The arena hadn't yet had time to calm down after the Dragon's Pursuit match when more names echoed through the stands.
"On the left side." — the commentator's voice boomed. — "Wolf's Edge! A team that has made a name for itself in previous tournaments with its brutal effectiveness and flawless coordination! Their captain, Arok — known as the Wolf King of the North."
The crowd roared as Arok stepped into the arena. Tall, with long blue hair, he wore a katana at his side.
"And on the right." — the commentator continued. — "the Fallen Crosses! Those who once swore loyalty to the crown now fight to redeem their name! Their captain — Borg — a former general of the Third Legion, known for his iron discipline and code of honor!"
From the opposite side, Borg stepped forward, a heavily armored warrior with a dark gaze. Each of his steps sounded like a hammer striking steel. Behind him were four warriors in black plate armor with red marks on their chests — the symbol of redemption.
The Emperor leaned forward slightly, surveying the arena.
"Two forces representing two different worlds." — he said quietly. — "Wolves and Knights. Instinct versus discipline."
Valdor sat beside him, leaning against the spectator barrier. His eyes followed every movement.
"Arok won't back down." — he said in a low voice. — "For him, this isn't a tournament — it's a hunt."
Mayuri glanced at him. — "And Borg?"
"He's not fighting for victory. He's fighting to redeem what he's lost."
The gong sounded.
The sound of metal clanging against metal echoed through the arena. Arok charged forward first at a speed no one had expected. His blade sliced through the air, striking the shield of one of the Knights. The force of the blow was so powerful that the knight was sent reeling several meters backward, leaving tracks in the sand.
"Speed and power!" — the commentator shouted excitedly. — "Wolf's Edge launches his offensive with fury!"
However, the Fallen Crosses were no novices. Borg raised his sword with both hands, parrying the attack, and his team immediately regrouped into a defensive formation. Every move they made was well-rehearsed, every turn of their shields — synchronized.
"Remember what we're fighting for!" — Borg roared. — "Let them come at us!"
Alaric smiled savagely and shouted. — "With pleasure!"
He leaped forward, and the team followed close behind him. Translucent silhouettes of wolves flickered in the air — spiritual reflections of their power. Every member of the Wolf's Edge, except for Arok, was surrounded by a misty aura resembling a wolf's shadow, moving in unison with them.
"That's their ancestral technique!" — the commentator exclaimed. — "The Spirit of the Wolf! Each of them connects with their totem, gaining lightning-fast reflexes and devastating attack power! Although… in Arok's case, it's not a wolf — his spirit takes the form of a dragon!"
Valdor jumped to his feet.
"A dragon!?" — he croaked, staring intently at the arena.
"I've seen him before…" — he trailed off, as if he didn't believe his own words. — "No… it can't be him…"
Mayuri furrowed her brow, approaching him hesitantly.
"Valdor, are you all right…?"
Valdor replied quietly:
"Yes…" — then slowly sat back down in his seat.
The blows came in rapid succession. The knights' armor sparkled with each impact, but the formation held firm. Borg was like a fortress. He absorbed every blow, his sword parrying successive strikes with clockwork precision.
Arok leaped back, wiping the blood from his lips.
"Fine. You want a war of steel? You've got it."
Borg nodded.
"War is all we have left."
Their blades clashed again. This time with greater force. A thunderous roar tore through the air, and the protective barrier around the arena trembled.
Valdor watched intently.
Mayuri remained silent, her gaze fixed on the battlefield.
In the arena, blood and dust mingled with the glint of steel. The Wolf's Edge shifted to the flank, attempting to break the Knights' formation. Azazel, one of the wolf warriors, struck down from above with his scythe, leaving a gash in his opponent's armor.
Borg countered, pushing him back with his shield and striking him in the side with his sword. The blow was clean — precise. The wolf warrior fell, and the sand beneath him flared with energy from the barrier.
The commentator shouted, drowned out by the noise:
"This is incredible! The Fallen Crosses are launching a counterattack! Wolf's Edge is losing ground!"
Arok snorted.
"Not this time."
His eyes flashed, and the aura around him took the shape of a massive dragon with silver eyes.
"Now I'm really pissed off…" — he whispered.
The air exploded. Borg raised his shield, but the energy knocked him back several steps. The entire arena glowed with the pale light of the moon emanating from Arok.
Valdor raised an eyebrow, and his voice trembled with tension.
The Emperor nodded slowly.
"An ancient art of the north. It reminds me of dragonfire… only colder."
Borg straightened up, raising his sword.
"Honor demands that I not back down." — A red glow appeared in his eyes. — "Fallen does not mean broken."
Their auras collided. Fire and dragonlight intertwined in the arena, creating a dazzling spectacle.
The commentator could barely keep up with the description.
"Ladies and gentlemen! This isn't a fight — it's poetry in steel! The Wolf versus the Knight! Element versus Principle!"
Valdor watched in silence, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.
