CHAPTER 266: QUALIFYING ROUND

Eleanor was already familiar with the sensation of entering these space capsules. After her first experience during the initiation ceremony, she had used them again in the Tower of Legends, in Professor Jiro’s simulated classes in Vanaheim, and during several sessions within the Chamber of Unbecoming.

She lay down inside the capsule with practised ease. The lid sealed shut, enclosing her in soft darkness.

When the void receded, she found herself standing in a small, enclosed chamber lined with racks of weapons. Blades of all kinds gleamed under a white light... swords, spears, axes, hammers... some she recognised, others entirely new.

"Welcome to the Grand Championship, Match Eleven. Cadet 10156659, please select any weapon of your choice. All weapons are of earth grade. Your opponent will receive the same," came the neutral, mechanical voice.

Eleanor had yet to settle on a preferred weapon. Instructor Arrichion had introduced her to swords, sabres, spears, and hammers, but none had felt natural in her hands. Eventually, they had agreed to let her fight unarmed... particularly since she wouldn’t be allowed to carry a weapon in Vanaheim anyway.

"I won’t be bringing any weapon into the fight," she said simply.

"Acknowledged. You may proceed to the arena," the voice replied. A doorway slid open to her right.

Eleanor stepped through and found herself standing in the middle of a circular mini stadium. Rows of empty seats curved around her like silent sentinels. At the centre stood a raised fighting platform, a ring of white stone resembling an old wrestling stage.

She advanced calmly toward it and climbed up. The faint hum of the simulation filled the air. Beyond the dome’s crystalline vault stretched a cold, unreal sky.

A door opposite her slid open, and another cadet entered... tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a long sword. She recognised his face from classes but had never spoken to him.

"Igor Semenov."

The name surfaced from her memory along with its associations. The Semenov family, ancient noble vampires of Yakutsk, ruled the great port on the Lena River. Since the establishment of the Supernatural Council, vampires and werewolves had been forced to abandon their ancestral feud and cooperate... at least on the surface. Yet some clans still clung to their old prejudices, and the Semenovs were among them.

Igor, eldest grandson and heir apparent to his family patriarch, was a proud symbol of that old blood. To him, the modern world’s ideals of equality were an insult to legacy. He tolerated the werewolves of the academy only because the world demanded it. In his mind, they remained beasts pretending to be civilised.

He already knew who Eleanor was... the werewolf who had broken records in the Initiation Ceremony and the Tower of Legends. Fame that, to him, she could only have achieved through luck or manipulation. She had no elemental gift, no overwhelming strength. Luck was the only explanation that soothed his ego.

He scanned the silent arena... no crowds, no factions, just the whisper of simulated wind through unseen corridors and the pale light refracting from the dome above. His expression hardened.

Clenching his fists, Igor jumped into the ring, landing with feline grace. His resolve was simple and absolute... defeat the werewolf.

The two figures stood twenty paces apart, motionless. Igor’s crimson eyes gleamed with hostility; Eleanor’s, in contrast, remained calm and detached... unreadable. Her serenity only deepened his anger.

A countdown echoed in their minds.

10... 9... 8...

3... 2... 1... Go!

The instant the signal ended, Igor moved.

One moment he was still... the next, three shards of glistening ice burst from his outstretched hand, slicing through the air toward Eleanor’s chest, neck, and thigh. The air around them crystallised briefly, leaving silver trails of frost.

Eleanor did not meet force with force. She flowed.

Her movements were fluid, instinctive... a blur of motion like a leaf caught in a sudden gale. Her eyes read the trajectory of each shard, the subtle wobble in their spin, the pulse of power that propelled them. She ducked under the first, pivoted past the second, and struck the third aside with a sharp chop of her forearm.

The impact stung, numbing her arm with cold. Frost shimmered briefly across her skin before her body’s innate resilience dispersed it, leaving only a faint tingle behind.

Igor pressed his advantage. With a curt gesture, a translucent Ice Shield materialised before his left arm, its surface rippling with blue light. Then, without pause, he began to launch volleys of Ice Shards... not merely at Eleanor herself, but into the spaces around her, tightening the circle, restricting her movement, turning the arena into a prison of crystal and frost.

Eleanor’s world narrowed to the rhythm of survival. She invoked Mind Acceleration, her perception fracturing into slow-motion clarity. She could read the faint tension in Igor’s shoulder before each cast, the minute twitch of a finger that heralded another shard’s release.

