The hammer came crashing down.
Calvinel twisted aside, frost bursting at his heels. Ice coiled beneath his boots, lifting him off the crumbling platform. He swept around behind Bryanard in a single smooth motion and slammed his palm between the old knight's shoulder blades—frost exploded outward in jagged lines, locking the armor in place.
"How could I just fight you and not bring it up when it clearly still haunts you!?" Calvinel shouted, eyes blazing. With a pivot of his hips, he brought the flat of his greatsword crashing into Bryanard's head.
The impact rang through the arena. Bryanard staggered, knees buckling, before the ice beneath him fractured. A moment later, the entire platform shattered under his weight and sent him plunging through in a blur of silver and blue.
Calvinel dropped after him, landing hard on a new sheet of frost he conjured beneath them both. Bryanard was already on one knee, shaking his head as he pushed upright, blood trailing from one nostril.
"You have to realize that it wasn't your or Sir Ameer's fault!" Calvinel pressed, taking stance again.
Bryanard's head snapped up.
"Not his fault? Not my fault?" he barked, spitting red into the snow-slicked floor. "Then whose fault do you think it is!?"
He charged.
A wide horizontal sweep tore through the frost and wind, warhammer whistling. Calvinel braced, planting his back leg and raising his blade. He caught the strike with the flat of his sword, forearm jammed behind it. The force rattled through his bones like a bell tolling in his ribcage.
His legs groaned. He locked them with ice.
Still—he held.
With a grunt, Calvinel shoved back, knocking the hammer aside just long enough to riposte. His greatsword slammed into the side of Bryanard's neck guard, jarring the older knight. Even dwarven-forged plate didn't dull everything. Bryanard's jaw clenched hard, teeth grinding from the pressure. This wasn't like Xain's angelic armor that nullified all damage—Bryanard still felt pain from the impact. It wasn't lethal, but it hurt.
Quincy surely said something as he flew above, the crowd certainly cheered, the fighters definitely discussed among themselves, and the VIPs undoubtedly made comments. But Calvinel didn't hear any of it.
To him, there was only this—only Bryanard.
"Are you being serious!?" Calvinel yelled, driving his shoulder forward and punching Bryanard in the chest. The older knight barely budged. "The war began barely even a week after that! Sir Ameer told me! He told me what happened!"
Bryanard growled, gripping his warhammer lower, near the head. He hooked it up fast, jabbing Calvinel in the upper arm. Metal cracked against flesh. Calvinel grimaced, staggering.
"So what!?" Bryanard roared. "Can you say that if I'd taught him to behave like a proper knight in that week, he wouldn't have died!? Can you say that!?"
He slapped his free hand against Calvinel's chest—thunder erupted point-blank.
The blast of compressed sound hit like a battering ram. Calvinel was flung across the arena.
He didn't have time to react, to conjure a shield or platform. His back hit the stone wall with a heavy crack, knocking the wind clean out of him before he collapsed to the ground.
"Maybe I can't say that for sure," Calvinel grunted, rising slowly, one hand clutching his greatsword for balance. "Maybe you could've taught him how to behave like a knight within a week..." He stood, eyes locked with Bryanard's. "...But who's to say you could have!?"
Bryanard's face twisted, his grip tightening on the haft of his warhammer.
"Brenton was a good man!" Calvinel shouted. "He would have gone to save those people no matter what you taught him! He wasn't just a warrior—he was a hero! And you should be honoring that instead of drowning yourself over his death!"
A sharp clap rang out from Quincy above, echoing across the arena.
The change began—not with destruction, but with a slow overtaking. Bryanard's side of the field, the ancient and crumbling castle, didn't vanish. Instead, it was engulfed. Calvinel's side pushed forward—the elegant stone arches of the Royal Academy spread across the battlefield, golden banners fluttering as the snow melted underfoot. Grass took root. Marble replaced ruin.
The royal academy overtook the broken fortress.
The new overtook the old.
"You can't win against me," Bryanard said, his voice firm, his eyes narrowing with a stubborn, almost pleading edge. "You still can't prove your way of being a torchbearer is better than the way of a warrior."
His knuckles were tight around the warhammer. There was something raw buried beneath the defiance—something desperate clawing behind his words.
Across from him, Calvinel pushed off the wall with a strained grunt, spitting blood onto the floor. His breathing was ragged, but his grin came sharp and fearless.
"You're right," he said, voice hoarse but firm. "If I can't win... then what's the point, right?"
Bryanard's expression tensed, just for a second.
"But I already know I can't beat you in a straight fight," Calvinel went on. He unclasped his fingers from the hilt of his greatsword and let it fall with a heavy clang behind him. Then he raised both hands slowly—not in surrender, but with a strange, calm focus.
For a moment, it looked like he was going to fight unarmed.
But then he spoke.
"Soul Chamber: Torchbearer."
The world changed.