Three days.
Three full days walking through the same city, breathing the same neutral air, crossing the same faces... without speaking.
Brask and I see each other. We avoid each other. Sometimes we brush past in the corridors of the fighters' complex, in the healing rooms, in the training areas.
But not a single word.
Nothing.
Not even a look that lasts.
And the worst part... is that I understand.
I understand exactly why he doesn't talk to me anymore.
Because my words, that night, weren't just violent.
They were pointless.
Dirty.
I hit him where Sacred Water can't heal.
Me, Aydan Arin... I hurt the only person who held me back when I was about to do something irreversible.
And now, I don't know how to go back.
The tournament resumes.
The quarterfinals.
The arena is even more packed. Louder. More electric. The tourists are here, the nobles are here, the politicians are here. Banners float. Cries chant names.
I feel like an animal they're about to release in front of everyone.
We're all healed.
The doctors of the Water Kingdom have finished their work. Wounds have closed. Bruises are gone. Joints crack less. Bodies regain confidence.
But some things don't get fixed.
I'm in the tunnel leading to the arena.
I warm up mechanically, without thinking.
I tighten my grip on my sword, then release it. I roll my shoulders. I breathe. I feel my mana flowing, steady.
Steady on the surface.
In my head, it's something else.
Brask is somewhere, not far. I know it. I feel his presence like a habit.
I turn my head.
I see him.
Sitting a little farther away, on a stone bench.
Staring at the ground.
Hands clasped.
He looks ready.
But he also looks alone.
I take a step.
Then another.
My throat tightens.
I could say:
"Sorry."
I could say:
"I'm an idiot."
I could say:
"I didn't mean it."
But none of those words come out.
Because I don't know if I deserve them.
I stop a few meters from him.
He lifts his eyes for a second.
Our gazes meet.
I feel his irritation. His pain. His disappointment. And something behind it... exhaustion.
I finally speak, voice low:
"Brask..."
He doesn't answer.
He just lowers his eyes.
I stand there. Ridiculous. Empty.
I force the words out.
"What I said... the other night... it was..."
My voice dies.
Brask raises his eyes.
He speaks calmly, without shouting.
It's worse.
"Save that for after your match, Aydan."
I feel my chest tighten.
"I don't want to wait."
"I do."
He stands up.
He passes beside me, without pushing me, without insulting me. Just... like I've become a problem he doesn't want to touch anymore.
Before walking away, he drops one sentence, without aggression:
"Survive first. Then we'll see."
He disappears into the corridor.
I remain still.
My match is coming.
And I understand one thing: I can win fights in the arena... but if I lose Brask, it won't matter.
The gong echoes.
My name is announced.
I walk.
Match 1 — Aydan Arin (Fire, Carmine Fire) VS Eldric Valroche (Metal, Earth)
When I step into the arena, the noise hits me like a slap.
My name triggers screams. Applause. Murmurs.
I don't listen.
I look ahead.
Eldric Valroche is already there.
He's tall, solid, calm. His gaze is sharp, without arrogance. Not like Tharok. Not like Oryn. Eldric looks... professional.
A warrior in training.
Not a sadist.
He salutes slightly.
I answer with a nod.
The referee reminds the rules.
"Victory by K.O., surrender... or death."
The crowd erupts.
But me, I feel nothing.
I don't want to be applauded.
I don't want to be watched.
I just want... for it to end.
I feel the eyes from the private boxes.
And I know one in particular.
I don't see him, but I feel him.
Gaïa.
The name rises, like poison.
My stomach twists.
Eldric inhales.
He takes his stance.
"FIGHT!"
Eldric moves immediately.
His Earth doesn't summon spikes. No spectacle. No pointless brutality.
His element condenses around his forearms.
Metal.
A dark, hard layer that covers his skin like flexible armor. His fists become hammers.
He advances.
I draw my sword.
No Carmine Fire yet.
I want to test.
Eldric strikes.
A straight punch to the face.
I pivot, step back, block with my forearm.
The shock climbs up to my shoulder.
It's heavy. Brutal. Like hitting an anvil.
I counter.
A blade strike toward his ribs.
Eldric turns, blocks with his metallic forearm.
My steel grinds against his metal.
He steps back half a pace.
His gaze narrows.
"You're fast," he says.
I don't answer.
Eldric attacks again.
He tries to close the space. He doesn't want to let me breathe, doesn't want to let me channel. He knows my fire is dangerous if I have time.
I retreat.
I slide.
I cut the angle.
I strike.
He blocks.
He strikes.
I block.
The rhythm rises.
The crowd loves it.
Me, I feel something else rising.
Not adrenaline.
Frustration.
Because I see the boxes in the corner of my vision.
I see silhouettes.
