I woke at eight sharp, feeling unusually light. My body thrummed with quiet energy—no stiffness, no fatigue. Whatever limits I'd brushed against yesterday had stretched wider overnight.
A shower, a quick meal, and I was ready. Combat uniform: black shirt with thin green streaks, matching shorts, dagger holstered at my side. Simple. Streamlined. Every movement would matter today.
By the time I reached the stadium, the air was already charged—nervous excitement humming through the crowd like static. The distant roar of cheering mixed with the low rumble of staff preparing for the next round.
I changed quickly, tightening the strap on my weapon. Just as I stepped out, my name echoed over the speakers. No time for nerves.
I walked toward the platform, scanning the stands. Lina caught my eye first—her nod sharp, reassuring. Miles waved like an idiot, and Douglas pumped a fist. Small gestures, but grounding ones. My focus sharpened.
Across the stage stood my opponent: Harper Smith.
Tall, lean, and coiled like a spring. His composure was deceptive, but I remembered him well from yesterday—the way he danced through fights with gust-driven bursts that blurred the line between man and wind. He wasn't just fast; he flowed.
The referee's hand rose.
Beep.
The match began.
Harper exploded into motion. A burst of compressed air launched him into a circular sprint, dust whipping up in his wake. He was already trying to break my rhythm before it began.
I activated Perception. The world slowed, edges sharpening. Every shift of his muscles became visible—a faint flex before each step, the way his weight tilted before a pivot.
He darted in for a jab. I caught his leg mid-motion and slammed my palm into his thigh, channeling Disruptive Pulse. The mana jolt rippled through his limb, unbalancing his flow.
His eyes widened. A split-second later, an invisible force slammed into my chest—compressed wind, sharp and precise. I gritted my teeth and slid back a step, grounding my stance.
Mana Sense—on.
The air vibrated faintly. Threads of mana spiraled around him like invisible ribbons, shaping his next spell.
"Lux Hastae!"
Twin lances of light streaked toward him. Harper twisted aside, the first grazing his arm, the second forcing him off balance. His movements were still fast, but not flawless anymore.
I advanced.
"Veiled Stride."
The world blurred—and I vanished from his sight.
His gaze darted wildly, too slow.
I reappeared behind him and drove Vein Piercer cleanly into his back. The blade stopped short of bone, but the impact drove the air from his lungs. He stumbled, knees buckling.
Match over.
The crowd erupted. My name echoed from somewhere distant, but my heartbeat stayed steady. Harper had been strong—clever, even—but the new skill had tipped the scale.
As I stepped off the platform, I felt it again: that faint hum beneath my skin. The swift movement skill I'd earned wasn't just faster movement—it sharpened reaction, turned instincts into reflexes. It had made Veiled Stride… perfect.
Quarterfinal Bracket
2nd Rank Raul Desmond vs 4th Rank Ray Miller
6th Rank Cole Trevor vs 8th Rank Natasha Lane
10th Rank Reiner Gate vs 12th Rank Liam Dexter
14th Rank James Volg vs 16th Rank Ryan Preacher
18th Rank Nicholas Veil vs 20th Rank William Laurel
The atmosphere shifted as the platforms merged into one grand stage. From here on, it was single matches—no distractions, no overlap, just focus under the scrutiny of thousands.
My name was called again.
I exhaled, stepped forward.
Across the ring stood Nicholas Veil—steady, calm, blade in hand. We'd sparred more times than I could count. I knew his rhythm, his faint smirk before a feint. He knew mine—the way I drew breath before a cast.
But this wasn't training. This was the real thing.
Beep.
Darkness exploded outward.
A wave of shadow burst from Nicholas's body, devouring everything in sight until the arena vanished beneath an ocean of black. The crowd disappeared, the light died, and sound itself felt muted—smothered by the sudden void.
He had cast Darkness Veil—the first spell granted to anyone who awakened a Shadow affinity. Most people still voiced the keyword, maybe to sound dramatic, but in truth, the word only needed to be thought. Speaking it merely helped with focus.
Nicholas, however, wasn't interested in theatrics.
I closed my eyes—and saw.
Mana Sense flickered to life, outlining him in rippling threads of motion. His mana currents twisted elegantly through the dark.
The blade came in silent. I parried by feel, sparks bursting as steel met steel.
[Lux]
Then I flooded the space with ten hovering orbs.
Golden light bloomed, pushing back the darkness like a tide. Nicholas's silhouette sharpened—eyes gleaming, grin faint.
Our blades clashed again, faster this time. Each step was a conversation in motion—question, answer, counter. His strikes sought to box me in; mine carved escape lines through precision footwork.
I baited him high, ducked low, and whispered—
"Drift Fang."
My body slid beneath his guard, dagger flashing. He twisted away just in time—pure instinct.
Even so, his stance wavered.
I moved.
"Veiled Stride."
Air folded. Time stretched.
I reappeared at his back, dagger pressed lightly to his neck.
Silence.
Then the referee's voice: "Winner—William Laurel!"
The crowd roared back to life.
Nicholas exhaled, sheathing his weapon, and gave me a sideways grin. "That was new."
I wiped sweat from my brow. "You weren't the only one holding back."
We both chuckled as we walked off the stage. Neither of us needed to say it, but we both knew: this wasn't the end. The tournament was only heating up.