The clash had ended.
Vern's opponent staggered back, chest heaving, the tip of his spear trembling as it lowered toward the ground. His lips parted, voice raw and bitter.
"I… I admit defeat."
The words spilled out like broken glass, and the moment they did, the tension in the Colosseum shattered. The crowd erupted into a deafening cheer, waves of voices crashing through the arena as thousands celebrated the decisive victory.
Vern did not bask in it. He simply gave a short nod, his expression as calm and distant as ever, before sliding Enkris back into its white scabbard. The pitch-black blade vanished into silence, leaving no trace of the lethal pressure it had exuded moments earlier.
With measured steps, he descended the arena floor, the roar of the spectators echoing around him like a storm. Yet to him, their praise was nothing more than noise carried on the wind. His gaze remained steady, unshaken by either victory or recognition.
The announcement soon followed, Vikel's voice ringing with authority. "The winner—Vern Kael!"
The cheers redoubled, chants of his name rising from every corner. And still, Vern's face did not shift. To him, this was but another step forward.
With this victory, he had secured his place in the semifinals. There, a new opponent awaited—Tanvir Gossen, twin brother of Dominic, whose broken figure still lingered fresh in everyone's memory.
A faint ripple passed through the crowd at the thought. If Dominic had fallen so brutally, what storm would unfold when his brother stepped into the ring?
Vern, however, gave it no thought. His calm eyes revealed nothing, as if the coming battle was already decided in his heart.
And now it was Edward's turn.
From the waiting are, Vern's gaze rested on the arena, his thoughts drifting ahead to the opponent Edward would face—Ayla Praisehood. A name that carried weight even among the academy's countless prodigies. A saintess candidate, wrapped in rumors and reverence alike.
Vern's expression remained unreadable, but inside, a quiet spark stirred. In his previous life, there had been no trace of her. Not once had their paths crossed. For someone so infamous, her absence from his memories felt… unnatural.
So this time, she exists.
The thought left him faintly expectant.
Unlike the others, Ayla had not fought a single match up to this point. She had advanced straight to the semifinals, untouched. Not through favoritism, nor by chance, but because no one had dared to stand against her.
Every opponent surrendered before her name, before her reputation. That alone was enough to clear her path.
His eyes lowered slightly, his face calm, but the edge of curiosity lingered in his thoughts.
I wonder… just how much truth lies behind that reputation.
Edward stood in the center of the arena, one hand casually picking at his ear, his expression the very picture of boredom. The crowd's whispers grew louder with each passing second, ripples of impatience spreading across the Colosseum.
His opponent had been called, yet the arena remained empty. Even after ten long minutes, Ayla Praisehood had not appeared.
Edward yawned, tapping his foot against the stone floor. "Tch. Did she fall asleep or something?" he muttered, loud enough for those nearby to hear, drawing a few stifled laughs from the students.
Up on the stage, Instructor Vikel's sharp gaze scanned the entrance. His brows furrowed, irritation slowly hardening into anger. His voice, when it came, was like a drawn blade. "If she does not arrive in the next moment—"
The heavy silence broke with hurried footsteps.
A middle-aged woman came running into the arena, her maid's uniform disheveled, strands of hair falling loose from her bun. She bowed deeply before Vikel, breathless, her voice cracking as she spoke.
"Forgive us, Instructor Vikel."
The middle-aged woman bowed deeply, her voice hurried yet respectful. "I am Lady Ayla's caretaker, and I have come to inform you that Lady Ayla cannot attend today's match."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the Colosseum, surprise flashing across the spectators' faces.
Vikel's eyes narrowed slightly, his stern presence looming over the bowed figure. He let out a low, thoughtful hum before speaking. "Is that so? And why, may I ask, is she unable to appear?"
The caretaker swallowed, her hands tightening around the fabric of her maid's dress. "It was… unavoidable, Instructor. Lady Ayla was summoned at dawn. She had to urgently take part in a ritual within the Holy Alliance. Escorts sent directly by her father—His Holiness himself—arrived to escort her."
The crowd erupted in hushed whispers at the explanation. A saintess candidate skipping the tournament, not for injury or cowardice, but to answer the call of her order and the command of her father—the Holy Pontiff.
From the waiting area, Vern's eyes flickered, though his expression remained calm.
So she truly moves within that circle of power… even higher than I imagined.
Edward, still standing in the arena, blinked once before throwing up his arms. "Wait, wait, wait! You mean I've been standing here for nothing?!"
