The heat of the arena had long faded, replaced by the chill of anticipation.
The sparring championship had reached its final stages. The arena terrain had shifted again—this time to mimic a windswept plateau, with narrow stone paths and gusts of wind pushing against the fighters' balance.
Kael sat on the edge of the waiting bench, arms resting on his knees, watching the match before his with focused eyes.
His thoughts wandered, not just about tactics, but about what had led him here. He'd won his last match on reflex and luck—not power. Not skill. Just raw survival.
Now it was down to the last few.
Four fighters left.
Tarin Veck—cocky, cruel, burning with violent flame.
Feyla Rhae—graceful, focused, more powerful than most gave her credit for.
Kael—and one other student he hadn't faced before, a defensive-type with barrier control.
As Kael's name was called again, he rose slowly. Across from him stood Feyla.
His heart sank.
She stood tall, but her expression was soft—almost apologetic.
Kael gave a hesitant nod. "You sure about this?"
Feyla stepped into the arena and smiled faintly. "It's just training. Fight me."
The crowd hushed. The instructors leaned forward.
"No weapons," Instructor Velar reminded them. "Standard rules. Begin!"
Kael didn't move first.
Feyla did.
She surged forward in a spiral, the wind catching her steps, water swirling around her hands like ribbons. Kael dodged, ducked, slid under her first sweep—but she was already turning, already redirecting her energy.
She didn't hit him hard.
She didn't need to.
Her movements were flawless. Every dodge Kael made was countered. Every flicker of fire he tried was doused.
She was dancing, and he was stumbling.
Within two minutes, Kael was on the ground—flat on his back, chest heaving.
The whistle blew.
"Winner: Feyla Rhae."
She reached out a hand to help him up. He took it, breathing hard.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Feyla smiled again. "You did better than you think."
Kael didn't answer.
He returned to the benches, head spinning.
And then it came—the final match.
Feyla vs. Tarin.
The arena darkened slightly, and the center path lit up with pulsing blue veins—energy stabilizers kicking in. The terrain this time was mixed: patches of scorched earth with pools of water, slick stone, and floating platforms.
A perfect balance.
The whistle blew—and chaos followed.
Tarin struck first—blasts of fire, ruthless and fast. He charged with brute force, trying to overwhelm her.
But Feyla moved like flowing water—bending, deflecting, redirecting. Her defense wasn't just reactive—it was art.
Steam hissed. Lightning cracked off evaporating bursts.
And then—an explosion of mist.
The crowd leaned forward.
Kael stood.
And through the mist—Tarin hit the ground, hard.
Feyla stood over him, water swirling around her fists like twin blades.
"Winner—Feyla Rhae!"
Applause erupted.
But Kael didn't clap.
He was staring at the instructors.
One of them, arms crossed, nodded slowly.
"As expected," he said quietly. "The strength of the Rhae line continues."
Another instructor nodded. "We haven't seen power like that since her aunt."
Kael turned his eyes back to Feyla—who now looked calmer than ever.
And for the first time, Kael felt it clearly.
This world was built on legacy.
And he was starting with none.