A few moments had passed since the stage's repair, the crowd's murmurs swelling like a rising tide as the haze of battle cleared. For the first time, they could truly behold Ezmelral's lookalike standing firm in the ring—her left hand resting on her hilt, midnight-black hair flowing in sync with her billowing robes, caught in the wind like threads of night woven by fate. Her strength—the raw capability to rend a Void General's portal in half—was matched only by her beauty, a radiance that seemed to eclipse the stars themselves. To claim they'd seen greater would be a lie; if not for her status as the GodKing's disciple, offers of marriage would pile by the dozen, suitors clamoring like moths to an untouchable flame.
These thoughts, buried deep in their minds, betrayed them on their faces—eyes lingering too long, whispers turning heated, a subtle undercurrent of desire rippling through the stands like forbidden whispers in a sacred hall.
Shrouded in ages, Ezmelral rolled her eyes with a muttered, "Men." Her focus shifted to Raiking, her eyes glinting with a challenge. "Are you also so transparent? Drawn in by mere radiance?"
Raiking met her gaze, hearing the deeper probe: Do you see my potential shining that brightly? He weighed his response with infinite care. "Time," he stated, his voice the steady turning of a world, "teaches that beauty is a echo. Only the substance of a soul has true weight."
A frustrated puff of air was her only reply, the truth eluding her once more. But as she turned back, a new gravity seized the air—a pressure as immense and inevitable as fate itself. Lustful gazes faltered; some spectators smashed through their seats, driven to their knees with bone-jarring force, gasps and grunts echoing as the force pressed down unrelentingly.
Following the invisible strain, the GodKing's voice thundered through the arena, calm yet laced with steel: "Compose yourselves."
The pressure lifted as suddenly as it had fallen, leaving the offenders gasping, faces pale with shame. The crowd rose unsteadily, bowing in unison as apologies spilled forth like a chorus of regret: "Forgive us, GodKing!" "We meant no disrespect!"
The GodKing offered no reply, his helmeted gaze fixed solely on his disciple below—who paid the glares and whispers no heed, her focus unyielding, eyes locked on her opponent: the Dragonkin.
The figure before her stood like a monument carved from the crust of a dying world—charred obsidian skin laced with faint, ember-like fissures that pulsed in rhythmic breaths of molten light. Jagged plates of blackened rock layered his shoulders and torso, shifting with each movement like tectonic plates in slow, grinding fury. From his head, four ridged horns curved backward through dreadlock-like strands of hardened ash, each glinting where cracks revealed the infernal glow beneath. His eyes burned deep amber, twin furnaces of restrained violence, and from his spine trailed a thick, sinewed tail coiled once around his waist like a dormant serpent.
Every inch of him exuded ancient strength—primeval, volcanic, unyielding. He wasn't merely a warrior; he was the echo of a world that refused to cool, a living forge of fire and stone ready to erupt.
The Keeper of Balance stepped forward once more, her ten arms unfolding in a graceful arc that commanded the arena's hush, her voice resonating like the chime of cosmic scales tipping toward judgment. "The next match," she announced, her eyes sweeping the ring with unyielding poise, "will commence. Contestants—begin."
Obsicaro—descendant of the Obsidian Dragon, scion of the draconic house that rules the dragonkin—sank into dachi, weight centered, fists loose. The tournament's first pure hand-to-hand combatant, he replayed his elders' counsel on how to survive the girl's draw-cut.
Across from him, Ezmelral's lookalike slid into the same samurai stance he'd seen cleave a Void portal—thumb easing the guard, steel kissed a finger's width from its sheath.
The world inhaled.
She vanished in a white gust. Pressure slapped his face; the arena banners cracked. A mountain-moving breeze tore past and, behind him, came the soft, inexorable click of a blade returning home.
Obsicaro pivoted sharply, his amber eyes meeting hers for the briefest instant—her form already a ghost, vanishing again to reappear atop her throne beside the GodKing, seated with serene composure as if she'd never moved.
Confusion rippled through the crowd, murmurs stirring like unsettled waves. Obsicaro felt a odd, familiar sensation at his neck—a warm trickle. He reached up, fingers brushing skin, and when he pulled them away, blood dripped from the tips—crimson and glistening under the arena's lights.
The match—decided in mere moments—sank in like a delayed thunderclap. One by one, the less seasoned warriors erupted in chaotic cheers, their earlier doubts yanked away as her speed and swordsmanship shattered all logic they'd clung to. "Impossible!" one roared. "She cut him without touching!" Whispers turned to shouts, awe spreading like wildfire: "The GodKing's disciple—untouchable!"
Even Solomon, deep in meditation on the sidelines, stirred—his eyes fluttering open, the void portals around him flickering as he regarded her with newfound respect, a subtle nod acknowledging the feat.
Not only him—the Elders couldn't believe it, their haughty composure fracturing like brittle ice. "Her speed... it rivals ours," one muttered, voice laced with unease. "And so young—her potential is limitless." The revelation shook them to their core, envy and fear mingling in their white eyes, but none more than the Eldest Elder. His fists clenched on his armrests, knuckles whitening as he stared at her— a mortal girl eclipsing their legacy, a threat blooming before them, her future a shadow that could one day swallow their light.
For the first time, Ezmelral was speechless. Shock stole her breath as she stared at the lookalike—a being where beauty and power fused into a single, devastating force. The vision made her future feel both distant and terrifyingly tangible.
Instinctively, she fell into the stance. Her small hands mimicked the draw, the swipe, repeating the motion with awkward desperation. She was walking the path, trying to close the gap between the girl she was and the woman she might become.
Raiking watched, crimson eyes alight with amusement. Her earnest focus was a splash of youthful color against the monochrome of eternity.
In the arena, the Keeper of Time and Fate silenced the crowd with a raised hand. "The strike was calibrated with perfect precision," she explained, indicating the thread of blood on Obsicaro's neck. "It claimed dominion over life, yet chose to preserve it. Mercy was her verdict."
The spectators absorbed this, their bloodlust cooling into a tide of reluctant admiration.
"The winner is the GodKing's Disciple," the Keeper announced. After the cheers subsided, she added, "The next combatants: the Representative of the Ocean Species versus the Young Prince of the Northern Cosmos's largest galaxy."
Fresh energy surged through the stands. But Ezmelral, high in the veil, was lost to it. Her practice was forgotten, her gaze fixed on the warrior below. Was that her future? Or did the GodKing's shadow hide a far darker path?