"This is just the beginning. This tournament will change everything."
At that moment, the arena's barrier trembled. A wave of energy, stronger than before, swept through the stands. Some of the spectators instinctively stepped back.
The Emperor frowned.
At the edge of the arena, in the shadows, something flashed. For a moment too brief for anyone to be certain — a figure clad in black appeared.
Valdor spotted it immediately.
"Who is that?"
Mayuri looked in the same direction, but the shadow had already vanished.
The commentator, unaware, shouted again:
"And right at this moment, Arok and Borg clash once more! The fight continues!"
The crowd cheered, and the arena shook. But somewhere in the shadows, someone was watching the Dragon's Pursuit — and it wasn't mere curiosity.
The air in the arena trembled. The clang of metal echoed off the magical barriers, and the sand turned to mud from blood and sweat.
Wolf's Edge and the Fallen Crosses had been fighting for over a quarter of an hour, and neither side was willing to back down.
"It's impossible that they're still standing!" — shouted the commentator, trying to drown out the crowd. "Their strength should have run out by now, and yet... they're fighting as if they'd only just begun!"
Arok leaped back, running his hand along the edge of the blade. The katana glowed with a silvery light, as if reacting to its owner's blood.
Each of the Wolf Blades had a wounded arm or leg, but none of them stopped moving. Their attacks resembled a collective dance — wild, rhythmic, unpredictable.
Borg stood in the middle of the battlefield, breathing heavily. His armor was cracked, and his shield was barely hanging on his arm. Yet something unquenchable still burned in his eyes.
"We will not retreat." — he said calmly. — "For a knight who has stopped fighting is already dead."
Valdor watched from above, leaning against the railing.
"These people… they're fighting as if there were no tomorrow." — he said quietly. — "Do you see that, Mayuri?"
Mayuri nodded.
"I see it. But I also sense something else. Something that doesn't come from them."
A shiver ran down her spine as she looked into the shadows beneath the stands. For a split second, she saw movement again. Someone — or something — was watching the arena from a place no one should have access to.
"It's the same thing you saw earlier." — she whispered.
Valdor didn't answer. His pupils narrowed for a moment as he focused his gaze on the darkness.
"Yes. And I know it's no coincidence."
"I snuck up on the officials and overheard their conversation. He said, 'They've got this planned.'"
"Who are 'they'?"
"I don't know myself, we'll find out everything during the tournament."
In the arena, Borg struck first. His sword sliced through the air, striking with such force that the barrier flashed brightly. Arok parried the blow, and when their blades clashed once more, for a moment it looked as if two gods were fighting for the right to live.
The wind parted their auras — lunar silver versus the crimson energy of the fallen knight.
Borg raised his blade and roared:
"The Oath of the Iron Souls!"
Echoes appeared around him — the spirits of former soldiers he had fought alongside years ago. Each echo mirrored his movements, creating the illusion of an army.
Arok smiled.
He leaped into the air, and his aura burst into a silver glow.
"Luna Lupus — The Second Moon!"
A beam of cold light fell from the sky, freezing part of the sand in the arena. The two attacks collided in the middle of the field, creating a shockwave that shook the protective barrier.
The spectators shielded their eyes from the flash, and for a moment, silence reigned throughout the arena. Then — an explosion.
Borg fell to one knee, his shield had split in half. Arok's dragon shadow raised its head and roared, and the echo of that howl reverberated throughout the city.
The commentator shouted, barely catching his breath:
"This… this is impossible! Borg has retreated! Wolf's Edge is breaking through the line!"
The fallen crosses tried to hold their ground, but one by one they fell under the onslaught. Armor cracked, shields shattered, and every blow from Wolf's Edge was like waves crashing against a rock.
Borg, however, refused to give up. He staggered to his feet and looked straight at Arok.
"I'm not done."
"You don't have to be." — Arok stepped forward. Their swords clashed one last time.
A moment of silence. Then — a crack.
Borg's blade snapped in half. Arok's sword came to a halt just inches from his throat.
"We've won…" — Arok whispered coldly.
Silence reigned in the arena for a second, maybe two. Then the crowd erupted in cheers.
"VICTORY FOR WOLF'S EDGE!" — the commentator bellowed. — "What a battle! What determination!"
Arok withdrew his sword and nodded to his opponent.
Valdor and his team watched in silence as both groups left the arena.
As Wolf's Edge entered their gate, Arok and Valdor exchanged glances. Brief, intense — like two blades that had not yet touched in battle but already knew their destiny.
The Emperor leaned back in his throne and smiled slightly.
"The tournament has only just begun. And already I can smell the scent of blood and fire from fifty years ago." — he looked at Valdor. — "The blood of the dragons has returned, and with it… the old demons."
Valdor turned away from the arena.
"Back then, we were the victims. Now we will be the judges. I swear, Father, I will reclaim Dragonaria."
On the horizon, in the shadows, someone dressed in black smiled gently, as if all of this were part of a greater game.