CHAPTER 61: THE QUARTERFINALS BEGIN

The first round ended faster than anyone expected.

Just like Ron, Lia, Aurelian, Arin, Torren, and Lirael all finished their matches with ease. Their opponents were tossed out of the ring before they could even muster proper resistance. The crowd roared at each quick victory, yet it was clear—these six stood on a level far above the rest.

One after another, the remaining battles concluded, until the final whistle echoed across the vast arena.

The losers were promptly escorted out, their dreams cut short in the very first round. Ninety candidates remained.

Rumble—!

Half of the massive dueling platform sank back into the ground, the stone folding in upon itself until the arena’s floor returned to its normal shape. The air shifted, tense and heavy, as the instructors’ voices boomed out.

"Next bracket! Prepare yourselves!"

The second round began without pause. Once again, multiple battles unfolded simultaneously, the clash of magic and steel reverberating across the training grounds.

But unlike the first round—where the strong had breezed through—this time the difference in ability became sharper. Blood spilled, sweat flew, and desperate screams echoed as weaker candidates struggled to keep up.

And then, something shocking happened.

One of the Top Ten—a figure many thought untouchable—fell. Defeated, cast out of the arena under the eyes of hundreds. Gasps spread like wildfire, disbelief shaking the spectators.

Yet the academy’s rules were lenient for those at the top. "One chance," the instructors declared. The fallen candidate would remain, but their pride was already shattered.

By the time the dust settled, only forty-six people remained.

The instructor’s voice thundered again, silencing the whispers.

"From here on, matches will be held one after another. No more simultaneous battles. Each of you will be seen. Each of you will be judged."

The crowd grew restless. The pressure on the candidates doubled.

The true duels were only about to begin.

The crowd’s excitement swelled as the third round began. The judges leaned back in their seats, observing with varying levels of interest.

Zane, however, was already stifling a yawn. "Mmm... wake me up when the interesting ones step up," he muttered under his breath, his violet gaze wandering lazily across the stages.

Finally, the call came.

"Next match—Lia Isolde versus Drevin Solveil!"

Lia stepped gracefully onto the stage, her dusk-pink eyes calm, her blade at her side.

Her opponent was already waiting—a boy with midnight-blue hair and sharp black eyes, a longbow resting in his grip.

The two exchanged bows of respect.

"I know I won’t win," Drevin admitted, his tone steady despite the odds. "But I’ll try."

Lia nodded lightly. "You should."

The instructor’s hand fell.

"Begin!"

Drevin moved first, swiftly circling to maintain distance. Shadows flickered around his bowstring as he drew back.

"Nightstalk Arrow: Umbra Volley!"

The arrow shot forth, splitting mid-flight into a dozen smaller bolts of dark energy. They twisted unpredictably, filling the air with a storm of death.

Lia flowed into motion, her sword flashing. She slipped between the projectiles with fluid grace, cutting down those she couldn’t evade. Steel met shadow, sparks scattering with each parry.

Drevin gritted his teeth. His fingers blurred on the bowstring again.

"Nightstalk Arrow: Dusk Mirage!"

A wave of arrows surged out—but this time, half were illusions. Lia’s eyes narrowed as her blade cut through empty images, only for a real arrow to slip past and nearly graze her cheek.

Her expression sharpened. Real and false mixed together... clever.

Emerald wind gathered at her feet, swirling into a radiant aura. Drevin’s chest tightened. He barely had time to nock another arrow before—

She vanished.

"—!"

Lia reappeared in front of him, her sword already raised.

Desperation drove his hand.

"Nightstalk Arrow: Blackout Mark!"

The arrow streaked toward her face. Lia tilted her head slightly, catching it effortlessly between her fingers—only to feel the shaft dissolve into crawling shadows that spread across her vision. Darkness swallowed her world.

Drevin’s lips curved upward. Got her.

But then—

"Wind-Butterfly: Elegant Speed."

Even blinded, Lia’s blade moved with dazzling swiftness. Dozens of slashes carved through the air in a storm of jade light, forcing Drevin backward. His eyes widened as the final strike came with a graceful spin—her foot slamming into his chest.

He was flung from the stage.

The shadows around Lia’s eyes unraveled, revealing her calm expression once more.

Staggering to his feet outside the ring, Drevin’s jaw dropped.

"Y-You were blinded... how did you still find me?"

Lia’s gaze flicked toward him, soft but firm.

"Mana sense. Yours isn’t subtle enough to hide from me."

Drevin froze, realization dawning. Her mana perception is that advanced?

The instructor’s voice rang out.

"Winner—Lia Isolde!"

