The herald's staff struck the marble.
Boom.
The sound did not echo so much as travel—rolling through the Trisolarium's bones, climbing the arches, sinking into the layered stone beneath the arena like a command pressed into the world itself. The vibration lingered in the ribs long after the impact, and when silence followed, it was not empty.
It was expectant. Heavy. The kind that demanded blood.
The herald raised his head, eyes glowing faintly with sanctioned power.
"Candidates who yet stand—hear this," he intoned. "The Third Trial begins. The Trial of Conquest. The oldest measure. Single combat. One against one. Until victory… or defeat."
A pause.
No mention of mercy. No mention of restraint.
The arena responded.
Marble plates shifted, seams lighting with pale sigils. Dust lifted in spirals along the vaults, drawn upward as if gravity itself were reconsidering its allegiance. Torches flared brighter, their flames stretching thin and sharp, and the air thickened with the metallic tang of charged Kosmo.
It smelled like storms trapped in stone.
High above, on the Captains' dais, Astrid Lorrain leaned forward slightly. Invisible currents tugged at her hair, lifting golden strands as if the air itself wished to be closer.
"This trial," she murmured, almost amused, "doesn't care about intent. Only outcome."
Kael Isander remained still, gaze fixed on the arena floor.
The herald lifted his staff once more.
"First duels!"
The floor split.
Golden sand poured upward as if spilled from beneath the world, swirling into ten distinct platforms. Pale crystal rose with it—smooth, glasslike barriers forming clean boundaries between combatants.
Ten stages. Ten judgments.
Rock crashed against wind. Steel screamed against water-hardened stone. Kosmo flared in violent pulses, then collapsed, leaving scorched patterns and frost scars in their wake. The crowd roared, a living tide of voices surging and breaking with every decisive strike.
Then the herald's voice cut through the chaos.
"Reikika Ashborn!"
Boos erupted immediately.
Sharp. Unfiltered.
"Arechi trash—"
"Send her back to the wilds—"
"This is the Trial of Conquest, not charity—"
Reikika stepped forward anyway.
Her boots pressed onto the platform with measured calm. Her posture was straight, her breathing even. Her twin swords remained sheathed at her back, untouched, as if they did not yet exist.
Across the platform, pale light shimmered.
Lior von Morgenstern emerged.
The reaction inverted instantly.
"Lior!"
"House von Morgenstern!"
"Show her her place!"
He stood tall, broad-shouldered, clad in fitted armor veined with natural crystal that caught the light in sharp, prismatic flashes. His longsword rested easily in his hand, translucent blue, edges honed to a terrifying fineness.
His golden eyes lingered on Reikika.
A crease formed between his brows.
"…You're young," he said at last. Not mockery—assessment. "You shouldn't be here."
Reikika inclined her head slightly.
"If that's true," she replied, calm and level, "you won't need to worry long."
A few scattered laughs rippled through the crowd. Lior's jaw tightened—not at her words, but at the fact they had landed.
He stepped closer, voice lowering.
"I've heard where you come from," he said. "Places like that don't produce discipline." His gaze flicked to her blades. "Only desperation."
The air sharpened.
Reikika breathed in. Out.
"I learned to stand," she said simply. "That was enough."
The herald's arm dropped.
"Begin!"
Lior moved first.
He crossed the distance in a blink, crystal blade carving a precise arc toward her throat. Reikika stepped into the strike instead of retreating, forearm snapping up to redirect the flat of the blade while her other hand drove toward his ribs.
Steel rang.
The sound cracked through the platform, clean and sharp.
Lior disengaged instantly, boots skidding back through sand. His eyes flicked to his arm—then back to her, surprise carefully masked.
The crowd leaned forward.
No Kosmo. No spirit.
Just bodies.
Lior pressed again, faster now. His strikes were disciplined, efficient—royal training honed through years of sanctioned combat. Reikika met him bare-handed, redirecting blows with forearms and open palms, her movements compact, economical.
Crystal punished hesitation.
A glancing strike clipped her shoulder.
Pain flared—hot, then numbing cold. The shock rattled through her arm, a dull echo up into her jaw. She adjusted instantly, tightening her stance, shifting weight.
Another cut grazed her cheek.
Warmth.
Blood.
The crowd reacted as one.
"There!"
"She bleeds!"
Lior saw it. Not triumph—confirmation.
He advanced, pressure increasing, blade humming faintly as Kosmo began to thread through its veins.
"You're quick," he said. "But speed isn't structure."
A sharp blow slammed into her guard. The impact drove her back, boots carving lines through the sand. Her footing slipped—only a fraction.
Enough.
She hit one knee hard.
The world tilted.
