the shimmering glow of the floating crystal screen above that broadcast the final match of Group 8 to every corner of the stadium.
"…?"
But—
"—"
"...."
"...."
That wave broke.
Not gradually but abruptly
A long silence streched across the areana.
"...Huh?"
"... What?"
"...What's happening?"
The noise faltered, stumbled, and then collapsed into a strange, stretched silence that spread across the arena like a ripple.
Both contestants stood on the areana. Silently.
No words.
No sound.
Nothing.
Neither moved
Neither spoke.
Neither even shifted their stance.
The distance between them remained untouched, the air between them tightening instead of breaking, as if something invisible had locked the moment in place.
Confusion spread through the audience in murmurs that quickly grew louder.
"What are they even doing?"
"Hey—! Why aren't you fighting."
"Hello?!"
Voices rose from different sections of the stands, irritation mixing with disbelief.
Vael Thorsen stared straight at Rowan, his gaze sharp and unwavering, his wand held steady in his hand.
"Why aren't you attacking."
Rowan didn't react immediately. His posture remained relaxed, his grip on the axe loose but ready, his expression almost indifferent as he met Vael's eyes.
"I'm not in the mood to attack first."
A faint scoff escaped Vael's lips, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Why? Scared."
Rowan gave a small, almost careless shrug, his shoulder lifting just enough to show the gesture without breaking his stance.
"No, I'm just giving you a chance to go first."
Another brief silence followed, heavier this time, stretching tighter between them.
Rowan's gaze sharpened slightly as he watched Vael, memories of earlier matches flickering through his mind—every movement, every reaction, every pattern he had quietly observed from the stands.
'From what I understood… he never attacks first.'
His fingers curled slightly tighter around the axe handle.
'He waits. Watches. Lets the opponent make the first move… and then he builds a rhythm from that.'
A slow breath passed through Rowan's chest.
'So to win… I have to break that rhythm.'
His grip tightened.
'By forcing him to attack first.'
Across the arena, Vael's fingers closed more firmly around his wand, the tendons along his wrist tightening as a faint tension crept into his stance.
"Hey..."
His voice came low.
Controlled.
But carrying an edge that cut through the silence.
"I'm giving you a chance. So... Attack first."
Rowan felt it then—the subtle prickle across his skin, the faint tightening in his chest, the way the air around Vael seemed to sharpen just slightly.
Still—
He held his ground.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, forced but steady.
"I told you... I'm not in the mood."
The crowd was starting to lose it's patience now.
"Oh come on—fight already!"
"What is this, a staring contest?"
"If they don't fight, throw them out!"
"Oi! We didn't pay to watch you stand there!"
The frustration rose in waves, loud and unfiltered, pressing down on the arena just as heavily as the tension between the two fighters.
Even the commentator faltered, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple as he forced a strained chuckle.
"Ah… strategic opening, perhaps… both fighters are—uh—evaluating each other…"
Vael clicked his tongue, the sharp sound cutting cleanly through the noise.
His grip tightened.
Rowan's grip mirrored it.
And then—
In the same instant—
Vael raised his wand.
Rowan lifted his axe.
For a fraction of a second, time seemed to hesitate again.
Both weapons remained suspended in motion.
The axe remained up at the air.
And the wand remained aimed forward.
Then—
"Tch."
Vael moved first.
His wand flicked forward, mana gathering instantly at its tip as a compressed shell of water formed and shot forward with a sharp, pressurized force.
Rowan reacted in the same breath.
His axe cut through the air.
"Wind chop."
A crescent of condensed wind surged forward, slicing cleanly through the space between them and colliding with the incoming water shell.
The impact burst outward in a tight explosion of mist and scattered mana particles.
The stillness shattered.
Vael moved again immediately, his stance shifting with precision as another spell formed without hesitation—this time a tighter, sharper current of wind, compressed into a cutting projectile that shot toward Rowan's flank.
Rowan shifted, letting it pass, his boots scraping lightly against the arena floor as he adjusted his stance.
He didn't counter.
Not yet.
Vael's eyes narrowed.
Another spell followed.
Then another.
Water and Wind
Alternating between the elements.
Fast.
Precise.
Each one aimed not to overwhelm—
But to control space.
To guide movement.
Rowan noticed.
He stepped forward.
Closing the distance.
His axe rose—
"Fire chop."
The arc roared forward.
Vael didn't block.
He stepped aside cleanly, letting the flames pass, already preparing the next spell.
Rowan didn't stop.
"Water chop."
A second arc followed instantly.
Vael's wand moved—
A thin barrier of condensing water formed just enough to absorb part of the impact—but the force pushed him half a step back.
Vael glanced at his feet. How he was forced to take half a step back.
His eyes flicked downward.
Rowan tensed.
Vael raised his wand again, this time releasing a surge of flame that rushed forward in a wide wave.
Rowan reacted instantly, his axe cutting twice in quick succession—two water arcs surging forward, slicing through the flames like blades through fabric.
Steam exploded outward, thick and blinding, swallowing the space between them.
The first arc faded as it collided.
The second continued forward.
Then disappeared into the smoke.
Rowan's eyes sharpened as he stared into the haze.
The area where Vael stood was now full of smoke.
Slowly the smoke scattered.
Rowan's eyes widened.
When the smoke settled. What became visible was a thick wall of stone.
Rowan's breath caught for a fraction of a second.
A memory clicked.
The memory of Vael's pervious match.
'If i attack that, then he will —'
Before Rowan could finish his thoughts suddenly the wall dropped.
Mana surged at Vael's wand.
Vael shot a spell at Rowan.
Rowan quickly raised his axe to attack but the spell struck his chest with full force.
