The dust settled.
Rein stepped out of the crater, brushing debris from his shoulder as if Eryndor's kick had been nothing more than a warm-up tap.
But the smile on his face—
That was real.
A quiet, dangerous kind of excitement.
Eryndor rolled his shoulders, lightning crawling along his forearms like restless serp—
like restless lines of energy, sharp and electric.
Rein lifted his hand, and thin rings of golden force spun into existence behind him—
perfect circles rotating in different directions like celestial gears.
The crowd felt the pressure before the explanation came.
Seraphina murmured from the elders' platform, voice low:
"Rein Clark… successor of the Dominion God of Equilibrium.
The youngest candidate to inherit the Command Law."
A ripple of shock spread.
Dominion of Equilibrium—
The authority to manipulate force, trajectory, and impact.
Every motion given weight.
Every strike calculated perfection.
Rein's eyes glimmered with calm focus.
Eryndor simply smirked.
"Not bad," he said. "But I'm still warming up."
They vanished.
The sound that followed was not a normal impact—
It was the sky cracking.
A spiraling pillar of wind exploded as Eryndor spun through the air, leg slicing downward with lightning wrapped around it.
Rein raised two fingers.
A golden plane of Dominion force materialized—paper-thin, unbreakable.
Eryndor's kick hit it—
CRASH—BOOM!
The entire arena floor fractured beneath them.
But the barrier held.
Rein snapped his fingers.
The barrier tilted and threw Eryndor upward like a redirected trajectory.
Eryndor twisted midair, hands flicking outward.
Lightning converged.
Wind spiraled.
And then—
"Storm Art: Vortex Pulse!"
A spiraling cyclone of crackling energy condensed into his palm and fired downward.
The sky roared.
Rein stepped forward and rotated his wrist.
Golden wheels spun behind him—
And the cyclone slowed.
Slowed.
Slowed—
Then froze entirely, suspended midair like a storm paused by a divine hand.
Rein flicked his finger upward.
The cyclone reversed direction and shot toward Eryndor.
The crowd gasped.
Eryndor grinned, slapped his palms together, and shattered the redirected cyclone like breaking glass.
He dropped back to the arena floor—
Both feet landing silently.
Rein descended, his steps impossibly calm.
"You adapt quickly," he said.
"You hit hard," Eryndor replied.
Their smiles were the same—
two wolves recognizing each other.
Rein pressed his palm forward.
The Dominion rings brightened—
—and suddenly Eryndor felt his weight multiply.
His knees locked for a split heartbeat.
Rein blurred forward.
A strike drove toward Eryndor's ribs—
but Eryndor pivoted, redirecting it with the Third Flow: Branch Split, turning the incoming force off-line.
Rein adjusted instantly and swept his leg—
Only for Eryndor to duck under, crackle upward, and punch toward Rein's chin.
Rein blocked—
Barely.
For the first time, Rein slid backward across the arena floor.
The crowd roared.
Eryndor inhaled.
Lightning sharpened around him.
Wind circled like a halo of pale blue pressure.
Storm wasn't simply lightning and wind—
it was the union of movement and charge, chaos and direction.
A living harmony.
A natural disaster with a heartbeat.
The air snapped around him as he stepped forward—
Then disappeared.
Rein read the trajectory, his eyes flickering with Dominion calculations—
He turned—
But Eryndor was already behind him.
BAM!
A clean blow to the back.
Rein stumbled.
But instead of falling, he planted a foot, redirected the force through a Dominion ring, and spun the momentum back into a roundhouse kick that slammed toward Eryndor's temple.
Eryndor barely blocked.
The shockwave rippled through the arena.
Both fighters flew backward—
then dashed in again at the same time.
Lightning met golden force.
Wind met pressure displacement.
Fists met elbows, knees, shoulders, palms—
It was hand-to-hand mastery, a dance carved from instinct and precision.
Every strike had weight.
Every dodge had purpose.
Every impact felt like two philosophies clashing—
Authority versus Freedom.
Equilibrium versus Storm.
At some point, neither knew how long they'd been fighting.
Seconds?
Minutes?
Time was irrelevant inside that storm of motion.
Eryndor's lip bled slightly.
Rein's knuckles were split.
Both breathed harder, eyes sharp, focused, exhilarated.
This wasn't a duel anymore—
It was a conversation.
A mutual test.
A shared thrill only the strong could understand.
Rein exhaled, golden aura surging again.
"You're impressive, Nasarik."
Eryndor smiled, lightning flickering in his eyes.
"You're holding back, Rein Clark."
Silence.
Then Rein laughed softly.
"Fine."
He approached again.
"So are you."
Eryndor's smile widened.
"Then let's stop wasting time."
They stepped forward at the same moment—
A storm rising.
A dominion tightening.
And together—
they vanished for the final clash.