A ripple of recognition passed through the crowd.
"That's Towan," a second-year hissed to his friend, mask doing little to muffle his voice. "First-class maniac. Saw him put the mask on thirty seconds ago."
Towan's stretching routine faltered mid-toe-touch. (Shit... did they figure out already?) He recovered with an exaggerated shoulder roll. (Eh, not like I was hiding.)
Several masked figures rose from the stands, cracking knuckles and rolling shoulders in preparation. Towan bounced on the balls of his feet, his excitent palpable even through the blank mask. (Good! Who's gonna be my warm-up?)
Then—
A hush fell like a guillotine.
The scraping of chairs stopped mid-motion. A dropped tankard froze before shattering, suspended in the sudden silence.
Towan turned.
She erged from the shadowed archway—a slender figure with close-cropped hair and a matte black mask that seed to drink in the torchlight. Each footstep echoed like a funeral drum as she crossed the arena sand.
Len's whisper cut through the stillness: "What's happening? Why did everyone—"
"The Queen," Deyar breathed, his fingers tightening around the railing. His usual swagger had evaporated. "Showed up three nights ago. Thirty fights. Thirty bodies dropped before they hit the ground."
Sylra's analytical gaze tracked the black mask's unnatural light-absorption. "Hence the color differentiation."
"Yeah." Deyar swallowed hard. "No one's lasted thirty seconds."
"LADIES AND GENTLEN!" The comntator's voice shattered the tension like glass. "THE QUEEN HONORS US WITH HER PRESENCE!"
The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in primal screams of anticipation.
"POOR FRESH AT!" The announcer continued, glee dripping from every syllable. "WHAT TERRIBLE LUCK TO FACE OUR REIGNING CHAMPION ON HIS FIRST NIGHT!"
Towan's posture shifted subtly. For the first ti since entering the arena, he stood perfectly still.
The Queen stopped six paces away. Up close, her mask wasn't just black—it was void. A starless night given form.
Sowhere in the stands, Elliot's fingers dug into his knees.
Towan's voice cut through the arena's electric silence like a knife through silk. "Hey..." His signature grin was audible even through the mask as he rolled his shoulders. "What's with the funeral vibe? Soone die or sothing?"
The Queen's response was a study in controlled nace. Her gloved fingers trailed along the edge of her void-black mask in a mockery of tenderness. "Oh, don't worry your pretty little head." The condescension dripped like honey laced with arsenic. "This won't hurt..." A deliberate pause. "...much."
The crowd collectively held its breath as Towan's stance shifted—his usual loose readiness snapping into sothing sharper, deadlier. His laugh rang out, bright and challenging.
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"You seem real confident for soone about to eat arena dirt." The torchlight caught the gleam of his teeth behind the mask. "Newsflash, princess—I don't lose."
A ripple went through the spectators. Sowhere in the stands, Alira choked on her drink.
The Queen's masked head tilted just so, the motion sohow conveying a predator's smile. "We'll see about that," she purred, the promise of violence humming beneath each syllable like a sword being slowly drawn.
In that mont, every instinct in Elliot's body scread danger. The way she stood—too still, too perfect, like a blade balanced on its edge.
Towan cracked his neck. "Yeah. We will."
Towan exploded into motion—
"SKYBREAKER!"
The shout echoed through the cavern as his leg arced upward in a golden blur.
"OHHHH! HE COS IN HOT WITH THE SIGNATURE MOVE!" the announcer bellowed, the essentia-mic distorting with his excitent. "BUT WILL THE QUEEN BOW TO—WAIT, WHERE'D SHE GO?!"
Elliot facepald so hard his mask rattled. "Bro. You might as well wear a na tag." Len's muffled giggles sounded suspiciously like a tea kettle boiling over.
The kick that could shatter stone t only air. The Queen had shifted milliters before Towan even tensed his muscles.
"UNBELIEVABLE PRECISION! THE QUEEN DODGES LIKE SHE'S READING HIS MIND!"
Towan blinked. "What?"
His follow-up flurry beca a masterclass in futility—jabs slipped by a tilt of the head, roundhouses diverted with wrist flicks, each movent anticipated like a scripted dance.
"IT'S LIKE WATCHING A STORM TRY TO HIT A SHADOW! CAN THE CHALLENGER EVEN TOUCH HER?!"
Then—
THWACK.
The Queen's palm struck like a piston, lifting Towan clean off his feet before the impact wave sent him skidding across the arena on his back. Dust plud around him as he ca to a stop at the edge.
"DOWN GOES THE FRESH AT! WAS THAT ONE HIT ALL IT TOOK?!"
Towan sprang up, spitting out dirt. "How is she—?" His teeth worried his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. (Did I just massively screw up?)
Rellie's crimson eyes narrowed—that eerie predictive movent... it reminded her of—
"SOONE CHECK THE CHALLENGER'S PULSE, 'CAUSE HE JUST GOT SCHOOLED!"
Elliot's jaw hung slack. "He's getting clapped." The revelation hit like a bucket of ice water—Towan never got clapped.
Beside him, Sylra's crossed arms betrayed her calm facade—her fingers drumd a staccato rhythm against her bicep, calculations whirring behind her mask.
The Queen stood motionless at center ring, her black mask absorbing the torchlight. Waiting.
"WELL FOLKS? YOU WANT ROUND TWO?!"
The crowd's roar shook dust from the ceiling as Towan cracked his neck and grinned.
"Oh we're definitely doing round two." Towan rolled his shoulders, the playful glint in his eyes hardening to steel. "And I'm done playing nice."
The Queen curled her fingers in a mocking co-hither gesture—just as Towan's eyelids slid shut.
A ripple of invisible Essentia pulsed outward, wrapping the arena in a shimring do of heightened perception. The air itself seed to sharpen into crystalline clarity around him.
When Towan's eyes snapped open, he moved—
Close to lightning speed—
His first strike ca faster than thought, a piston-jab that forced the Queen into her first actual backstep.
"He changed his style," Alira breathed, fingers digging into the railing.
Elliot's mask tilted in recognition. "That's Leon's foundational form." The mory of their scarred instructor's voice echoed in his bones: "Precision beats power when power isn't smart." "But he's hybridized it with his own chaos."
Towan beca a whirlwind of calculated violence—each kick a fraction tighter, each punch landing milliters closer to its mark. The Queen's dodges grew narrower, her blocks arriving a hair later each ti.
"THE TIDE IS TURNING! THE QUEEN'S DANCING TO THE CHALLENGER'S RHYTHM NOW!"
Then—
The telltale palm strike lashed out.
Towan's hand snapped up as he felt it coming, catching her wrist mid-thrust. "Not this ti princess."
His tornado kick connected with a CRACK that reverberated through the cavern, sending the Queen skidding backward in a shower of sparks as her crossed arms barely absorbed the impact.
"UN-FREAKING-BELIEVABLE! THE UNDEFEATED QUEEN JUST GOT KNOCKED INTO NEXT WEEK!"
The crowd's roar beca a physical force, shaking loose stones from the ceiling.
Len vaulted onto the railing, silver hair whipping in the energy wave. "NOW THAT'S MY IDIOT!"
Even Sylra's mask couldn't hide her white-knuckled grip on the balcony edge—her analytical mind racing to process how Towan had sohow weaponized growth mid-fight.
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