Chapter 48

The arena held its breath. For a long heartbeat, no one knew what to make of it—the boy had simply

flown

across the ring, tossed aside like he weighed nothing.

Then the whispers broke loose like wildfire.

“What was that strike?”

“It wasn’t just strength. I saw light—did you see it?”

“Was it magic? It couldn’t have been. No chant, no seal, no signs—”

Nobles leaned into one another, their hushed voices sharp with suspicion. Commoners shouted in awe, their cheers ringing with the thrill of something they couldn’t quite explain.

Up in the stands, Arslan’s party traded looks. Selene’s brows were furrowed, Harold had gone slack-jawed, and even Aleia’s usual smirk had turned thoughtful.

“…What did he just do?” Selene muttered.

Arslan’s grin spread, teeth flashing as he leaned forward against the railing. “I’ve seen it before. On the way to the capital. He was practicing with mana bolts—small, controlled bursts. Look closer at that strike. He didn’t just push the kid. He unleashed a

barrage

of them at point-blank range.”

Cor adjusted his glasses, his tone edged with both interest and concern. “At that distance? Against bare flesh, it could have been lethal.”

“But he aimed for the armor,” Arslan said, his grin widening. “Smart Luds as usual. Used the protection to bleed the force and keep it clean.”

Aleia let out a low whistle. “So that’s what happens when he stops pretending to be harmless.”

Down below, the proof was plain. Joran Deyler stirred near the ring’s edge, trying to sit up. His movements were sluggish, his eyes unfocused. The spear lay forgotten in the sand. His breastplate—once polished and solid—was crumpled and cracked down the center, chunks breaking loose with every breath.

But there was no blood. No open wounds. Only dizziness, bruising, and armor in ruins.

The referee hesitated, then raised a hand to signal the elimination.

The crowd exploded. Half roared in awe, half murmured uneasily. For the first time, they weren’t just entertained—they were unsettled.

And Ludger stood where he’d struck, his hands lowered, his face unreadable.

On the far side of the ring, Karas had paused for a fraction of a second when his brother went flying. His eyes narrowed, tracking Ludger’s calm stance, but he didn’t break his guard. Discipline held him steady.

Viola, on the other hand, grinned like a wolf.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” she said, rolling her sore shoulder with a wince that turned into a laugh.

Karas raised his longsword, expression cool. “Then I’ll make this quick.”

But Viola’s grin only widened. She surged forward, Overdrive lighting up her veins, Weapon Enhancing crackling along her blade until it gleamed like liquid silver. Her swings came faster, wilder—less technique, more raw power, like she was enjoying every second.

The crowd roared again, sensing the shift. Viola wasn’t just fighting to win anymore—she was cutting loose.

Karas blocked cleanly, his longsword clashing against her strikes, but each hit drove him back a step, his boots carving lines in the sand. She didn’t care about form, didn’t care about the openings she left. Every blow came with a reckless abandon, as though pain no longer mattered.

And in truth, it didn’t—not entirely.

She knew Ludger could heal her later. As long as he healed the wounds

after

the match , she’d be fine. Exhaustion, bruises, even fractures—they could be mended once they were back in the waiting room. The rules forbade outside support during the match, but nothing stopped them from patching themselves back up in between.

So she embraced the risk. Every cut she took, every shock of pain that jolted through her arm, only made her grin sharper.

Karas’ composure flickered. He was still blocking, still holding his ground, but the tempo was slipping out of his control. Her wild style pressed harder and harder, like fighting against a storm that didn’t care if it broke itself apart to tear you down.

Viola laughed through clenched teeth, sweat dripping down her face. “C’mon! Don’t break so fast!”

The crowd ate it up. To them, it was madness. To Viola, it was freedom.

And to Karas? It was a problem that discipline alone might not solve.

Steel shrieked as Viola’s first slash came down. Karas caught it at an angle, his longsword braced with both hands. The force rattled his arms, but he absorbed it, sliding her blade off to the side.

She didn’t slow. Her second strike came from the opposite direction, a diagonal cut that crackled with Overdrive. Karas pivoted his hip, bringing his blade up in a smooth arc to parry. Sparks jumped between them.

Viola laughed in his face. “Too stiff!”

The third strike was a thrust—sloppy, almost telegraphed—but it came so fast it still forced him to sidestep, sand spraying from under his boots.

Karas countered with a neat riposte, his blade stabbing toward her exposed ribs. She twisted her torso, let the edge scrape her side, and swung wild with her free hand, punching his gauntlet to break his stance. Pain flared across her face, but her grin never faded.

The fourth strike was overhead, reckless as a hammer blow. Karas bent his knees, catching it on his guard and shoving upward, forcing her back half a step. He pressed in immediately, snapping two tight cuts—one low, one high.

The low cut bit into her thigh before she could move. The high one she blocked by sheer desperation, sparks flashing near her face.

Her teeth clenched. Her grin widened.

