The magical panels shimmered again above the roaring arena, and the entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.
Quarterfinal Match 3: Zephyr Albrecht vs. Morgan Benedict
A wave of whispers swept through the stands.
"The Wind Phantom of the Albrechts... against the Sword Saint’s disciple!"
"Dude, blink—and the floor might be gone. Just like that."
In the betting corner, a burly man stood on his seat, shouting above the noise.
"I’m tellin’ you! Zephyr’s got this! Tier Two in two elements, you hear me?! Wind AND water! Put my 15 gold on him!"
Another snapped back, waving a wooden betting slip.
"And Morgan’s the dark horse, you fool! He doesn’t need spells—he is a spell! 20 gold on Morgan for me!"
Albert’s hands blurred as he dealt with coins, scrolls, and frantic gamblers. The whole corner buzzed like a live wire.
Even in the noble balcony, the atmosphere shifted.
Logan leaned forward, heart racing.
"This might be the best match of the whole tournament. Why is my heart pounding so hard? Am I... actually that excited?" he murmured to himself.
Lilith crossed her arms, a glint in her light blue eyes.
"Zephyr doesn’t fight unless it thrills him. And Morgan... he looks for stronger opponents to grow stronger. What a shame they’re not opposite genders—they’d make the perfect couple," she giggled to herself, amused by her own imagination.
Prince Rowan, now seated beside them after his own match, watched in complete silence.
"This isn’t a duel," he finally said, voice low. "It’s a standoff between two monsters."
The arena gates creaked.
From the left strode Zephyr Albrecht—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in simple black robes trimmed with frost-blue edges. His face was calm, unreadable. Cool air shimmered around him, and wind tugged softly at his cloak, despite the stillness. A massive greatsword was slung across his back.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t look up. He just walked forward.
From the right, Morgan Benedict emerged—his dark gray cloak billowing behind him, sword sheathed on his back. His hair was tied neatly, faint arcs of lightning crackling down his gloves. His boots crunched gravel with measured precision.
He didn’t glance at the crowd. Or at Zephyr. His gaze locked on the center of the arena—as if nothing else existed.
"You can feel it," someone whispered in the gallery. "Like the arena itself knows this one’s different."
The referee stepped back.
"Contestants, ready?"
Zephyr raised one hand, fingers relaxed.
Morgan gave a tiny nod.
The entire crowd leaned in as one.
Wind screamed as he shot forward, low to the ground. The dust from his dash hadn’t even settled before he was already in front of Morgan—his blade, now infused with wind, slashed down.
Morgan’s sword flew free in a blink—no words, no spells. Just speed.
Steel met elemental force. Sparks erupted.
"That was fast! Did he just block a wind-imbued Tier Two strike with raw reflex?!" Alice exclaimed in shock.
"No," Logan muttered, eyes narrowed. "He redirected it."
The crowd roared as Morgan twisted his blade, sliding Zephyr’s attack aside and stepping back—graceful, controlled.
Zephyr’s expression didn’t shift.
"The moment you entered the arena yesterday, I’ve been waiting," he said in a calm, almost reverent tone. "Waiting for the chance to fight you. And... you didn’t disappoint."
"I’ve been looking for a real challenge too. Maybe fate heard us both."
His body pulsed with faint green light. Wind shimmered around his boots.
The two collided mid-air in a flash of steel and magic. The shockwave rattled the barrier runes. Lightning hissed. Wind cracked. Steel screamed.
From the noble balcony, Alice gasped.
"Are they teleporting?!"
Emily shook her head, eyes focused.
"No. That’s just raw speed. Wind and lightning, stacked."
Below, Albert cackled in the betting corner.
"Ten gold says someone dies just from watching this!"
"Twenty that they break the platform!"
Zephyr weaved between Morgan’s strikes, wind guiding every movement like a dance.
Morgan countered with lightning bursts mid-swing—accelerating, redirecting, slashing with deadly timing.
Each clash echoed like thunder.
In the participants’ gallery:
Rovan scowled. "Tch. Those bastards aren’t even sweating."
Darius narrowed his eyes.
"Even if I had won last round... against these two..."
Only clenched his fists in frustration.
Prince Rowan smiled faintly.
"They seem less like competitors... more like two wolves enjoying the hunt."
Back on the field, Zephyr slid to a stop, hands raised.
Water formed behind him—shimmering, floating daggers. Dozens of them.
"Let’s see how you dance," he muttered.
He flicked his fingers.
The daggers launched.
Morgan moved—zigzagging with perfect precision, his sword a blur. He spun midair, lightning coiling around the blade. He sliced through two, dodged five, and redirected the rest with sharp wind boosts under his feet.
"HE’S DODGING EVERYTHING!"
"Can normal Tier Twos even breathe near them?! They look like dungeon beasts sparring for fun!"
Morgan landed—then launched again, faster than before.
Sword glowing. Lightning screaming off the edges.
A compressed air sphere exploded from Zephyr’s palm, halting Morgan mid-lunge.
Morgan flipped, landed on one hand, then rebounded with a spinning slash—
Only to meet Zephyr’s blade with his own.
Double impact. Water turned to steam. Wind to a roar. Lightning to a whip.
No cheers. No comments.
Even the nobles were quiet.
One voice finally broke through.
"Is this still just a quarterfinal...?"
"It feels like the final..."
From the dust, two figures stood.
Both wounded. Both steady.
Zephyr’s arm steamed, a burn mark across it.
They stared at each other.
Breathing slow. Eyes locked.
Then Morgan spoke, cold and sharp.
"You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?"
Zephyr tilted his head.
"Of course. Are you complaining that you’re not?"
Morgan’s gaze darkened.
"No. I’m not here for fun."
Morgan didn’t answer.
Wind erupted around him—violent, unstable. Lightning cracked around his blade, forming a jagged spiral from hilt to tip.
Zephyr raised his sword again. Water flowed like ribbons, coiling into a double helix around his blade.
"They’re escalating! That wasn’t even their full strength until now?!"
"Are they gonna destroy the whole damn arena?!"
Even the referee stepped back, worried about becoming a casualty in this man-made disaster.
Explosions erupted across the arena. Stone cracked. The stage split open. Dust swirled like a storm.
From the balcony, Logan stood, unable to sit.
"Those last attacks..."
"They were everything they had."
When the dust began to settle...
Two silhouettes remained.
Morgan’s sword was buried in the stone, lightning crackling off it.
Zephyr’s cloak was torn, his blade half-broken, frost steaming from a gash across his chest.
And both collapsed to one knee.
The crowd erupted in chaos.
"WHO’S STILL STANDING?!"
"IT’S A DRAW?! NO—WAIT—"