A storm of explosions bellowed at the center of the arena, rising with flashes of lightning and fire that soared into the sky, carving through the clouds as if aiming for the heavens—or so it seemed.
The entire place became wrapped in a thick cloud of debris, so dense that nothing could be seen. The aftermath left a deep, vibrating hum, as though the very thunder itself was belching from the earth.
The wind turned violent, blowing fiercely against the spectators, almost threatening to throw them off their seats. Many struggled to hold on. Several staggered away, tumbled down, but it was considered a light matter.
The coliseum, after the horrid gusts, fell into a heavy silence for a moment. Then a moment became two… then three…
The dust slowly flowed at the center, while everyone sat frozen in eerie silence, watching tensely. The fact that they could not see through the dust cloud only made the tension harder to bear.
Slowly—agonizingly—the dust began to dissipate. A silhouette became faintly visible. And as seconds crawled by, the visual within the settling dust grew clearer. People leaned forward anxiously, almost falling from their seats in their desperation to see who—or what—had survived.
Northern grimaced from his seat. He clenched his fists tightly.
Nyssira was standing—barely.
The head of her hammer rested heavily on the ground, her hands slumped over it, supporting the entirety of her body as she heaved for breath.
Drop.
Drop.
She stared downward with a blank gaze, watching as small drops of red stained the floor beneath her. Slowly, she peeled her trembling hands from the shaft of her hammer.
Blisters had formed, burst, formed again, and burst once more—until blood-filled blisters, too, had ruptured. Her pale palms were smeared with dried crimson and fresh, oozing wounds.
And her hands wouldn't stop shaking. Blood, too, was trickling from her nose.
Above her, someone was descending slowly atop a massive dark blade.
He stared down at her, a cold, condescending glare etched deep into his face.
His voice boomed like the settling of destruction as he lowered to the ground.
"I must say... I am quite surprised."
His voice trailed off as he finally reached the ground, stepping down from the hovering blade. With a casual flick of his hand, the dark greatsword floated neatly into his grip.
"To think a little child could deflect thousands of my swords... well, I suppose I should have expected as much. You are the daughter of Winterbound after all."
A small, delighted smile crept across his lips.
"Among the ranks of you pampered children, there are a few who can be considered... special."
He waved dismissively barely a second later, as if disgusted by the very thought.
"Although,"
He added with a faint sneer,
"I dislike using that word."
He paused, shrugged lightly, then relented, almost mocking in tone.
"Alright, alright. You deserve it, so I'll make an exception. Just this once."
He swung the greatsword lazily, lifting and dropping it with a nonchalant flick—as if the colossal weapon weighed no more than a feather.
Then he extended it downward, the tip of the black blade almost kissing the ground.
"Any last words, Pre...sident?"
Nyssira's eyes had dimmed, her breaths heavy and ragged, her chest rising and falling like a battered mountain barely holding its shape.
Her face, paler than it had been that morning, was a mess—short white hair tangled and matted with blood. Strands clung stubbornly to her bruised skin, remnants of the few swords or shattered shards of light that had slipped through her defense.
For a moment, it seemed as though the light within her—the very glint of her soul—might finally flicker out.
But then, even through that dim haze clouding her gaze, she shifted.
Cold.
Detached.
Her expression did not change, not even beneath the agony etched across her battered body. Not even beneath the certainty of impending defeat.
She remained cold and detached, exactly as she had been since the beginning of the match.
Too one-dimensional to notice. Too indifferent to care.
She shifted slightly, tilting the shaft of her hammer as she tried to pick it up.
There was a change to her movements now—slower, heavier—her fatigue bleeding through every motion.
As she lifted the hammer, a soft groan escaped her lips, though her expression remained unchanged.
Gripping it with both hands, she positioned the hammer behind her, bracing her stance to support her battered body and carry the weapon's overwhelming weight.
The strange student watched her, standing silently with his sword in hand. His brows furrowed darkly.
"You must still be deluding yourself to think you can win this... even in your state."
He breathed heavily, trying—and failing—to rein in the insurmountable anger burning inside him.
His face twisted, contorting into a grimace.
He roared.
"Look at you, President! Look at you! Broken! Wrecked! Hopeless! You are merely a child! Why act like you are more? If you're just a damned child, then act like one—for Kryos' sake!"
He covered his face with one hand, dragging it down slowly. As his hand fell away, the lines of anger slowly vanished, leaving behind only a cold certainty.
"Alright. No problem. This will just further shatter the reckless hope you all cling to. This will pronounce the fall of the academy—and usher in a new era."
He slid one foot back, falling into stance.
"Die, President."
He flashed forward, a trail of obsidian light streaming behind him.
Nyssira tried to raise her hammer and dash forward, but her eyes widened—trembling—as her body refused to move.
Her legs buckled. The last of her strength drained away, and she collapsed to her knees.
The student's eyes gleamed with manic joy. His grin stretched wide as he neared her, his sword flashing behind him, about to carve a deadly arc through the air.
The coliseum was frozen in silence.
Was no one going to stop him?
The Council President—helpless on her knees. The battle should have been over.
But wasn't this going too far?
His sword swung forward brutally, thick with killing intent.
At that instant, a voracious ring split through the air—a sound that shook the silence apart. For a moment, no one knew where it had come from.
Had he already struck her down?
Or had she managed to block it again?
A beat later, gasps erupted through the coliseum.
The student's body was hurled backward, rolling violently across the air. A second later, something flew upward—his hand—severed cleanly, spinning into the sky.
Eyes widened. Colors drained from faces. Some covered their mouths in shock, frozen, unable to believe what they had just seen.
As the lingering dust of the clash settled, a figure stood before the kneeling Nyssira—a figure that made hearts pound wildly with overwhelming exhilaration.
He stood tall, the Council President's hammer perched casually over his shoulder, a dark and furious glint burning in his blue eyes.
The entire coliseum erupted into a deafening roar.