Zeva stepped into the fighters' waiting room with little fanfare awaiting her return. No cheers, no applause—just the soft murmur of those already turning their attention toward the next bout.
"You're back. Guess even the few hits Gurion did land didn't do much, huh?" Xain asked, looking her over.
"Some bruises, nothing more," Zeva replied evenly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I didn't cut him too deeply, so he'll recover as well." Her eyes swept the room, noting the complete lack of surprise or excitement. "I'm assuming the silence means you all expected this?"
"Yeah, pretty much," Ulrich said with a shrug, gesturing between himself and Edluar. "Even we weren't betting on Gurion to win."
"I guess so," Edluar admitted, though his tone carried a faint trace of pride. "But he still did better than I thought he would."
"Well, he did better than you," Zeva said, her voice slipping into a rare teasing lilt as she passed him. The half-elf blinked, caught between embarrassment and indignation.
"…Really?" Edluar muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"Let's just wait for the next match," Amos cut in, stepping toward the large viewing window. One by one, the others followed, crowding around to watch the arena floor reset.
"Easy victory, easy coin," Drift said casually, collecting his winnings from Jefferey, who handed over the coins the moment Zeva had picked up the bokken earlier in the fight.
"So," Jefferey asked, "who's your next bet?"
Drift leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "The werewolf. I'll go with Callum Duncan."
"Not the Mathers?" Jefferey asked, genuine surprise in his tone. "That's the obvious pick for me."
Drift shrugged, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I don't know… I just have a feeling he's going to win."
Somewhere else in the stands, Wolf whooped and slapped his palms together. "Hell yeah! That's what I was talking about! Good with a sword that isn't even hers… that's skill!" His tone was proud, excited, and he was smiling, even if his expression remained hidden behind the wolf mask.
In a VIP stand, Samwell Mathers and Matthew Mathers were not very attentive during Zeva's match — Samwell because he simply didn't care, while Matthew was still out of it from last night. Despite that, both kept their eyes on the arena now because of who was scheduled to fight next.
In another VIP stand, the Emperor of Aeruna observed with quiet interest. "That was much like her last bout—enlightening to watch." His eyes shifted to the Quincy, who was clapping while flying above the arena and restoring it to its normal state. "She seems to be very aware of our culture and architecture," he continued, "given how closely the arena resembled our own dojos back home."
Beside him, Tianteng nodded. "It's not surprising. Aerunian fighters have competed here before, and she's… old. That's enough time to learn." Her own eyes going to the half-blood woman.
In yet another VIP stand, Zara spoke with the certainty of someone whose prediction had been proven right. "As I suspected, that demi-human never stood a chance against the eldest daughter of the Blossom family."
"Like I said before," Prince Mark replied, "either her or the Mathers is winning this tournament."
Quincy, having finished resetting the arena, called out as she hovered in the air, "Alright, everyone!" her voice carrying to every corner of the stands. "Get ready for the last match of the day!"
She descended in a slow, deliberate arc, coming to a halt in the very center of the arena, her wings beating just enough to keep her hovering. With a sweeping, theatrical flourish, she thrust both arms outward toward the east and west walls. Her fingers curled, then drew upward in a deliberate motion, and the massive stone walls responded—grinding open with deep, echoing rumbles that rolled across the coliseum.
"On one side!" Quincy's voice rang out. "We have the victor of the magical battle, the one who bested The Sorceress, and somehow learned blood magic from who knows where! It's Even Mathers!"
From the west wall's shadowed opening, Even strode forward with measured confidence. The absence of his rifle didn't seem to bother him in the slightest; he hadn't replaced it, and doubted it would be of any use here anyway. The faint red glow of the symbol on the back of his right hand pulsed like a heartbeat, and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "This is going to be a quick match," he muttered under his breath.
"And on the other side!" Quincy continued, voice rising. "The shock winner of the last match—whose very identity stunned us all! The one who defeated The Necromancer! It is… Callum Duncan—The Werewolf!"
From the east wall, Callum emerged far less certain of himself. His steps were hesitant, his shoulders tense, and sweat already dampened his forehead. He swallowed hard, glancing toward Even as though he were staring at a firing squad. *Please don't humiliate me too much, sir,* he begged silently, dread churning in his gut.
Quincy clapped her hands together with a crack that carried through the stands. The arena's sandy floor rippled, reshaping itself into a scorched and battered warzone. Fake corpses sculpted from hardened earth lay scattered among splintered weapons and broken shields. The setting was simple but effective—the crowd roared its approval.
Raising one hand high above her head, Quincy held the moment.
"Alright!"
Her arm swept down in a sharp, decisive arc—
"BEGIN!"