The arena was silent, the crowd holding its breath as
Varen Drakov
and
The Monk
stepped into the ring. Their auras clashed the moment they faced one another—a fierce, fiery intensity against an unshakable calm. Varen’s silvery-red robe rippled in the wind, his presence radiating strength and confidence, while The Monk’s simple brown attire and tranquil demeanor exuded an air of profound discipline.
SWOOSH!
Varen rolled his shoulders, his blade resting lightly in his hand. His fiery mana flickered to life around him, casting a faint glow on the arena floor. He could feel the weight of the crowd’s anticipation, their eyes fixed on the two combatants.
‘The Monk,’
Continue your journey on
he thought, his gaze narrowing as he assessed his opponent.
‘Unaffiliated but no less dangerous. His style thrives against mine—adaptive, and controlled. He’ll wait for me to make a mistake. I can’t give him that opening.’
Across the ring, The Monk stood with his hands clasped together, his staff resting against his back. His breathing was steady, his expression serene. When he opened his eyes, they held a clarity that seemed to pierce through the tension.
DING! DING!
The bell rang, and the match began.
BOOM!
Varen wasted no time, launching forward with a burst of speed that left a faint trail of flame in his wake. His sword arced downward in a powerful slash, his mana flaring like a wildfire. But The Monk sidestepped with fluid precision, his movements economical and effortless.
CLANG!
The clash of metal versus raw aura rang out as The Monk’s knuckles met Varen’s blade, deflecting the strike with a calculated parry. Varen didn’t hesitate, pressing the attack with a flurry of strikes, each one faster and more forceful than the last.
SHING! SWOOSH! CRACK!
‘He’s good,’
Varen noted, his strikes met with perfectly timed counters.
‘But he’s playing defensive. He’s waiting for me to overcommit. Not happening.’
The Monk shifted his stance, his movements deliberate as he evaded another slash. With a sharp pivot, he brought his body around in a sweeping arc, aiming for Varen’s ribs.
WHOOSH!
Varen twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the blow, and retaliated with a low, fiery slash aimed at The Monk’s legs.
The arena buzzed with anticipation as the fight between
Varen Drakov
and
The Monk
reached a fever pitch. Their movements were a blur of speed and precision, a deadly dance of fire and calm. Each clash of mana sent ripples through the air, their sheer power leaving visible scorch marks and cracks across the stage.
SWISH! ROAR!
Varen lunged forward, his blade blazing with a silvery-red glow. He unleashed one of the
Silver Flame Sect’s
core techniques,
“Flame Serpent Spiral,”
a skill that channeled his mana into a coiling, serpent-like energy trail that sought to ensnare and overwhelm his opponent. The fiery serpent darted toward The Monk with a hiss, forcing him to leap high into the air.
‘Predictable,’
Varen thought as he followed with a vertical slash, his blade cutting through the air toward The Monk’s descending form.
CRASH!
But The Monk twisted mid-air, landing with grace as his knuckles met the ground. His body erupted in an earthen aura, grounding him as he struck forward with
“Mountain Breaker Palm,”
a powerful strike that shattered the ground beneath him and sent a shockwave racing toward Varen.
BOOM! RUMBLE!
Varen barely had time to brace himself. He crossed his blade in front of him, his fiery mana acting as a barrier to absorb the shockwave. The force sent him skidding backward, his boots digging grooves into the arena floor.
‘He’s relentless,’
Varen acknowledged, his muscles tightening with focus.
‘He doesn’t rely on weapons, but his body is a weapon in itself.’
THUD! WHAM!
The Monk was already upon him, his movements seamless as he unleashed a barrage of strikes. Each blow targeted Varen’s core, aiming to disrupt his balance and rhythm. Varen’s sword flashed in response, his strikes meeting The Monk’s fists in a symphony of power and precision.
CLANG! BANG! CRACK!
“Impressive,” The Monk said, his voice calm even as sweat dripped down his brow. “You adapt quickly, Varen Drakov.”
Varen smirked, his fiery mana flaring as he stepped back and took a stance. “You’re not bad yourself, for someone unaffiliated.”
He unleashed his second skill,
“Inferno Cascade,”
a series of rapid-fire slashes that sent waves of concentrated fire mana cascading toward The Monk.
WHOOSH! BOOM! SWOOSH!
The Monk dodged the first two waves but couldn’t avoid the third, which clipped his shoulder and left a singed mark on his robe. He responded with
“Steel Body Requiem,”
an advanced technique that hardened his body like tempered steel, allowing him to absorb and deflect the flames.
