The semifinals had arrived.
The Windmere team stood in a tight circle, their boots planted on the cold metal of the launch platform. Across the vast open expanse of the Sky Arena, their opponents waited on the opposite side—Dravon.
Above and all around them, the Vireos Sky Arena roared with life. Skyfolks from every corner of the isles packed the viewing terraces.
Captain Seris scanned the team, arms folded, voice firm. "Just making sure you're all clear on the rules, even though they were stated earlier."
He glanced toward the center, where the wide circular hollow opened. "This is a one-on-one battle. The goal is simple: knock your opponent into the safety nets below. Be strategic—any contact with the nets counts as elimination. You don't need a knockout. Just make them fall. First team to eliminate four wins."
He let that hang a moment, his eyes narrowing. "There are no rules. No fouls. And this isn't the prelims anymore. This is going to be brutal."
"You can tap a teammate for a swap," he added, voice lowering slightly.
His gaze shifted to Ava now. "The Aethermender can enter the field, making it two versus one. You can heal, boost, or even siphon energy from the opponent. But you only get three minutes. If you stay longer, you're out of the game."
Ava nodded.
"When you enter," Seris continued, "make sure to tap the extra gear on your left—the one the engineers added. It'll start to vibrate after two minutes. Once you feel that, get out before time runs out."
"Your role here is crucial," Seris said. "One slip could cost the match."
"And don't forget," Roe added, his voice cutting through the noise. "The Aethermender can be attacked. Once you're in the air, you're a target."
"Questions?" Captain Seris asked, his gaze sweeping the circle.
No one spoke.
He nodded, then placed his hand in the center. One by one, the others followed—forming a tight ring of layered palms.
Together, they shouted, "Windmere!" the word rising sharp and strong against the roar of the arena.
Kael turned, already starting toward the edge of the platform.
"You're not going in first," Seris called.
Kael stopped. The whole team turned, surprised.
"We're sending Pimri."
Pimri blinked. "Wait—me?"
Sedge raised a brow. "We're not leading with a Striker?"
"Dravon fights like a hammer," Seris said. "We start with speed, not strength."
He faced Pimri now, tone firm. "Read the opponent. If it's winnable—take it. If not, tap out clean."
Pimri gave a lopsided grin, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. "So I'm a bait, huh?"
"Call it first-strike intelligence," Seris said. "You're the fastest we've got. Use it."
Pimri walked toward the edge. As he passed, Kael tapped his shoulder with an encouraging nod.
His heart pounded. Across the hollow, an opponent was already waiting—standing still, poised. A Striker.
Then, what felt like the longest few seconds of his life ended with a sharp buzz, and the arena erupted into cheers.
Pimri leapt into the open air, his Galegear igniting in a sharp burst. Wind trailed behind him as he sprinted through the sky, eyes locked on his opponent, already in motion, already reading him.
Still a distance away, the opponent angled a hand. Pimri saw it instantly: an opening shot.
He twisted midair just as a burst of compressed wind ripped past, grazing inches from his chest. Another came—this one higher—barely missing his head as he ducked sharply.
They closed in. The next second was a blur of force. A third burst roared between them as Pimri jumped, planting off the invisible air. He twisted, body angled sideways, and kicked hard—aimed straight for the head.
His foot nearly connected, but the Striker's hand caught it mid-swing. A second hand clamped on, and suddenly Pimri's world spun.
He couldn't tell how many times he flipped. Wind howled past as he was hurled downward.
The sky turned into blur and color and sound. The safety nets rushed up to meet him.
Pimri gritted his teeth and shifted his body, arching back as if lying flat in the air, knees bent, both feet angled downward. His arms folded tight, elbows tucked near his sides like bracing against an invisible surface.
He held the form, air rushing past him, just seconds from hitting the net.
His eyes widened—his opponent was diving, foot angled fast and sharp toward his chest.
Instinct surged. Pimri twisted midair, just in time. The heel scraped across his ribs in a sideways blur, not a full strike, but close enough to sting. His feet and elbows held position, still angled to catch the lift.
Then he saw it.
The Striker's lead foot—barely, unmistakably—brushed the net.
A sharp buzz filled the air. The Sky Arena erupted in cheers as a voice boomed overhead:
"One point Windmere."
The Dravon Striker slammed a fist into the net, roaring in frustration.
Pimri shot upward, grin spreading across his face. He raised a hand toward the crowd, basking in the roar, chest heaving—victorious.
He glanced back at his team.
Their expressions weren't celebratory—no cheers, no grins. Just furrowed brows, worry… and a few already pointing behind him.
A beat later, it hit him. They weren't reacting to him—they were reacting to the next opponent.
Pimri twisted midair just as a burst of wind screamed past him, close enough to sting. Another near miss. His instincts flared—Mirae's agility drills echoing in his limbs now, his reflexes sharper than ever.
