Unlike the fighters before them, neither made a dash nor even quickened their pace. They walked. Steady. Measured. The arena had become a dueling ground, and they would honor it as one.
Silence wrapped the stands, broken only by the sound of leather soles pressing into mineral-packed stone. The crowd watched with bated breath. Fighters leaned in. Even Quincy, still hovering overhead, held still.
At the center platform, the Blade and the Wandering Swordsman stopped.
They met each other's eyes again—no malice, no bravado. Just quiet understanding.
Then, wordlessly, both reached for their swords.
Edluar's movements were slow, deliberate. From each hip, he drew a long, slender blade—one in each hand. They had no guards, only wrapped hilts worn from use, and the metal itself caught the light like drawn silver, perfectly balanced for speed and precision. His stance followed—feet angled, body relaxed, swords lifted slightly forward, parallel but staggered. There was no wasted motion, no flare. Just readiness.
Zeva mirrored the moment. She pulled her sword free in one fluid motion—a single, elegant blade longer than most, with a sinuous double edge and a distinctive beast's face carved into the base of the blade. Its design was ornate yet utilitarian, hinting at ancestral heritage and brutal efficiency. She held it in both hands, her stance firm and rooted, shoulders squared and blade angled diagonally before her. Her grip was calm but unyielding.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Not in the stands. Not on the field. Not even the air seemed to stir.
A single step.
Both took it at once—boots sinking slightly into the stone, the faint grind of grit marking the moment.
Then—movement.
They attacked.
Metal rang out—sharp, sudden—as Zeva caught Edluar's vertical strike with her blade. The force cracked through the air, steel grinding against steel. She shifted instantly, swinging a diagonal slash toward his midsection. Edluar caught it with the flat of his left sword, twisting his arm to deaden the impact, and lunged with his right—a clean stab aimed at her centerline.
Zeva slid back, just a breath beyond the tip of his blade.
But she didn't stay there.
She surged forward, her movements fluid and rhythmic. A slice from the right, clean and precise—met with a parry. Then from the left, forcing Edluar to turn his body. A third strike came fast, angling up toward his face. He jerked back, the edge missing by a hair.
Then she shifted again, raising her sword for an overhead strike—only to feint.
Edluar fell for it.
As her blade came screaming forward, not from above but from the centerline in a deadly thrust, he twisted his body with every bit of speed he could muster. The tip dragged across his side, slicing through cloth and skin—but not deep.
First blood.
"And we're off to a masterful display of swordsmanship from both the Blade and the Wandering Swordsman!" Quincy announced, soaring above as the silence in the arena dissolved into cheers and awe. The crowd leaned back into the rhythm, fighters murmuring from their waiting area, watching intently.
In the middle rows of the stands, Wolf scratched the side of his head.
"Not bad. Really good, actually. But it's too formal. Too neat. Where's the creativity? The speed? The overwhelming power?" he muttered, frowning. "I expected more."
Back on the dueling ground, Zeva took a slow breath and angled her sword slightly downward, watching Edluar with narrowed eyes.
"You definitely judged yourself too harshly," she said calmly. "Most would've lost already."
Edluar exhaled hard, sweat clinging to his jaw. "Thank you. But… why do I feel like you've been testing me?"
Zeva smiled—and then vanished forward in a blur of movement.
"That's because I was."
Her sword danced now—not like before. No more drills, no more predictable forms. The style shifted entirely.
It was the Blossom family's swordsmanship.
She stepped in with a sudden flourish, her blade arcing upward in a tight spiral that disguised the next motion—a lightning-fast horizontal slash aimed at Edluar's ribs. Before the strike even finished, she twisted on her heel, turning the momentum into a low sweeping cut that forced him to leap back. But she was already moving again—her foot slid forward as she brought the blade in a rising curve, then reversed it mid-motion, snapping it downward in a controlled fall, the motion resembling a petal fluttering to the ground before stabbing forward like a thorn.
Zeva advanced like a storm dressed in silk. Each strike bloomed from the last—she pirouetted with precision, her footwork elegant, measured, sharp. A wide slash turned into a whip-like thrust from behind her back. A feint came with her sword spinning loosely between her fingers, only to catch it mid-air and send it into a tight upward arc, tracing a shimmering path as though painting a flower into the air before aiming dead center.
She wasn't just attacking—she was performing. Each movement was graceful, but packed with force. Beautiful, overwhelming, and utterly relentless.
Edluar's footing faltered.
From the stands, Wolf leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"That's it! That's what I'm talking about!" he barked, laughing with excitement as he clapped his hands. "Finally!"
Back in the arena, Edluar was barely keeping pace. He weaved, ducked, turned his blades into makeshift shields. Each breath came heavier than the last. His swords blocked what they could—his body did the rest. He twisted under a crescent slash, dropped low to avoid another, then rolled away as her blade carved through where his head had been.
The difference in skill was clear now. Unavoidable.
He was surviving, yes—but only by leaning fully into his half-elven reflexes.
*This is why I resigned myself to losing!* he thought, his chest heaving as he threw himself back from a spiraling strike, boots skidding against the stone, desperate for distance.
Which he didn't get.
The moment Edluar planted his back foot and tried to steady his stance, Zeva was already on him—her footwork a blur, blade whistling through the air.
He brought both swords up to defend, but too late.
Her blade sliced low in a crisp arc, carving a clean line across his left thigh—not deep, but enough to buckle his leg. Before he could fall, before he could even cry out, she pivoted on her heel. Her sword reversed in her grip, spun once in a tight flourish—and she drove the pommel straight into the side of his head with brutal precision.
A crack, a jolt, and Edluar crumpled.
Unconscious before he hit the ground.
Silence. Then awe.
The crowd sat frozen, as if stunned by what they'd just witnessed. Even the fighters in the waiting area and the VIPs seemed caught in the same breathless stillness.
Up above, Quincy raised her voice, her tone sharp with finality.
"The winner by knockout is—Zeva Blossom, the Blade!"