Clouds gathered above. A soft wind swept across the examination field. The top 50 one-on-one battles had officially begun. Each fight now was a chance to climb one step closer to becoming a hero. The next match was called—Rajib versus Nightel.
Rajib stood up silently. His outfit was simple, but the two daggers in his hands spoke volumes. One in his right, the other in his left—the blades he had named Ras and Velt. These weren't just weapons. They were his soul extended.
Standing in the center of the arena, he closed his eyes. His breathing was slow, but his mind was sharpened like a blade.
The announcer shouted, "Battle start!"
Nightel didn't move. His face was covered with a white mask. He stood still, as if merged with the wind.
Moments later, Nightel advanced without a sound—so fast it was hard to catch with the naked eye.
Rajib stepped back one foot. Ras in his right hand was angled forward, while Velt in his left stayed near his waist. He waited patiently.
The strike came from above—toward his head. Nightel's weapon looked like a sword made from darkness. Rajib blocked it with Ras. A sharp clang echoed as metal struck metal. Then Nightel vanished from in front of him.
Rajib closed his eyes. His ears listened, his feet felt the vibrations. He knew his opponent was relying on movement and stealth. He sensed through the air and felt the enemy approaching from behind. Instinctively, he turned and slashed backward.
The hit connected—left shoulder.
Nightel stumbled back, surprised. He hadn't expected someone to sense him like that.
Rajib spoke calmly, "I don't need sight to understand."
Nightel summoned three more dark weapons. Three strikes came at once from different angles. Rajib didn't flinch. Both of his daggers moved. With his right, he sliced upward. With his left, he swept sideways.
There was rhythm in his movements. Each attack was intercepted precisely. Then, in one fluid motion, he crouched low, rolled under Nightel's stance, and delivered a clean strike from behind.
Nightel dropped forward. His mask rolled onto the ground. A young face, marked with fatigue, stared blankly at the sky.
The announcer cried out, "Winner: Rajib!"
Rajib said nothing. He quietly sheathed his daggers and walked off the field, head lowered. There was no pride, no ego—only quiet purpose.
Inside, another war raged—one where he had to convince himself he could truly become a hero.
And this victory brought him one step closer to that belief.