In the heights of Neutralis, behind thick glass walls and heavy curtains, the arena was no longer a spectacle. It was a chart. A sorting. A scouting.
The Earth Kingdom's private box was almost silent. Not an empty silence. A calculating silence. Voices were low, precise, as if every word had to be weighed before touching the air. Around a circular table, several men and women in plain attire—nobles, officers, strategists—watched the arena the way you watch a war map. On the table: files, seals, notes. Names.
And at the center, sitting straight, a presence that made everyone smaller without even raising his voice: The 1st Earth Master, Gaïa de Granroc. His eyes followed the fighters with an almost cold attention. No hatred. No passion. Just perfect logic.
A counselor finally breaks the silence. "This tournament is a rare opportunity." His voice barely trembles. "Five kingdoms. The best youths from their academies. All gathered in the same place. Under our eyes."
A younger woman presses her lips together. "The others see it as a friendly competition."
A discreet, muffled snicker follows. "The others are naive."
Another counselor leans over the file in front of him. "Future wars aren't won only on the battlefield. They're won by identifying threats before they become uncontrollable." He turns a page. "This one..." He places his finger on a name: Aydan Arin.
The word "Arin" causes a micro-movement in the box. A reflex. A shared memory.
"Carmine Fire. Genetic. Shaping capacity above average. Higher mana reserves. Rapid progression."
The woman asks: "Why is he dangerous? He's young. He lacks discipline."
The counselor doesn't answer right away. He looks at the arena. "Exactly." He speaks lower. "Discipline is learned. Power... isn't."
Silence falls again. Gaïa, at last, opens his mouth. His voice is calm, but each syllable carries the weight of stone.
"Arin is an ember." He pauses. "And an ember becomes a wildfire when you feed it."
The gazes turn slightly toward him.
"And he is fed," continues Gaïa, "by something simple."
The counselor asks, cautious: "Revenge?"
A very slight smile stretches Gaïa's mouth. Not a joyful smile. The smile of a certain man. "Yes."
An officer adds: "If war breaks out, he'll become a symbol."
"Or a monster," murmurs the woman.
Gaïa doesn't contradict her. He simply says: "Both are useful."
A breath. Then a servant approaches and kneels, presenting a sealed tablet. "1st Master... the report."
Gaïa takes the document, reads it without haste, then gestures. "Let him in."
The door opens. A man in light armor enters, dusty, as if he'd crossed half the world. He kneels. "Report from the network."
Gaïa doesn't move. "Speak."
The man swallows. "The spy Young Master Eden has transmitted his information. Mission ongoing in the Fire Kingdom. Integration successful."
The advisors tense, surprised. "Eden..." someone whispers. "It's confirmed? He isn't even from our kingdom."
Gaïa lifts his chin slightly. And then, for the first time, he speaks like a man claiming ownership. "Eden is my adopted son."
Total silence. The officer opens his mouth, hesitates. "And... his birth name?"
Gaïa doesn't answer right away. Then he drops it, like an obvious truth that needs no one. "Eden doesn't need a past. He needs a function." He turns to another file, placed beside it. A thicker file. Heavier. He pushes it with his fingertips. "And my son... by blood... is already here."
The name on the cover is visible, even from far away: Tharok de Granroc.
The woman murmurs, almost against her will: "So... the identity is complete." She looks up at Gaïa. "1st Earth Master... Gaïa de Granroc. One son: Tharok. And one adopted son: Eden... on an espionage mission in the Fire Kingdom."
Gaïa nods, very slowly. "The tournament is not entertainment. It is a harvest." He closes Aydan's file. "And Aydan Arin... is a confirmed threat."
He finally stands. The entire box freezes, instinctively. "If Arin survives," he says, " we will have to decide when to extinguish him."
Then, without another word, he leaves. And in his wake, the box breathes again, as if gravity has lessened.
The sound of the arena rises back up. The "friendly" world resumes. In the stands, nobody knows the island. Nobody knows the real war. Even Earth doesn't know what happened out there. Here, they only see young people fighting. Colors. Flames. Screams.
They don't see the knife behind the smile.
Match 4 — Brask (Fire) VS Tharok de Granroc (Earth)
Brask is in the center. I see him from the side, from the fighters' stands. He's still shaking a little, yes. But his feet are planted. His gaze is locked. He's here.
Tharok, across from him, doesn't shake. He barely breathes. He looks at Brask the way you look at prey you've already carved up in your head.
The referee announces: "FIGHT!"
Brask lights his flame. A simple flame. Orange. Real. No variant. Just fire.
Tharok takes one step. The ground rumbles. No spectacular spell. No wave. No giant walls. Just... the earth answering his presence.
Brask attacks first, like he refuses to let his body freeze. He throws a fireball. Tharok passes through it with a gesture; a stone plate erupts in front of him, blocks, and absorbs. Brask follows, dives into close combat. A flaming punch. Tharok blocks with a forearm coated in rock. The impact makes the stone vibrate. Brask feels the difference. It's like punching a cliff.
But he keeps going. He turns. He strikes. He dodges. He pulls back by a hair when a stone hand tries to grab his throat. Every movement is precise. Every mistake would be a fracture.
Tharok, meanwhile, advances. He doesn't need to run. He cuts the space. Brask tries to use the terrain: a circle of fire on the ground to force Tharok to go around. The earth answers. A rocky swell rises, crushes part of the flames, and Tharok crosses anyway, like heat is a detail.