The laughter of the crowd broke the tension for a moment, though their gazes quickly returned to Vikel, awaiting his ruling.
"Then it can't be helped."
Instructor Vikel's voice cut through the noise, firm and decisive. He ignored Edward's flailing arms and loud protests, stepping calmly into the center of the arena. His presence alone drew the murmurs of the crowd into silence.
Raising his voice so all could hear, he declared, "Due to sudden obligations, Ayla Praisehood will not be participating in the semifinals. As such—Edward is the victor, and he will advance to the finals."
The announcement rippled through the Colosseum like a stone dropped into still water. Some spectators gasped, others muttered in disbelief, and more than a few cursed under their breath at the anticlimactic end. To have the long-anticipated saintess candidate withdraw without even raising her staff left a hollow taste in their mouths.
Instructor Vikel's gaze swept across the arena, his voice carrying with the weight of command.
"And now… the second semifinal will take place one hour from now." His eyes moved deliberately toward the stands, where the two names already stirred the air with anticipation. "Prepare yourselves—Vern Kael and Tanvir Gossen."
The Colosseum trembled with excitement, the crowd erupting into cheers and whispers. The name Gossen carried fresh memory of Dominic's crushing defeat, and now his twin brother, Tanvir, was set to face the very same opponent.
Would it be revenge, or repetition?
Vern's expression remained calm, unaffected by the noise. He simply lowered his gaze, already steadying his breathing as if the match had begun the moment his name was called.
Far across the arena, Tanvir Gossen stood tall among the third-years, his broad shoulders squared, his jaw tight. His eyes, sharp with unspoken rage, never left Vern. The silence of his glare spoke louder than the jeers or chants of the crowd.
The hour promised tension thick enough to smother the Colosseum itself.
****
"Haa…" Edward let out a long sigh, gulping down water as he stood before Vern. His eyes held a mix of relief and annoyance, the aftertaste of his unsatisfying advancement lingering like a bitter drink.
Vern, meanwhile, sat calmly on the bench, fingers deftly tying his long hair into a neat knot. His composure was so natural it almost felt like the world outside his preparation didn't exist.
On either side of him, Charlotte and Salena hovered like loyal attendants, offering towels, chilled water, and ice packs. Every small gesture was done with care, though Vern barely reacted beyond a nod here or there.
Edward scratched his head, his usual grin returning, though faintly crooked this time. "So, Vern… I've reached the finals. Not in the way I wanted, but—" he took another swig of water, lowering the flask with a sharp exhale—"I'm there. So, you better make sure you reach it too."
His words carried a weight between rivalry and camaraderie, a challenge wrapped in expectation.
Vern glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable, before tightening the knot in his hair.
"But that guy really looks monstrous, don't you think?" Edward continued, pointing his chin toward Tanvir, who sat a few seats away. The man looked as if he had been carved from raw stone—muscles layered upon muscles, each one taut and glistening with sweat. Power seemed to ooze from him with every breath.
Vern followed Edward's finger, his gaze steady, his expression unchanged. "Not really," he replied simply, as if the brute's sheer presence wasn't even worth noting.
Edward widened his eyes. "Not really? His whole family is like that—including his mother." A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the scene. "I saw her once… gods, she was like a walking mountain. And when she tried to hug me—" his face twisted, half horror, half disbelief—"I almost died that day. Couldn't breathe for a whole minute."
He shook his head, as though trying to dislodge the memory, before leaning closer to Vern with a crooked grin. "Anyway, listen. Just make sure to parry his attacks. Don't bother blocking head-on. Once you neutralize his strength, there won't be much left to fear."
"Well, he shouldn't be much difficult to fight—but thanks," Vern said calmly as he rose to his feet. With a flick of his hand, a faint ripple shimmered in the air, and from his subspace, Enkris materialized in his grasp. The blade gleamed under the arena's light, its edge humming with restrained power.
Edward whistled low, a half-smile tugging at his lips. Vern's composure, that unshakable calm before the storm, was both reassuring and unnerving.
"I'll see you at the finals," Vern added, his voice steady, carrying no arrogance, only certainty.
He tightened his grip on Enkris, the weight familiar, like an extension of himself. With each step toward the arena's edge, the roar of the crowd grew louder, their anticipation mounting—yet to Vern, it all faded into the background. His focus was locked solely on the coming battle.