DING! DING! DING!
The crowd erupted in cheers as the two fighters pushed each other to the edge. Every strike, every counter, every exchange left the arena more battered and the audience more enthralled.
Varen’s breath came heavier now, but his eyes burned with determination. He had one final skill to unleash, but he needed the right moment. Meanwhile, The Monk advanced again, his movements fluid and unyielding as he struck forward with
“Heaven’s Descending Strike,”
a leaping attack aimed directly at Varen’s head.
THUMP! SWISH! CLANG!
Varen stepped back just in time, his sword narrowly deflecting the attack.
‘This is a good opportunity to end this,’
he thought, steeling himself for the risk he was about to take.
He began a sequence of feints, his blade moving unpredictably, forcing The Monk to split his attention between defense and countering.
Then came the decisive moment.
SWOOSH! THUD! CRACK!
Varen feinted a low slash, drawing The Monk’s guard downward. In the split-second opening, he stepped into The Monk’s range, deliberately leaving his right arm exposed as a sacrifice. The Monk’s fist crashed into Varen’s forearm with bone-shattering force, eliciting a sharp gasp from the crowd.
‘Pain is nothing,’
Varen gritted his teeth against the agony. Using the momentum from the strike, he pivoted and brought his blade around in a sweeping arc, his fiery mana igniting into a roaring flame. This was his final move—
“Eruption Slash.”
BOOOOOM!
The blade struck true, landing squarely on The Monk’s chest and sending him hurtling backward. He tumbled across the arena floor, finally coming to a stop near the edge. For a moment, silence reigned as everyone waited to see if The Monk would rise.
He didn’t.
DING! DING! DING!
The bell rang, and the announcer’s voice boomed over the arena.
“The winner—Varen Drakov of the Silver Flame Sect!”
Varen staggered back, his right arm hanging limp at his side, the pain radiating through his body. But his grip on his blade remained firm, his head held high as he faced the roaring crowd. He turned to The Monk, who was being helped to his feet by medics, and offered him a nod of respect.
“You were formidable,” Varen said quietly, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.
The Monk returned the nod, his calm expression betraying a hint of admiration. “And you were resolute. A worthy victory, Varen Drakov.”
As Varen left the arena, his steps faltered slightly, but his resolve remained unshaken.
‘A small price to pay,’
he thought, glancing at his injured arm.
‘If I am to prove myself, sacrifice is necessary.’
With the crowd’s cheers echoing in his ears, he prepared himself for the next challenge, knowing full well that the tournament was far from over.
******
As Valeria stepped out into the stone corridor leading toward the arena, the sound of her boots echoed in the otherwise hushed space.
The faint hum of the crowd beyond the walls was a constant reminder of the stage she was about to walk onto. Despite the cheering for Varen’s earlier victory still faintly lingering in the air, Valeria’s thoughts were not on him or even her own nervous anticipation. Her mind turned to Zerah.
She pictured the senior disciple of the Cloud Heavens Sect clearly in her mind: sharp, disciplined, yet brimming with an aggressive edge that had made her infamous among her peers.
Zerah was not just skilled but relentless, her style characterized by precision that rarely gave her opponents room to breathe.
She had a way of capitalizing on the smallest mistake, exploiting weaknesses with a cold, calculated efficiency.
Valeria inhaled deeply, calming herself.
Zerah thrives on intimidation and control. That’s her battlefield as much as the physical one.
The words that were spoken by Lucavion.
‘That guy….Regardless of the opponent….when he say things like that, it is mostly correct.’
That was why she was grateful. To be frank, while it was true that she came up to this moment thanks to her own efforts, Lucavion’s help was also there.
That was why she didn’t want to be ungrateful.
‘But at the end, on the arena…it is me and my opponent.’
She calmed herself and then went forward.
As the light of the arena grew brighter ahead, Valeria considered her options.
Patience would be my best ally. Counter her control with precision of my own. It’s a battle of wills as much as swords.
Being a knight, that was how she had seen it.
The arena welcomed Valeria with a deafening roar, the crowd’s excitement reverberating through the very stones beneath her feet.
“PINK KNIGHT!”
“PINK KNIGHT!”
“PINK KNIGHT!”
Seeing the crowd cheering, how could she not be happy?
‘It really worked….’
And she wanted to prove herself to the crowd as well.