“Finally!” she barked.

She swung again, the fifth blow a brutal sideways slash. Karas dropped his shoulder and caught it, but this time the impact rattled his balance, forcing him a half-step back. She followed instantly with the sixth, a rising strike that nearly clipped his chin before he jerked his head aside.

Blow for blow, the rhythm became clear: Viola traded flesh for pressure, pain for momentum. Every time he cut her, she cut back harder. Every time he thought he’d regained control, she shattered it with another surge of reckless force.

Karas’ breathing grew heavier. His parries were still crisp, but slower now, his footwork starting to drag. He was keeping her at bay, but the storm wasn’t letting up.

And the crowd—every noble, every commoner—was on their feet, watching each clash as sparks and sweat flew from the center of the ring.

Another clash rang out, steel grinding against steel. Viola shoved forward, laughing through clenched teeth, her Overdrive-fueled strength rattling Karas’ arms. She pressed in with another overhead slash, wild and heavy, her blade nearly singing with the force.

But Karas’ eyes narrowed. He had seen enough.

Instead of meeting her strength head-on, he shifted—letting her blade crash past him, his own sword sliding just off-center. The force of her swing carried her forward a half-step too far, her guard dropping wide open.

In that instant, he moved.

Karas’ counter came sharp and clean: a thrust straight to her midsection, controlled and precise. Viola twisted at the last second, but the point still scraped across her ribs, biting into the flesh beneath her tunic. She hissed, stumbling sideways.

Her laughter didn’t fade, but her breath hitched.

Karas didn’t give her time. He stepped in with a follow-up slash, low and brutal, catching her thigh again. Blood splattered the sand, and Viola’s leg buckled.

The grin slipped for the first time, just a flicker.

Karas’ expression stayed calm, disciplined, almost cold. “Reckless,” he muttered.

The crowd gasped at the sudden reversal—Viola, the storm, being cut down strike by strike. Every swing she threw now looked heavier, slower, her Overdrive burning through her stamina while Karas’ measured counters landed with surgical precision.

Another thrust. Another shallow cut. Viola flinched, her arm trembling as she blocked late.

The storm was losing strength. And Karas was still standing, his discipline finally turning her recklessness against her.

The tide had turned.

Viola’s blade whistled down in another heavy arc—Karas slipped inside, parrying with a neat flick of his wrist and answering with a slash across her arm. Blood sprayed. Viola staggered, nearly dropping her sword, but she snarled and forced herself back into motion, swinging again.

She was slowing. Everyone could see it.

Karas’ footwork grew sharper with each step, his discipline now dictating the rhythm. He ducked a horizontal cut and drove his shoulder into her chest, sending her stumbling back three paces. Before she could recover, his sword lashed out, nicking her ribs again, carving another red line across her side.

The crowd was on fire.

Half the stands roared

“Torvares! Torvares!”

with every swing Viola threw. The other half shouted

“Deyler! Deyler!”

each time Karas’ counters landed. The arena thundered with competing chants, cheers rattling the stone walls, the sound of nobles and commoners alike being swept up in the duel.

Sweat dripped into Viola’s eyes, her chest heaving. Cuts stung across her body, her leg ached, her grip trembled. And yet—she grinned again, wide and defiant, like a wolf bleeding out but still baring its teeth.

Karas’ expression barely shifted, but his eyes narrowed. He knew it—she wasn’t done, not yet.

The chants swelled louder, the arena split down the middle, both sides screaming for their champion.

On the brink of collapse, Viola clenched her jaw, Overdrive humming faintly again in her veins. Her battered body screamed in protest, but she tightened her grip, raised her sword, and staggered forward once more.

She refused to fall.

Karas pressed forward, blade flashing in another precise arc. Viola met him head-on, her Overdrive blazing one last time, her sword crackling with Weapon Enhancing.

Steel slammed against steel, sparks spraying across the sand. The clash drove them both back half a step—but neither yielded. They roared and surged in again, weapons colliding in a flurry of blows.

The crowd was deafening, half shouting

“Torvares!”

and half

“Deyler!”

, the chants colliding as fiercely as the fighters in the ring.

Blow after blow rang out, each heavier than the last, until the sound changed.

CRACK.

Karas’ longsword split clean across the middle, fragments scattering across the sand. His eyes widened, just as Viola swung with every ounce of strength she had left. Her blade smashed into his right shoulder, and the crunch that followed was unmistakable.

Karas staggered back, his arm dropping uselessly to his side.

But Viola didn’t come away unscathed. Her own weapon shuddered violently from the impact, fissures racing along the steel—until with a sharp snap, it broke in two. The jagged tip clattered to the ground beside her.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Both stood, panting, staring at the ruined remains of their weapons.

And then the referee dove in, throwing himself between them with both arms raised.

“Enough! The match is over!”

