The arena fell into a hushed anticipation as the two competitors stepped forward. Riven Ashcroft moved with a defensive wariness, his presence like that of a young plant fighting to take root—stubborn, resilient, but fragile. Waves of green-tinged energy radiated from him in gentle pulses, each one carrying the feel of new growth pushing through soil. His aethernova suit shimmered with a soft, verdant glow, the lines along its surface pulsing like veins carrying life-giving sap.
Cassia Ulfric was his opposite. Her presence was a storm—decaying, corrupting, the air around her seeming to thicken with each breath. Her cloak rippled even without wind, the fabric dancing with shadows that weren't quite shadows. The light around her bent strangely, as if afraid to touch her. Her aethernova suit was barely visible beneath the cloak, but faint traces of corrupted energy could be seen—dark, writhing patterns that seemed to consume the light around them.
Riven's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his body tensing.
The air, he thought, his internal voice carrying a note of genuine fear. It feels like I'm suffocating. Like the very atmosphere is pressing down on me.
The crowd's vulgar comments washed over him like waves.
"Hey!" one spectator shouted. "Why you standing like some broken tree? Get on with it!"
"Yeah, stop being a kitty cat!" another added.
"This is a real bum," a third chimed in. "The guy is embarrassing us men. Seriously—he could have just forfeited. The chick is dubbed the best, and now this guy wants to bail out because of that."
Riven's face flushed. Veins popped out on his forehead, his jaw tightening. He glared at the crowd, his expression carrying the weight of silent fury—a look that said, "You're all loud. You need to focus. I'm trying to concentrate here."
Cassia watched him with an expression of quiet entertainment. Her lips curved into the faintest smile, her eyes glinting with something between amusement and curiosity.
"It's alright," she said, her voice soft and reassuring. "I will lessen my strength to yours. I'll go completely easy on you. I promise."
Riven's skeptical reaction was immediate. His eyes narrowed, his posture shifting to one of guarded wariness.
"You're serious?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of disbelief.
"Completely," Cassia replied. "You have my word."
The crowd's reaction was swift and derisive.
"Are you serious?" one exclaimed.
"How lame," another added. "If this Riven doesn't win now, he must be the weakest man I've ever seen."
Riven heard their words, his expression shifting to one of conflicted determination.
Is she trying to make a mockery of me? he thought. Or is she actually giving me a chance?
He studied Cassia's expression, searching for any sign of deception. But her face was unreadable, her eyes calm and patient.
If she really does that, he thought, his internal voice carrying a note of cautious hope, then perhaps I have a chance.
"Keep your word," he said, his voice carrying a note of grim resolve. "And I'll show you what I can do."
---
The match began.
Riven attacked first, his movements defensive and cautious. He moved like a plant protecting its roots—elbows tucked in, front shoulder leading, each strike carrying the weight of survival. His attacks were awkward but effective, each one aimed at preserving his own position. He threw a quick jab, followed by a front shoulder push, then a low elbow strike aimed at Cassia's midsection.
Cassia responded with minimal effort. Her movements were fluid, almost lazy, as if she were participating in a dance she had performed a thousand times before. She deflected his strikes with casual grace, her responses carrying the weight of an expert. Her palm met his fist, redirecting the force harmlessly to the side. Her body swayed around his shoulder push, her cloak swirling like a living shadow.
The exchange became a dojo-style rhythm—one would unleash an attack, the other would block and release their own. The air between them crackled with energy, the ground beneath their feet trembling with each exchange. Riven's strikes grew more desperate, his movements more frantic. He threw punches, elbow strikes, front shoulder pushes—anything to break through Cassia's defenses. But she remained untouched, her cloak swirling around her like a living shadow.
---
In the VIP section, Valerik watched with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
"If this is her weakest state," he said, his voice carrying a note of doubt, "then she's a prodigy. But I don't see anything freakish about her. No glowing eyes, no earth-shattering presence. Just... average."
Brenna's expression was thoughtful. "Probably doesn't want us to know and study her real strength. You may never know what she's truly capable of. She's hiding it, like a snake coiling before it strikes."
