CHAPTER 62: QUARTERFINALS END

The air still thrummed with the echoes of gunfire and crackling lightning. Smoke curled along the arena floor, carrying the acrid scent of burnt ozone and scorched stone.

The crowd leaned forward in their seats, breaths held, eyes wide. What began as a test of strength between a Arrogant nd mischievous spear-wielder and a cocky spellslinger had evolved into something far sharper—a clash of storm and steel against arcane precision.

On one side, Arin Blake stood tall, lightning dancing over his frame, the weight of his spear balanced with effortless confidence.

On the other, Jax Harl steadied his pistols, chest heaving, eyes burning with a fire that refused to dim.

The instructor raised his hand again, voice cutting through the charged silence.

"Resume!"

And with that single word, the fight roared back to life.

Jax Harl stood tensely at the edge of the arena, eyes narrowed, fingers clenched tight around his pistols. Gone was the usual swagger—in its place, wary determination.

He fired without hesitation.

Spellshooter’s Arsenal: Venom Fanfare.

A barrage of poison-imbued bullets zipped across the stage, each crackling faintly with a sinister haze. One shot—charged with desperation—sliced past Arin Blake’s cheek, close enough to singe his skin.

That near-miss shifted Arin’s demeanor instantly. The casual fire in his eyes cooled into sharp focus. Lightning surged down his spear like a living serpent, aura tightening as his stance anchored.

Jax pulled the triggers again.

Spellshooter’s Arsenal: Ricochet Hex!

Bullets scattered, bouncing off invisible angles, curving wildly to strike from impossible directions.

But Arin answered with unflinching precision.

Arclance Tempestra: Tempest Spiral!

His spear spun in a cyclone of crackling arcs, scattering the bullets into harmless sparks.

Then came the counterstrike.

Arclance Tempestra: Boltpiercer Drive!

The spear thrust forward, wrapped in condensed lightning, each blow faster and sharper than the last.

Jax barely kept up—dodging, firing, retreating. Until Arin’s aura shifted once more.

Arclance Tempestra: Stormbound Step!

In the blink of an eye, Arin vanished—reappearing directly at Jax’s side with champion’s speed. Before Jax could even register it, the spear swept in a controlled, devastating arc.

The impact sent Jax flying. His body tumbled across the arena floor, rolling helplessly before sliding to a stop just beyond the boundary line.

Silence gripped the crowd for a heartbeat—then erupted into a storm of awe.

Jax lay winded, wide-eyed, sweat dripping down his brow. His poison-laced bullets and relentless pressure had pushed Arin further than expected. Yet it was Arin’s sharpened resolve, his storm-forged discipline, that claimed victory.

Though defeated, Jax did not bow. His mark had been carved into the battlefield, undeniable.

The instructor’s voice echoed through the hall, steady and clear.

"Next match—Lia Isolde versus Aurelian Valmont. Candidates, step forward."

Lia stepped onto the arena floor with calm grace, her expression unreadable. On the other side, Aurelian Valmont walked forward, but just as he was about to fully enter, a servant hurried to his side. The two exchanged quick words, and Aurelian’s face immediately darkened.

He clenched his fists, looking as if he wanted to speak, but instead he turned sharply toward the instructor.

"I surrender."

Gasps rippled through the hall. Lia, who had just started readying her stance, froze with wide eyes.

"Eh?" she muttered, blinking in disbelief.

The instructor paused, then announced, "Lia Isolde wins."

Aurelian muttered a few words to the instructor before walking out of the hall with a grim expression. The crowd whispered among themselves, while Lia quietly stepped down from the stage, her mind oddly blank.

As she moved toward her seat, Ron intercepted her.

"What was that all about?" he asked, glancing after Aurelian. Then, lowering his voice, he frowned. "And... I don’t mean the match. I’m talking about you. You’ve been acting... weird ever since the survival exam."

Lia’s lips curved into a small, forced smile.

"You don’t need to worry, Ron." She brushed past him, her tone light but distant.

Ron stood frozen for a moment, his brows knitted, watching her back as she walked away.

What is up with her?

Up on the judge’s seat, Zane had heard every word. His gaze lingered on Lia, unreadable, before his thoughts stirred.

So, she’s resisting it. But how long can she keep that up?

Let’s see.

The instructor’s voice rang out, steady and commanding.

"Third match—Lirael Elenros versus Iselde Velmira. Step forward."

From one side, Iselde advanced, quiet and measured, her satchel of polished glass shards clinking softly at her hip. Pale silver robes shimmered faintly with blue reflections, and her dark-green hair, tied with mirrored charms, caught the light with every step. Her sharp eyes carried no hesitation—only calculation.

Opposite her, Lirael moved with calm poise, long silver-blonde hair swaying like flowing silk, jade-green eyes glowing with focused intent. She gave no outward expression, as though the outcome of the match was already known to her.