The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing backward across the arena floor, his grip tightening instinctively around the axe as he skidded to a halt near the boundary.
He barely had time to recover.
Another spell was already coming.
Rowan rolled sharply to the side, the attack slamming into the ground where he had been.
He tried to stand up but another spell came his way.
Rowan jumped at his side dodging the spell again.
He tied to stand up but another spell followed.
One after another.
Vael kept launching spells towards Rowan.
His attacks rained down in relentless succession, each one precisely timed to prevent Rowan from stabilizing, forcing him into constant motion.
"Wow—!" the commentator's voice rang out, energized now. "Vael has put Rowan in a very difficult situation!"
The crowd roared.
Rowan's breath quickened slightly as he moved, dodging, adjusting, reacting.
His eyes locked onto Vael.
Anger was there now.
Not loud.
Not wild.
But sharp and contained.
Vael's brows were drawn tight, his jaw set, the muscles along his face tense as his spells continued without pause.
"…What happened?" Rowan called out between movements, his voice strained but still carrying a faint edge of humor. "You look angry."
Vael didn't respond.
Another spell fired.
"Hey—! Let me attack too!" Rowan added, twisting his body to avoid another strike.
"I had given you a chance to attack first."
Vael finally answered. His voice cold but controlled.
"But you were too stubborn to comply. Now Face the consequences of your stubbornness."
Rowan clicked his tongue as he dodged again.
'Ah... What is this guy?..'
Another step.
Another dodge.
'I thought forcing him to attack first would make this easier…'
He jumped again, narrowly avoiding another projectile that tore past his shoulder and slammed into the arena floor behind him, scattering dust and mana fragments into the air.
His boots scraped against the ground as he forced himself into motion again, barely regaining balance before another spell came screaming toward him.
'How do I win this now?'
His breath came sharper now, not uncontrolled—but strained under pressure.
'This guy he won't let me stay still and cast.'
Rowan dodged the spells again.
Rowan twisted his body and slipped past another incoming strike, then pushed off the ground and moved again—first to the right, then immediately cutting left, and then another quick shift to the left again as another projectile grazed past him.
His movements were no longer just reactive.
They were desperate.
Or at least—
That's what it looked like.
"Huh…?"
Something flickered in his mind,a realisation struck.
He moved again.
Right.
Then left.
Then left again.
Another spell passed.
His eyes sharpened slightly.
'Wait…'
Rowan repeated the motion instinctively as another set of attacks came at him—stepping right, then shifting left, then another step left as the spell passed exactly where he would have been otherwise.
His breathing slowed.
Not physically—
But mentally.
Right… left… left…
'Yeah... Pattern.'
'He is attacking in a pattern.'
Let's see.
Right.
Left.
Left.
Rowan moved in the rhythm and dodged the spells again.
'Right if I move with the pattern then I could dodge it.'
And—
Rowan jumped to right again.
'There is a gap in this pattern.
A fraction of a second where Vael's casting hand reset just slightly before the next spell formed.
There…
Rowan's grip on the axe tightened.
'Even if it's short…'
Another spell launched toward him.
'I could win if I attack in that short gap.'
Vael shot another spell.
Rowan's lips tightened slightly as he aligned his movements with the rhythm itself.
Right left, And... Left.
But this time—
He didn't continue moving.
He planted his foot.
Firm.
Stable.
Grounded.
His entire body aligned in that instant.
And his axe moved.
'Frost chop'
A pale arc surged forward, the air around it crystallizing faintly as it cut through space with a sharp, biting hiss—like winter wind slicing across exposed skin.
Vael's eyes widened.
For the first time since the fight began—
His rhythm broke.
He tried to react, his wand already beginning to move for the next cast—
But the timing was off.
The arc struck his wand arm directly.
A sharp impact.
His arm jerked back from the force, his grip loosening for just a fraction of a second as the cold seeped in instantly.
A chilling numbness spread across his fingers, crawling up his wrist like frost settling into bone.
Still—
He forced his wand back up.
His focus didn't break.
Didn't hesitate.
He aimed his wand towards Rowan again.
'...Huh?'
Something felt—
Off.
His brows furrowed as his fingers tightened, trying to channel mana again.
'Why is mana…?'
The flow stuttered.
Delaying and sluggish.
Like Something was interfering.
He felt an unusual numbness around his wand hand.
And that moment—
That hesitation—
Was all Rowan needed.
Before Vael could fully process it—
Rowan had already moved.
"Wind chop."
The first arc tore forward, sharp and fast.
"Fire chop."
The second followed instantly, blazing heat surging through the air.
"Water chop."
The third crashed forward, heavy and relentless.
Three strikes.
No pause.
No gap.
No escape.
Wind sliced.
Fire surged.
Water slammed.
All three collided with Vael before he could stabilize his casting.
The impact lifted him off his feet, his body thrown backward as his vision blanked out under the overwhelming force.
For a brief moment—
He hung in the air.
Then—
The barrier flared.
A flash of light.
And he vanished.
A berife silence settled across the areana.
But it didn't last long—
"Wow... "
"Nice match."
The stadium exploded.
Cheers erupted from every direction, claps echoing like thunder as the crowd surged to its feet.
"And with this!" the commentator's voice rang out, filled with excitement, "we have our winner of Group 8!"
Rowan stood at the center of the arena, his axe still in his hand, his chest rising and falling steadily as he looked out at the sea of people.
"The winner of Group 8… is Rowan from the Darve City dojo!"
The noise swelled again.
But Rowan—
Remained still.
Amid the chaos, amid the roaring crowd, amid the rising expectations—
He stood quietly.
Because this—
Wasn't the end.
It was only the point where things truly began.
---
CHAPTER ENDS