I see people watching like we're pieces on a board.
And I remember the courtyard of the Earth district.
Father.
Gaïa.
My blood heats.
Eldric tries a technique.
He strikes the ground.
A metal plate bursts up, not like a wall. Like a trap: a low blade meant to catch my ankles.
I jump.
I land.
Eldric takes advantage.
He drives a punch into my stomach.
My breath cuts off.
I stumble back, coughing.
The crowd screams.
I lift my head.
Eldric advances.
And then... I feel my fire answer.
Not calmly.
Like it wants to bite.
I channel without thinking.
A flame bursts from my hand.
Red.
Carmine.
But... something has changed.
The color is the same, but denser.
Heavier.
Darker.
As if the red drank shadow.
I blink once, surprised.
Eldric notices.
"Your fire..."
I don't let him finish.
I form a blade.
By reflex.
By inner violence.
The blade appears along my right forearm, perfectly shaped, stable, sharp.
I rush.
Eldric braces.
He hardens his metal.
I strike.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The impacts crack.
Eldric retreats.
He starts to lose the tempo.
I feel my mana draining.
And I don't care.
That's the problem.
I don't care.
I just want... the world to understand what it feels like when your blood boils.
Eldric tries to push me back with a wave of metal: fragments spinning like shards.
I cut them.
I slice them midair.
The crowd roars.
I feel a gaze on me, from the fighters' stands.
Brontios.
He doesn't shout. He doesn't move.
But I see him.
He analyzes.
He smiles.
A tiny smile.
Like what he's seeing interests him far too much.
Eldric tries one last thing: he condenses his metal onto one arm, making it huge, and charges to crush me.
I don't step back.
I let Carmine Fire flood my sword.
Not an explosion.
A fusion.
The steel turns glowing red.
I strike upward.
The blade cuts.
Not completely.
But enough to open a deep wound across Eldric's shoulder, down to the upper torso.
Blood bursts out.
Eldric staggers, shocked by the pain.
I see it in his eyes: he didn't expect me to break through.
He tries to stay standing.
I could continue.
I could finish him.
I could—
I see Brask in my mind.
Survive first.
I swallow my rage.
I step back.
I breathe.
I channel just enough.
And I strike with the flat of the blade, a sharp blow to the side of his head, precise, controlled.
Eldric collapses.
K.O.
Brief silence.
Then the referee screams:
"VICTORY: AYDAN ARIN!"
The crowd explodes.
I look at Eldric on the ground, blood still flowing from his wound, healers rushing in.
I feel nothing.
No pleasure.
No pride.
Just emptiness.
And fear.
Because my fire...
I saw it.
I felt it.
It darkened.
Not black.
Not yet.
But different.
I leave the arena with a few scratches, nothing serious.
But inside... something has taken root.
Match 2 — Thérian Althyr (Compressed Air, Air) VS Koren Ailesec (Air)
The second match is announced.
The crowd is already screaming.
I stay in the corridor, watching from afar, not holding onto details. Two fighters face each other. A brutal exchange. Compressed air takes the advantage quickly. A fast K.O.
The public loves it when it's fast.
Me, I only hear background noise.
I think about Brask.
I think about what I said.
I think about how I tried to apologize... and failed.
Then they announce the third match.
And my body straightens.
Because I know what it is.
Because I know what it means.
Match 3 — Brask (Fire) VS Tharok de Granroc (Earth)
The tunnel to the arena feels colder, all of a sudden.
Brask walks toward the entrance.
He doesn't shake like a coward.
He shakes like a man who knows he might get killed... and walks anyway.
I see him from behind.
His shoulders are straight.
But his hands, slightly clenched.
Tharok appears on the other side.
And the air compresses.
He walks slowly, exactly like last time.
The same emptiness in his eyes.
The same absence of humanity.
I feel my fire react just from seeing him.
Brask reaches the center.
Tharok stares at him.
Brask stares back.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
And I understand this isn't a normal fight.
This isn't a match.
It's an intention.
Tharok wants to destroy him.
Not win.
Destroy.
And I know why.
Because he's a Fire Kingdom fighter.
Because his father ordered him to show no mercy.
I grit my teeth.
I want to shout at Brask to be careful.
I want to tell him not to play the hero.
I want to tell him I'm sorry.
But none of those words come out.
The referee raises his hand.
Brask inhales.
Tharok doesn't move.
The gong rings.
"FIGHT!"
Tharok's first step is so heavy the stone vibrates.
Brask lights a flame in his hand.
Small.
Controlled.
But his gaze is hard.
He is ready.
And me, in the fighters' stands, I feel my blood boil.
Not against Tharok.
Against myself.
Because if Brask dies here...
I will never forgive my words.
Never.
The fire crackles.
The earth growls.