Jericho leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with interest. "I would love to meet her."
Eugene sneered, his voice carrying a note of cold derision. "Even your father, when standing before her, isn't qualified to wipe her boots."
Jericho's face flushed with offense. "Hey—"
"Just who is she?" he demanded, his voice sharp.
Eugene remained silent for a long moment. "All you have to know," he said finally, "is that our base was given to her like some toy. Like it meant nothing. Like we meant nothing."
Jericho's eyes widened. "Are you tripping with me, pal? No way that's possible. Just how wealthy is her family?"
"It's not the pockets," Eugene replied, his voice carrying a note of grim certainty. "It's the terrifying connections they have. Connections that can leave your tongue wide."
Jericho's expression shifted to one of genuine concern. "Are they of some clan?"
Eugene nodded slowly. "Not just from a clan. They are of direct descent from it. Unlike us, who are of impure line, they are of purity. The real blood. The one that matters."
Isha Patel's brow furrowed. "The only families in Crestwood that fit pure lines are Wycliffe, Saiyan, and Halvern. She can't be of Wycliffe—they are of our order Shinkai. So she must be either Saiyan or Halvern. Just who is she exactly?"
Nikolai Morozov shrugged, his voice carrying a note of dry amusement. "Why ask so many questions? It's not like you would ever get a chance to score with her. Just stick to those of your level."
Jericho shot him a look of offended irritation, but said nothing.
---
Grace Barlow watched Cassia with a mixture of admiration and competitive spirit.
How impressive, she thought, her internal voice carrying a note of determination. I wonder who among us is of better skill. I hope she'll be my next challenger for the next round.
She glanced at Elijah, her expression shifting to one of barely concealed frustration.
And if it means training more so that Leo can start having his attention on me instead of her, she thought, her jaw tightening, then so be it.
She studied Elijah's face, his gaze still fixed on Cassia. Her expression shifted to one of quiet hurt—a look that said, "Why are you still looking at her? What does she have that I don't?"
Caspian Jerkins noticed. He leaned toward Elijah, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Take it easy, bro. Your eyes are being too gluey. You're going to creep her out."
Elijah's brow furrowed, his expression one of genuine confusion. "Are all trainees this childish? Why does everyone care so much about where I look?"
His perception shifted. His vision became a tapestry of heat and energy, the frequency spectrum of the arena visible in brilliant detail. He saw Cassia's presence—a vast, restrained power that dwarfed everything around her.
She's holding back, he thought, his internal voice carrying a note of realization. More than Michael was. Much more.
His mind reached out to Wonko through the mindlink.
I think I found my match, Elijah thought, his mental voice carrying a note of dark amusement.
Wonko's response was immediate and sharp. We need to stick to the plan. Take it easy. Don't reveal too much. All of this—what does it do for you? You've already acquired what you wanted from Jerkin base. What more do you need?
Elijah's mental voice carried a note of quiet resolve. Not all of it is enough. There's still more to do.
---
The fight continued.
Riven's movements grew slower, his strikes less precise. Fatigue was setting in, his body betraying him. He couldn't keep up with Cassia's pace—she was too fast, too fluid, too controlled. His breathing became ragged, his arms heavy.
He backed away, his hands raised in surrender.
"I accept defeat," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect. "You are far beyond me."
The crowd's reaction was immediate and cruel. Booing erupted from the stands, their voices carrying a note of derision.
"He's a coward!"
"What a weakling!"
"Pathetic!"
Riven ignored them. His gaze was fixed on Cassia, his expression one of genuine appreciation.
"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet. "For allowing me to enjoy our time together."
Cassia's lips curved into a warm smile. "The pleasure was mine."
---
As Cassia turned to walk away, she paused. Her gaze dropped to the ground, her brow furrowing slightly.
Something was moving near her feet. Faint. Almost invisible.
She stared at the spot for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
Elijah noticed. His lips curved into a faint smile.
Interesting, he thought. She felt them. She noticed.
He watched her walk away, his gaze following her until she disappeared into the shadows.