The declaration boomed across the arena, and the silence broke like glass. The stands erupted into chaos, cheers crashing down like a storm. Half cried out in shock for the fallen Deyler, the other half roared in triumph for the Torvares siblings.

“Victory—Torvares, Viola Torvares and Ludger!”

Viola dropped to her knees, still grinning despite the blood running down her side. Karas clutched his shoulder, grimacing but silent, his discipline holding even in defeat.

From the edge of the ring, Ludger exhaled through his nose. No tricks, no sarcasm—just relief that it was finally over.

The siblings had survived. And they had won.

The referee’s call still echoed when Viola’s legs gave out beneath her. She stumbled, her ruined sword slipping from her fingers, the grin on her face wobbling with exhaustion.

Ludger was already moving. He caught her before she could fall, looping her arm over his shoulder. His right shoulder screamed in protest, but he grit his teeth and bore the weight.

“Don’t…” she muttered, her voice weak but stubborn. “Don’t carry me like yesterday.”

“I’m not,” Ludger said flatly, shifting her grip so she could walk, half-limping, half-dragging beside him. “This time you’re helping.”

The crowd roared their names, but neither of them looked up. Together they left the ring, Viola leaning heavy against him, each step leaving a faint trail of blood in the sand.

By the time they reached the waiting room, the noise had dulled behind stone walls. Servants and officials glanced at them, but Ludger’s glare was enough to keep them from rushing in. He guided Viola to a shadowed corner, lowering her onto the bench before crouching down himself.

“Keep quiet,” he muttered.

She didn’t argue. She knew.

He pressed his hands to her wounds. A faint glow lit the corner, hidden from the others. Warmth spread beneath his palms, [Healing Touch] knitting torn flesh, pulling bone back into place, draining her exhaustion bit by bit. Her breathing steadied, her pain dulled, and her trembling eased.

When he pulled back, she flexed her arm and winced, but it held. “Better,” she admitted quietly.

“Better,” Ludger repeated, rubbing his aching hands. His shoulder still throbbed, but he could wait until she was steady before patching himself.

No one else in the room noticed. To the world outside, Viola had simply survived through grit and strength. That was enough.

The glow of healing faded, leaving only the muffled roar of the crowd beyond the walls. Viola leaned back against the bench, still pale, her sword shattered and forgotten by her feet. She flexed her fingers gingerly, testing the arm Ludger had just patched, then glanced sideways at him.

“Well,” she said, voice low but steady, “we’ve made it to the top four.”

Ludger sat beside her, silent for a moment, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes stayed on the stone floor.

Top four. That means the last two left standing are the best this tournament has to offer.

“Hard to imagine we keep winning like this,” Viola continued, her grin trying to return but falling short. “I thought I’d just tear through everyone, but… these kids aren’t weak. Not at all.”

Ludger gave a small nod. “We’re not fighting stragglers anymore. Whoever’s left—they’re polished. Trained. Dangerous.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Which means the next fight could be the hardest yet. Or the one after that.”

Ludger leaned back against the wall, exhaling through his nose. “Either way, we’ve hit the point where no one’s walking out unscathed.”

Silence hung between them, heavy with the weight of what they both knew. They had secured at least fourth place—an achievement in itself—but the last two obstacles weren’t just strong. They were the strongest.

Viola cracked one eye open, her grin returning at last. “Good. I’d hate for it to get boring.”

Ludger only shook his head. Inside, though, his mind was already running.

Two more matches. Both against heirs built like weapons. We’ll need more than grit and luck this time.

The muffled noise from the arena ebbed and surged while Ludger and Viola sat in silence, both catching their breath. Then came the crack of steel, the roar of the crowd, and finally the referee’s booming voice announcing the end of another match.

The waiting room stirred.

Nobles’ whispers carried even through the walls, sharp and hungry:

“Did you see them? That was clinical.”

“Of course. They’re expected to take the whole tournament.”

“If Torvares’ children meet them in the semifinals, it will be chaos.”

“Or a massacre.”

Viola tilted her head, smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, though her eyes were sharper than usual. Ludger caught it—she was listening closely.

A few moments later, the door opened. Two figures stepped inside, the winners of the last bout. Their steps were steady, deliberate, the sound of fighters who hadn’t burned themselves out in victory.

This chamber wasn’t crowded anymore. Only four remained here now: Ludger and Viola on one bench, the newcomers across from them. The other half of the semifinals would be waiting in the second room.

Ludger studied the pair, his gaze flat. He didn’t recognize them—tall, composed, bearing themselves with a quiet confidence that said they’d been raised for this. He couldn’t place their crests, not right away.

But beside him, Viola stiffened. Her smirk didn’t vanish, but it bent into something different—half grin, half grit.

She knew them.

And from the way her hand tightened around the broken hilt of her sword, Ludger could tell they weren’t just “strong opponents.” They were something more.

He leaned back against the wall, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “…So. You recognize them.”

Viola’s grin widened a fraction. “Yeah. I do.”