Three days.
Three full days have passed since the quarterfinals, and the world kept turning as if nothing had shattered. Me, I barely noticed them go by. I stayed in the hospital, sitting beside Brask's bed. Standing sometimes, when sitting became unbearable. Arms crossed, back against the white wall, eyes fixed on his bandaged face—swollen, still, unmoving. The machines filled the silence with their steady mechanical breathing, almost cruel in its consistency.
He didn't wake up. Not once.
The doctor came every day. Always the same calm voice. Too calm.
"His condition is improving. Internal damage is stabilized. The coma is… unpredictable."
Unpredictable. A hollow word.
"He could wake up in a week," he said. "Or in a month. Or in a year."
Or never. He didn't say it. But I heard it anyway.
I sat closer to the bed that day. I watched the Sacred Water drip slowly into his arm. I took his hand, gently, as if it might break.
"I'm here, Brask," I whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
A lie. Because that morning, they came to get me. The semifinal starts today.
I didn't answer right away. I looked at Brask one last time. I felt that dull fear, that cowardice too, of leaving him alone even surrounded by doctors.
The arena is still there. Just as huge. Just as loud. But today, something has changed. When I reach the tunnel, they tell me the news without hesitation.
"Your opponent has forfeited."
I blink. "Forfeited?"
The official nods. "The representatives of the Air Kingdom have withdrawn from the tournament. All of them. No fight."
I stay silent.
"We don't know why," he adds. "Internal orders, apparently."
I don't push further. It suits me. And it unsettles me at the same time. I advance to the finals without fighting. Without sweating. Without risking my life. Part of me is relieved. The other feels like I'm stealing something I didn't earn.
I return to sit in the fighters' stands. My gaze drifts, despite myself, toward the section reserved for Earth. Tharok is there. His left eye is still bruised, barely healed by the Sacred Water. His stare is darker than before. More closed off. Harder.
And opposite… Brontios. Still. Silent. As if he had been waiting for this moment since the very beginning.
Semifinal — Brontios Orageval (Lightning) VS Tharok of Granroc (Earth)
The announcer roars their names. The crowd erupts. This is different from the other fights. Even without knowing why, everyone feels it: this match isn't a display. It's a collision.
The two men step into the arena. Tharok walks heavily, his sword already in hand. The Earth stirs beneath his steps, as if it recognizes its master. Brontios moves forward without a sound. A thin blade in hand. No visible lightning. Nothing.
The referee raises his arm. "FIGHT!"
Tharok attacks immediately. A wide, brutal horizontal strike. Not elegant. Built to kill. Brontios dodges. One step to the side. Then another. The blade passes just centimeters from his chest.
Tharok follows up. Second strike. Third. Earth condenses around his arms. His fists become stone, metal, raw rock. He alternates between sword and bare hands, trying to crush the space between them.
Brontios retreats. Watches. Analyzes. Then he strikes. A fast sword blow. Too fast. Tharok barely blocks. The impact echoes through the arena.
And then everything accelerates. Brontios becomes a human lightning bolt. His movements are so fast the eye can barely follow. He strikes, vanishes, strikes again. The impacts appear almost before he moves. Tharok takes it. Blocks. Counters. He manages to hit Brontios in the shoulder. A shallow cut. Nothing more.
But it's enough to enrage him. He abandons finesse. His hands become stone hammers. He swings like a beast, trying to crush rather than reach. Brontios dodges. Again. Always.
Then he changes pace. Superbolt appears. A bright blue lightning blast bursts from his arm—precise, concentrated. It hits Tharok in the shoulder. Flesh burns. Stone cracks.
Tharok roars. He keeps going. He refuses to fall. He charges. Brontios waits. One step. Two. Then he disappears. Lightning cuts across the arena. One strike. Then ten. Then twenty. The impacts are invisible, but the damage is real. Blood sprays. The Earth armor breaks apart in places.
One last Superbolt, even more focused. It strikes Tharok's left eye. Light explodes. Tharok staggers. Steps back. Slams into the arena wall. His body slides down slowly. Unconscious. K.O.
The silence lasts one second. Then the crowd goes insane.
"VICTORY: BRONTIOS ORAGEVAL!"
I close my eyes. The final is set. The announcer returns to the center of the arena, ecstatic.
"The FINAL will take place in THREE DAYS! Stay tuned! Get ready! Because this fight will be… INCREDIBLE!"
The stands tremble with applause. Me, I'm only thinking of one thing. I have to win. Not for me. For Brask.
I leave the arena without waiting. I walk for a long time through Neutralis. With no real destination. The streets are full. Merchants shout. Children run. Travelers from every kingdom eat together, laugh together, as if war were only a distant rumor.
I stop at a stall. I buy something warm. I eat slowly, without really tasting it. I sit on a low wall, facing a canal. The water reflects the late afternoon sky. For the first time in days… I breathe.
I think of Brask. Of Serah. Of Kaïros. Of that fire inside me, becoming easier and easier to call. Too easy.
I close my eyes. In three days, I'll be facing Brontios.