Sound dulled for half a heartbeat. Pain pulsed through her ribs. She tasted iron.
Stand.
The word wasn't thought. It was instinct.
Lior did not rush her. He circled once, measured.
"You could stop," he said. Not cruel. Certain. "No one would fault it."
Cheers surged behind him, hungry.
Reikika rose.
Slowly.
Her hand reached back.
Steel sang as her swords cleared their sheaths.
The change was immediate.
Not explosive—precise.
Her stance aligned, spine settling, breath syncing with motion. Frost traced the blades in fine veins, the air cooling just enough to sharpen edges, slow reactions.
The crowd murmured.
"Kaidorin—"
"Twin blades?"
Lior adjusted instantly.
He widened his stance, angling his shoulders, crystal armor shifting as Kosmo redistributed. His blade came up higher, guarding centerline rather than pressing.
Smart.
Reikika moved.
Her sword work unfolded like controlled inevitability. Each step flowed into the next, strikes weaving with footwork, ice guiding her arcs—not flooding the space, but claiming it.
Lior parried, retreated, then countered—driving crystal outward in short, sharp bursts to disrupt her rhythm. For a moment, it worked.
Then her blade slipped through.
A shallow cut.
Clean.
Blood darkened the sand.
The noise collapsed.
Lior stared at the wound.
Then at her.
"…I won't accept this," he said quietly.
His Kosmo surged.
He dropped his sword.
Midarion's breath caught.
Lior's voice rang out—clear, deliberate.
"Seirei Kaihō."
A ripple passed through the Captains' dais.
Astrid's smile vanished.
"The formula," she murmured. "He knows it."
"The Spirit of Crystallization—Yōkryst."
The arena answered.
Crystal erupted behind him, rising into a towering, faceted form—humanoid, inhuman, its presence crushing. Pressure slammed into the stands, cold and absolute.
A sanctioned release.
Legal.
Dangerous.
Midarion felt understanding strike too late. Filandra stirred—and fell silent.
Reikika stood still.
Yōkryst raised an arm. Crystal surged into a barrier as she struck. Her blades skidded uselessly, backlash throwing her aside.
She rolled, breath knocked loose, crystal shards tearing past her. One clipped her ribs. Pain bloomed, deep and heavy. Another grazed her thigh.
Her body screamed retreat.
Her grip tightened instead.
Lior closed in.
His fist drove forward, encased in crystal.
She twisted—instinct, not thought.
The blow still connected.
Impact exploded through her jaw. Light burst behind her eyes. She hit the ground hard, sand grinding into her cheek.
For a moment, everything was soundless.
Then breath returned.
Cold air burned her lungs.
Not yet.
She pushed up.
Blood ran down her face. Her vision steadied.
Her calm unsettled him.
She raised one blade.
"Seirei Kaihō."
The words fell heavier this time.
"The Eternal Ice—Veynar."
The temperature collapsed.
Presence descended.
The ice dragon coiled into being behind her, vast and ancient. Frost surged outward, sealing her wounds, crystallizing the air itself.
The crowd recoiled.
A dragon spirit.
Astrid inhaled sharply.
"…At her age?"
Veynar hissed—rage pressing outward—
—and stilled.
Reikika's hand tightened.
"Enough."
Absolute control.
She lifted her blade.
"Dance of the Eternal Ice."
The air around her blade tightened, lines of frost forming not at random, but in measured arcs—each curve locking into the next like a sigil being written by motion alone. The sand beneath her feet began to harden, responding before the strike was even released.
The technique began to form—pressure climbing, space tightening—
—and then a force intervened.
Kael Isander stepped forward, hand raised. Power flared—not to strike, but to contain.
The surge shattered.
Reikika dropped to one knee.
Lior took a step back—then stopped. Not from fear. From recognition.
"That pattern…" he breathed, the certainty draining from his voice.
The herald's staff struck.
"Victory—Reikika Ashborn."
The silence that followed was not awe.
It was recalibration.
High above, Selina reacted quietly.
You're still a child, she thought fiercely. No matter what they see.
Ren spoke beside her, voice low, even.
"She wasn't protected," he said. "Good."
The herald's voice rose again.
"Next fight—Midarion Ashborn versus Rozelda Tali."
The name carried differently.
Sharper.
Midarion felt it before he moved—the tightening in his chest, the subtle stir of Filandra's threads deep within him, alert and silent. Around him, the noise dimmed, as if the world had narrowed to a single path leading forward.
Rozelda Tali was already stepping onto the platform.
Calm.
Watching him like a problem she had already begun solving.
The storm had not ended with Reikika.
It had simply shifted.
And now—
It was looking at him.