She moved like a phantom... fluid, precise, untouchable. Her footwork was a seamless flow of instinct and discipline, never lingering in one place for more than a heartbeat. Every movement was an answer: a parry here, a deflection there, a low slide beneath a whistling shard. Her defence was pure technique, born from long hours under Instructor Arrichion and Commander Annabeth Chase, who had drilled into her the brutal grace of close combat.

To Eleanor, Igor was merely another opponent... a capable one, but predictable. Compared to the merciless training she had endured, his attacks were structured, almost elegant. She could end the match with a single lightning strike. Victory was within her grasp. But instead, she chose restraint. This was practice... for the matches that truly mattered.

"Running will not save you," Igor’s voice rang out, thick with disdain.

He slammed his foot into the ground, and the Absolute Zero Stance ignited. Frost spread outward in fractal veins, the air around them turning white with cold. The temperature plunged in seconds. Eleanor felt the chill seep into her bones, her joints stiffening, her muscles slowing under the oppressive freeze. Her breath came out in plumes of mist, her boots glistening with rime.

The change was subtle but lethal. Her movements, once effortless, now carried the weight of resistance. She managed to evade two shards... but the third grazed her ribs.

A thin line of crimson marked the tear in her fatigues, the wound instantly crystallising around the edges. Pain flared, sharp and freezing. She hissed softly, feeling the cold bite deeper than the cut itself.

Eleanor drew a steady breath and allowed her control to slip... just slightly. Her body responded. Muscles tensed and thickened beneath her skin; her eyes burned with an emerald glow. A faint corona of lightning crackled across her arms before settling into a quiet hum.

The cold no longer bit.

Igor’s smirk widened at the sight. Predictable, he thought. He had expected her to rely on her transformation to resist the cold. To him, it was confirmation that the werewolf bloodline depended on brute strength, not skill.

He raised his arm again, summoning another storm of Ice Shards, each one sharper and faster than before.

This time, Eleanor didn’t move to evade. She met them head-on.

She moved forward, her enhanced strength turning her limbs into living weapons. The first volley of ice met her head-on... and shattered them. Each precise strike of her fists and forearms broke the shards apart, bursting them into glittering dust that rained harmlessly around her. The numbing cold of Igor’s Absolute Zero Stance was now little more than an irritation. Her Storm Heart roared in overdrive, pumping warm, oxygen-rich blood through her body, burning away the lethargy.

She closed the distance in a blur of long, powerful strides. Igor, startled by the sudden reversal, raised his Ice Shield just in time. Eleanor’s fist, charged with the raw strength of her partial transformation, slammed into it. The impact cracked through the arena like thunder. A spiderweb of fractures raced across the shield’s surface.

Igor’s eyes widened. Instinctively, he conjured an ice platform beneath his feet and launched himself backward, creating distance. His sword flashed from its sheath in a sharp arc of motion as he slashed toward her.

Eleanor leapt back, narrowly avoiding the strike. Her expression shifted... calm, but now edged with focus.

She activated her Mental Lock.

The world around Igor Semenov faded... colours draining, sounds dimming until only he remained in perfect, excruciating clarity. There was no arena. No cold. No sound. Only the target... and the single path to its destruction.

Igor adjusted his stance, sword ready to cut her down the moment she advanced. At the same instant, Eleanor’s body lowered slightly, her open palm beginning to glow with a faint blue-white light. Tiny arcs of lightning danced between her fingers. The air itself began to hum with pent-up charge. It was the first time she had called on her lightning in the entire fight.

Igor froze for a fraction of a second... shock breaking through his composure. Lightning? He had never heard that this werewolf possessed elemental ability. Snarling, he called up his Ice Shield again, thicker and denser than before.

Eleanor stepped forward... and vanished in a crackling blur.

Her Bolt Step split the air with a sharp thunderclap. She reappeared in front of him, her right hand now a conduit of pure, focused voltage. The strike landed squarely in the center of the Ice Shield.

A blinding web of white light erupted from the point of contact. The Ice Shield didn’t break this time. It vaporized. Steam burst outward in a rush of superheated air.

The momentum of her Bolt Step carried her through the cloud. Her outstretched hand, still blazing with lightning, found its true mark.

It struck Igor Semenov square in the chest. The surge of electricity tore through him, his body locking in place.

For a single, suspended moment, he stood like a statue of frozen disbelief... then his knees gave way. He crumpled to the polished arena floor, smoke curling from the perfect, blackened handprint over his heart.