Applause rippled across the hall, whispers following right after. Lia bowed once more, stepping down with quiet dignity, while Drevin remained staring, still processing just how overwhelmingly outclassed he was.

The hall grew quieter as the last of the elimination rounds ended.

The clamor of cheers and groans faded, leaving only the sound of boots shuffling across the polished floor.

Dozens had been knocked out already—some in clean sweeps, others in brutal, drawn-out clashes. Yet through it all, the names that mattered most had advanced without even being brushed.

Now, only eight remained.

The air thickened with anticipation.

At the instructors’ table, Varris sat back, arms crossed, his usually sharp tongue stilled for once. Mira Sorenhal exhaled a short, nervous chuckle, trying to break the silence as she glanced sideways. Because on the edge of the platform, Zane Creed finally opened his eyes.

It was a small gesture—yet enough to ripple through the atmosphere like a storm warning.

The crowd stirred again as the matches were announced.

"Quarterfinals," the officiator’s voice rang clear.

"First match: Arin Blake versus Jax Harl."

"Second match: Lia Isolde versus Aurelian Valmont."

"Third match: Lirael Elenros versus Iselde Velmira ."

"And the final match: Ron Volkov versus Torren Durnan."

Cheers, gasps, and murmurs erupted in waves. The stage was set, and no one dared blink now.

"First match, begin! Candidates, step forward!"

Arin stepped up onto the stage, his expression bright and confident. The string of victories behind him had clearly boosted his spirits, and his smile carried the arrogance of someone who believed momentum itself would carry him forward.

Across from him, another student emerged—Jax Harl.

Jax was lean, built with wiry energy rather than bulk. His unruly black hair fell in tousled waves just above his brow, and his sharp chestnut eyes gleamed with mischief, as if the very arena was a playground waiting for his tricks. Every step he took radiated restless energy, the kind of unpredictability that put even confident opponents on guard.

Now, both stood opposite one another.

Zane’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched from his place.

"Hoh... this Jax isn’t bad. He might even be troublesome for someone like Arin."

Arin’s spear spun once in his hand as he dropped into a sharp stance, the edge of his aura pressing forward with martial determination.

Then Jax smirked—and drew his weapons.

Not a sword.

Not a staff.

Twin pistols gleamed under the arena light, their barrels humming faintly with mana channels etched into the steel.

The crowd erupted in whispers.

Even Zane raised an eyebrow.

"A firearm user? In the academy... interesting. I didn’t think I’d see that here."

Varris Denholm remained silent, his bulky frame leaning back as though testing whether the students understood what they were witnessing. Beside him, Mira Sorenhal gave a nervous chuckle, adjusting her glasses as her eyes darted between the pistols and the audience.

The tension thickened.

The instructor raised his hand, his voice sharp and clear.

"Begin!"

Arin Blake stood poised, thunder dancing across the length of his spear. With a low crackle, he surged forward—

"Arclance Tempestra: Boltpiercer Drive!"

A streak of lightning shot from his spear’s tip, blindingly fast, forcing Jax Harl to roll aside.

Jax’s black hair whipped around his face as he landed, both pistols drawn in a flash.

"Spellshooter’s Arsenal:Ricochet Hex!"

The bullets sparked with unstable magic, zipping unpredictably and ricocheting across the ring in glowing arcs.

Arin’s eyes narrowed. Unmoved, he spun into a Arclance Tempestra:Tempest Spiral

his spear whirling like a cyclone, scattering the ricocheting rounds with bursts of crackling lightning. Sparks hissed in the air, clashing against walls of storm.

But Jax only grinned, eyes alight.

"Spellshooter’s Arsenal:Shadow Slug!"

A pistol roared—this bullet, heavy with dark energy, slammed into the ground near Arin. At once, a field of draining magic swirled at his feet, tugging at his stamina.

Arin didn’t falter. His body blurred—

"Arclance Tempestra:Stormbound Step."

With a thunderclap, he vanished and reappeared behind Jax, spear already humming, its head wreathed in electrified arcs.

"Good..," Jax muttered, panting, but his hands moved fast. He pulled the triggers again—

"Spellshooter’s Arsenal:Arcane Burst!"

A volley of elemental rounds exploded outward: fire, ice, and water interlacing in rapid succession, hammering toward Arin like fireworks of destruction.

Each clash shook the arena floor. Lightning cut through flame, shadow split light, thunder answered every crack of gunfire.

And then—silence.

They stood in the center of the ring once more.

Arin—calm, spear raised, crackling with restrained stormlight, lips curved in a confident smile.

Jax—huffing, shoulders tense, pistols smoking, eyes sharp with new focus.

The air between them shimmered, heavy with sparks and charged magic. Both waited for the other to make the next move.