Brask steps back, breath short. Tharok finally hits. A stone fist to the stomach. Brask folds. The sound of the impact is dry, disgusting. The air leaves his lungs. He wobbles. He should have fallen. But he stays standing. I see his jaw clenched. I see his rage. Not hate-rage. Survival-rage.
Tharok smiles. And then... he starts. A pounding. A flood. Heavy, precise blows that don't try to "win." They try to break. Brask dodges a straight. Takes a hook to the ribs. Steps back. Tries to answer with a flaming uppercut—it lands. The flame licks Tharok's chin, burns for an instant. But Tharok doesn't even step back.
And behind Brask... rock rises. A spike. Silent. Inhuman. It pierces Brask's shoulder. Straight through. Blood bursts out. Brask makes a strangled sound, drops to his knees.
The crowd screams. Some shout "stop!", others shout "again!"
Brask trembles. His gaze searches for the referee. His lips part. He wants to say: "...I surrender..."
But Tharok doesn't give him time. A stone straight. Devastating. The fist crashes into Brask's face. Brask collapses. K.O.
The referee raises his hand, voice loud: "K.O! Fight over! Victory: Tharok de Granroc!"
It should stop there. It should. But Tharok turns—and shoves the referee. Like he's an insignificant obstacle. A cold breath passes through the arena. Tharok throws himself onto Brask.
Once. His fist crushes the cheek. Twice. The nose cracks. Three times. The mouth warps. Blood bursts out, thick, almost black.
I stand up instantly. "STOP!"
My voice explodes through the stadium. The spectators scream. The referee tries to intervene. Tharok hits him, sends him to the ground. The guards move in. Too slow.
And then... a silhouette drops into the arena. Brontios. He arrives without sound. Without spectacle. He grabs Tharok's arm right as he's about to strike again. And stops it. Dead.
Tharok turns his head, furious. He swings at Brontios. Brontios dodges, barely. Then shoves him with a sharp motion. Tharok staggers. Brontios speaks, cold, clear: "The fight is over. No need to kill him."
Tharok almost spits his hate. "Get lost."
Brontios doesn't move. "No."
Tharok shakes with rage. Then he steps back. And he smiles. A smile that makes me want to vomit. "Semifinal... I'll kill you, Brontios."
He turns his back and leaves the arena. The doctors finally arrive. They surround Brask. I climb down from the stands. I run to him. My heart pounds. I see his face. I see his blood. I see his closed eyes.
"Brask..."
He doesn't answer. The doctors block me. "Step back!"
"I'm coming with him—"
"No."
Their tone leaves no room. They lift him. Carry him away. I take a step to follow. A doctor pushes me back. "We said no."
They disappear. And the air becomes too heavy. Too empty. I stand there, at the edge of the arena. Like I just lost something I didn't even get the chance to repair.
Match 5 — Oryn (Fire) VS Brontios (Lightning, Superbolt)
Oryn enters. He's pale. His gaze is... different. Not proud. Not insolent. Empty. He saw Brask. He saw Tharok's rage. He saw what "not to the death" means when rules stop mattering.
Brontios enters. Same coldness as always. Same absence of emotion.
The fight starts. Oryn lights a fire, but he doesn't believe in it. He attacks on reflex. Brontios pushes him back with a flash of speed. Not a single wasted movement. Oryn steps back, slips, gets back up. Brontios dominates. Without pleasure. Without sadism. Just... like crushing an obstacle.
Oryn tries a final attack, a bigger fireball, a desperate push. Brontios avoids it. And his lightning appears at Oryn's throat. A blade of blue light, stopped a breath from skin.
Oryn swallows. He understands. And for the first time, he chooses life. "...I surrender."
Brontios retracts the bolt. The referee announces the end. The crowd screams, disappointed or relieved, depending on who you ask.
Me, I hear nothing. Because I'm already elsewhere. With Brask.
The Hospital of Neutralis
Neutralis hospital is white. Too white. It reminds me of the dorms. It reminds me of that cleanliness that hides blood.
Hours pass. I'm in a hallway. Sitting. Standing. Sitting again. I don't speak. I don't eat. I stare at a wall. Serah isn't here. Kaïros isn't either. Oryn went somewhere. The world keeps moving, but I'm stuck in one place: the idea that Brask might die.
A door finally opens. A doctor steps out. "Resuscitation succeeded."
My heart drops and then surges back, violently. "But...?"
The doctor hesitates. "He's in a coma."
The word cuts through me like a blade. Coma. I nod without understanding. They let me in.
The room is silent. Brask is there. Lying down. Hooked up. His face is bandaged, swollen, unrecognizable in places. Tubes. A Sacred Water drip that falls slowly, like a mechanical prayer.
I move closer. My steps are heavy. I stop at the edge of the bed. I look at his hands. His hands that grabbed my arm. His hands that followed me into the Earth district. His hands that chose to come, even when I was unbearable.
My throat closes. And tears come without me calling them. I whisper, voice broken: "Don't die... please."
I sniff. I hate it. I hate being weak. But I can't stop. "I should've... I should've apologized..."
I clench my fists. "I should've done it right away. I shouldn't have waited. I shouldn't have—" My voice trembles. I lower my head near him, without touching him, like I'm afraid I'll break him even more. "Brask... wake up."
Silence. Just the drip of Sacred Water. The artificial breathing. And my heart beating too hard.
Outside, the tournament is over. Politicians smile. But here... in this white room... I don't want to win anymore. I just want him to live.
And I finally understand that revenge fills nothing. But I can't go back anymore. And if Brask disappears... that hole won't ever close.