The duel began.

With a swift motion, Iselde scattered her glass shards into the air. They spun, caught the arena light, and became glimmering mirrors suspended around her like orbiting stars. Mirror Weaving—her unique art. The mirrors pulsed, bending and splitting light, casting dazzling illusions that multiplied her form across the battlefield.

Lirael remained still, her fingertips shimmering faintly with magic.

The clash was swift and sharp. Each burst of Lirael’s radiant spells was bent, refracted, and reflected back at her by the floating mirrors. Some shattered with explosive bursts of energy, others warped light into blinding lances that cut across the arena. Illusions layered over illusions—Iselde weaving a cage of light and glass around her opponent.

For a moment, the duel seemed balanced. The air cracked with refracted beams, shards scattering like crystal rain. Iselde pressed on with quiet precision, each mirrored construct folding over the next.

But then, the rhythm faltered. Lirael’s expression never changed. Her light magic grew sharper, denser—slicing clean through the mirrors, unraveling illusions with merciless precision. One after another, the woven constructs collapsed, shards falling uselessly to the ground.

The arena quieted.

Iselde’s final mirror cracked apart, and she staggered, breath unsteady. Across from her, Lirael stood untouched, her calm jade eyes never wavering.

The instructor raised his hand.

"Winner—Lirael Elenros."

As the duel concluded, the judges exchanged brief notes before voicing their thoughts.

Varris folded his arms, his booming voice carrying across the hall.

"Lirael’s control is sharp, but her mana flow could be steadier. That instability will hold her back in real battles."

Zane, lounging as casually as ever, added with a faint smile,

"That Iselde girl has potential. With some refinement, she could grow into a decent fighter."

Mira adjusted her glasses, her tone both measured and intrigued.

"The way she manipulates mirrors and glass shards is clever. But it’s only a glimpse of what Mirror Weaving can really achieve. If she learns to apply it more creatively, she’ll stand out."

Zane gave a small nod at her words, his eyes glinting with quiet approval.

.

.

.

The instructor’s voice rang loud across the hall.

"Final match of the quarterfinals—Ron Volkov versus Torren Durnan!"

The crowd stirred as both contenders stepped onto the stage.

Torren hefted his heavy shield and axe, his expression taut but eager. This time, he wasn’t going to hold back.

"Man... you and that girl ruined my last fight in the survival exam," he muttered, chestnut-orange eyes blazing. "Now you’re going to take responsibility. Fight me—properly."

Ron’s amber gaze held steady. He smiled, calm yet sharp.

"Gladly."

The stage rumbled as magma energy surged through Torren’s core, his shield glowing faintly with heat. Opposite him, Ron spun his spear lightly, its edge flickering with controlled fire.

"Inferno Spear—First Technique: Flaming Stab!"

Ron struck first, a sudden thrust of fire aimed dead center.

"Titanbreaker Shield: Magmashell Guard!"

Torren braced, magma-cooled stone flaring as his shield absorbed the hit, sparks and shards scattering harmlessly across the floor.

He pushed forward, roaring—

"Titanbreaker Axe: Molten Cleave!"

His axe burned in a wide arc, a molten slash forcing Ron to retreat a step.

Ron’s stance tightened, his spear spinning into a blazing vortex.

"Inferno Spear—Second Technique: Scorching Coil!"

The swirl of fire whipped outward, heat rolling across the arena, halting Torren’s advance.

But Torren pressed on, slamming his shield forward with brutal force.

"Titanbreaker Shield: Inferno Bash!"

Flames licked from the shield’s rim as it smashed into Ron’s vortex, the collision sparking a thunderous shockwave.

Sweat streamed down Torren’s brow as he swung again.

"Titanbreaker Axe: Blaze Breaker!"

The weapon carved through the air, scattering sparks like burning rain.

Ron answered in kind, his voice ringing clear—

"Inferno Spear—Third Technique: Cinder Lance!"

A precise thrust lanced forward, embers trailing its path. The spear grazed Torren’s shield, flames leaping along its surface.

Torren twisted, refusing to yield.

"Titanbreaker Combo: Pyre Feint!"

An axe feint, a shield spin, fire and stone blurring in a sudden assault.

The clash roared—shield against spear, magma against flame.

At last, Torren unleashed everything he had, shield bursting with embers, axe cutting in one last desperate swing. The arena shook with the impact.

But Ron stood composed, steady. He hadn’t drawn on his most destructive powers. Only three core techniques—Flaming Stab, Scorching Coil, Cinder Lance—flowed through him like second nature.

Their weapons locked for a heartbeat. Then Ron twisted, deflecting the final strike. Torren stumbled back, breathing ragged, his strength spent but his pride intact.

Lowering his spear, Ron inclined his head in respect.

"You fought well."

The instructor raised his hand.

"Winner—Ron Volkov."