He darted forward again, trying to press. His opponent was already repositioning, faster this time. Another Striker—or maybe a Striker-Skyrunner hybrid he thought. The bursts of wind were quicker, heavier, harder to read.
Pimri stayed light, shifting angles, feet tapping against invisible air currents. But his opponent matched him, every dodge answered, every feint punished.
Pimri couldn't close the distance.
He veered right, still trying to break the rhythm. Wind bursts chased him, roaring past.
One clipped him on the shoulder.
Pain flared sharp and sudden.
He gritted his teeth, twisted through the hit, and kept running. His path became wild—sharp, darting angles, zigzagging through open air.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Doma already in position on the platform, arm raised.
The Windmere platform was closing in. Pimri dodged another shot—then slapped Doma's hand in a blur of motion.
The swap was clean.
Doma launched into the hollow with both Galegear gauntlets raised, his form braced like a human shield.
Wind exploded around him as his gauntlets met the first burst. Both arms crossing in a violent parry. The clash echoed like thunder, shaking the arena.
Doma's opponent dashed in fast, launching wind shots mid-flight, trying to find a clean opening as he circled the larger fighter.
Doma rotated with each move, adjusting his stance, keeping his gauntlets angled to block.
The barrage stopped.
Doma narrowed his stance, waiting.
His opponent changed rhythm—no more distance, no more testing.
Suddenly, he was rushing in.
And that's when Doma saw him clearly—Coren Strav, a Cirran combat-expert. Precise. Ruthless.
Coren closed the distance in a blur, striking with a rapid mix of punches and kicks, each one sharpened by Galegear bursts. Doma caught them, block after block, but even the parries stung. His arms and legs throbbed under the pressure.
Then—an angle he didn't see.
Coren dipped low—then spun.
Doma moved to block, but the angle was wrong.
A foot slipped past his guard and struck his chin—hard.
Doma fainted. His massive frame dropped, crashing toward the safety net.
The signal blared.
"One point Dravon."
Coren hovered above, watching silently as the crowd roared.
A flash of red light streaked across the arena. The signal for a pause.
Moments later, four medics in Windmere flight suits launched from their side, diving toward the net. They reached Doma, stabilizing his position before lifting his heavy frame into the air.
The Windmere team had already gathered near the edge of their platform as the medics brought Doma in, his large frame lowered gently onto the deck.
One of the medics gave him a quick examination, then glanced up and signaled to the team—he was okay.
A quiet wave of relief passed through the group.
"I'll go next," Kael said to Captain Seris.
"Not yet," the captain replied, pointing across the other side.
Coren had already tapped out.
"We're saving you for him," Seris added.
"Then I'll go," Sedge offered.
Seris gave a single nod.
The signal blared and Sedge leapt.
His Galegear boots flared as he soared into the air, eyes locking onto his opponent.
It was a woman, short-haired, broad-shouldered, arms packed with muscle.
Sedge recognized her instantly. Liraq Solde, Dravon's Aethermender.
"Careful, Sedge!" Seris called from the platform behind. "She's an Aethermender. Someone else from Dravon could jump in at any moment!"
She only gets three minutes, Sedge reminded himself. If I stall her long enough, it's a free point.
He launched a series of blasts, short, rapid bursts of wind striking toward her position.
But Liraq didn't advance. She barely moved, just slipped side to side, letting each attack fly past with calm precision.
Sedge hovered at the center of the Arena, eyes narrowing.
If I close in, someone else jumps in… then it's two-on-one.
He kept his distance and kept the pressure.
Then—movement.
He saw Coren launched back.
He veered hard left, staying wide, avoiding Sedge's aim as he advanced fast.
Sedge pivoted to face him, taking aim again.
But something shifted.
From the edge of his vision, Liraq was no longer still. She hadn't advanced. She hadn't fallen back.
She was aiming.
Sedge twisted his head in time to see her arms raised, palms spread, locked on him.
A sudden wave of deep blue energy erupted from her hand, wide and rippling like a wind-net cast across the air. It pulsed toward him, fast.
"What—?"
He tried to break left, but it was already too late.
The blast passed through him, and everything inside him dropped.
His limbs turned heavy. It felt like his very energy was being drained from the inside out.
His body collapsed in the air. He plummeted.
But then—hands.
Ava.
Diving down with arms outstretched.
Sedge forced his arm to move—just enough. Their hands met midair.
Ava caught him, gritting her teeth, trying to pull him upward.
But—
His foot brushed the net.
The signal blared.
"Two points Windmere."
Ava's heart thundered. She clutched Sedge tightly, eyes wide—but not from the fall.
Coren was already in front of her.
Floating still. Watching.
She tensed, knees trembling slightly as her boots flared to keep her level.
But Coren didn't move.
He hovered there, steady as stone—then lifted one hand, angled not at her, but toward the Windmere platform.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a challenge.
Ava turned just as the meaning hit her.
Coren wasn't focused on her at all.
He was calling out Kael.