The magical panels shimred again above the roaring arena, and the entire stadium seed to hold its breath.
Quarterfinal Match 3: Zephyr Albrecht vs. Morgan Benedict
A wave of whispers swept through the stands.
"IT’S STARTING!"
"The Wind Phantom of the Albrechts... against the Sword Saint’s disciple!"
"Dude, blink—and the floor might be gone. Just like that."
In the betting corner, a burly man stood on his seat, shouting above the noise.
"I’m tellin’ you! Zephyr’s got this! Tier Two in two elents, you hear ?! Wind AND water! Put my 15 gold on him!"
Another snapped back, waving a wooden betting slip.
"And Morgan’s the dark horse, you fool! He doesn’t need spells—he is a spell! 20 gold on Morgan for !"
Albert’s hands blurred as he dealt with coins, scrolls, and frantic gamblers. The whole corner buzzed like a live wire.
Even in the noble balcony, the atmosphere shifted.
Logan leaned forward, heart racing.
"This might be the best match of the whole tournant. Why is my heart pounding so hard? Am I... actually that excited?" he murmured to himself.
Lilith crossed her arms, a glint in her light blue eyes.
"Zephyr doesn’t fight unless it thrills him. And Morgan... he looks for stronger opponents to grow stronger. What a sha they’re not opposite genders—they’d make the perfect couple," she giggled to herself, amused by her own imagination.
Prince Rowan, now seated beside them after his own match, watched in complete silence.
"This isn’t a duel," he finally said, voice low. "It’s a standoff between two monsters."
The arena gates creaked.
From the left strode Zephyr Albrecht—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in simple black robes trimd with frost-blue edges. His face was calm, unreadable. Cool air shimred around him, and wind tugged softly at his cloak, despite the stillness. A massive greatsword was slung across his back.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t look up. He just walked forward.
From the right, Morgan Benedict erged—his dark gray cloak billowing behind him, sword sheathed on his back. His hair was tied neatly, faint arcs of lightning crackling down his gloves. His boots crunched gravel with asured precision.
He didn’t glance at the crowd. Or at Zephyr. His gaze locked on the center of the arena—as if nothing else existed.
"You can feel it," soone whispered in the gallery. "Like the arena itself knows this one’s different."
The referee stepped back.
"Contestants, ready?"
Zephyr raised one hand, fingers relaxed.
Morgan gave a tiny nod.
"Begin!"
Silence.
Neither moved.
The entire crowd leaned in as one.
Then—
BOOM!
Zephyr vanished.
Wind scread as he shot forward, low to the ground. The dust from his dash hadn’t even settled before he was already in front of Morgan—his blade, now infused with wind, slashed down.
Morgan’s sword flew free in a blink—no words, no spells. Just speed.
CLANG!
Steel t elental force. Sparks erupted.
"That was fast! Did he just block a wind-imbued Tier Two strike with raw reflex?!" Alice exclaid in shock.
"No," Logan muttered, eyes narrowed. "He redirected it."
The crowd roared as Morgan twisted his blade, sliding Zephyr’s attack aside and stepping back—graceful, controlled.
Zephyr’s expression didn’t shift.
"The mont you entered the arena yesterday, I’ve been waiting," he said in a calm, almost reverent tone. "Waiting for the chance to fight you. And... you didn’t disappoint."
Morgan nodded once.
"I’ve been looking for a real challenge too. Maybe fate heard us both."
His body pulsed with faint green light. Wind shimred around his boots.
Then—he vanished.
CLANG!
CRACK!
The two collided mid-air in a flash of steel and magic. The shockwave rattled the barrier runes. Lightning hissed. Wind cracked. Steel scread.
From the noble balcony, Alice gasped.
"Are they teleporting?!"
Emily shook her head, eyes focused.
"No. That’s just raw speed. Wind and lightning, stacked."
Below, Albert cackled in the betting corner.
"Ten gold says soone dies just from watching this!"
"Twenty that they break the platform!"
Zephyr weaved between Morgan’s strikes, wind guiding every movent like a dance.
Morgan countered with lightning bursts mid-swing—accelerating, redirecting, slashing with deadly timing.
Each clash echoed like thunder.
In the participants’ gallery:
Rovan scowled. "Tch. Those bastards aren’t even sweating."
Darius narrowed his eyes.
"Even if I had won last round... against these two..."
He trailed off.
Only clenched his fists in frustration.
Prince Rowan smiled faintly.
"They seem less like competitors... more like two wolves enjoying the hunt."
Back on the field, Zephyr slid to a stop, hands raised.
Water ford behind him—shimring, floating daggers. Dozens of them.
"Let’s see how you dance," he muttered.
He flicked his fingers.
The daggers launched.
Morgan moved—zigzagging with perfect precision, his sword a blur. He spun midair, lightning coiling around the blade. He sliced through two, dodged five, and redirected the rest with sharp wind boosts under his feet.
"HE’S DODGING EVERYTHING!"
"Can normal Tier Twos even breathe near them?! They look like dungeon beasts sparring for fun!"
Morgan landed—then launched again, faster than before.
Sword glowing. Lightning screaming off the edges.
He struck—
And Zephyr smiled.
A compressed air sphere exploded from Zephyr’s palm, halting Morgan mid-lunge.
Morgan flipped, landed on one hand, then rebounded with a spinning slash—
Only to et Zephyr’s blade with his own.
CLANG—BOOM!
Double impact. Water turned to steam. Wind to a roar. Lightning to a whip.
Silence fell.
No cheers. No comnts.
Even the nobles were quiet.
One voice finally broke through.
"Is this still just a quarterfinal...?"
"It feels like the final..."
From the dust, two figures stood.
Both wounded. Both steady.
Morgan’s lip bled.
Zephyr’s arm stead, a burn mark across it.
They stared at each other.
Breathing slow. Eyes locked.
Then Morgan spoke, cold and sharp.
"You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?"
Zephyr tilted his head.
"Of course. Are you complaining that you’re not?"
Morgan’s gaze darkened.
"No. I’m not here for fun."
"Then why?"
Morgan didn’t answer.
But his magic did.
Wind erupted around him—violent, unstable. Lightning cracked around his blade, forming a jagged spiral from hilt to tip.
Zephyr raised his sword again. Water flowed like ribbons, coiling into a double helix around his blade.
The crowd gasped.
"They’re escalating! That wasn’t even their full strength until now?!"
"Are they gonna destroy the whole damn arena?!"
Even the referee stepped back, worried about becoming a casualty in this man-made disaster.
Then—
CRACK—BOOM!
They vanished.
The air tore.
One strike.
Two.
Three.
Explosions erupted across the arena. Stone cracked. The stage split open. Dust swirled like a storm.
From the balcony, Logan stood, unable to sit.
"Those last attacks..."
He paused.
"They were everything they had."
When the dust began to settle...
Two silhouettes remained.
Both bleeding.
Both panting.
Morgan’s sword was buried in the stone, lightning crackling off it.
Zephyr’s cloak was torn, his blade half-broken, frost steaming from a gash across his chest.
They took one step—
And both collapsed to one knee.
The referee froze.
The crowd erupted in chaos.
"WHO WON?!"
"WHO’S STILL STANDING?!"
"IT’S A DRAW?! NO—WAIT—"
Then silence.
No cheers.
Just waiting.
Eyes wide.
Breaths held.
To be continued...
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