Three days.
Three days waiting for a final that no longer felt like a tournament.
Neutralis was still the same: its clean streets, its noisy markets, its stone bridges where tourists stop to take pictures as if the world were at peace. Colorful flags flutter, musicians play, vendors shout their prices.
And me, I walk.
Alone, most of the time.
Sometimes I go back to the hospital. I sit beside Brask. I talk to him without knowing if he can hear me. I tell him useless things—details about the city, the color of the sky, the distant roar of the crowd.
I speak little too.
"I'm going to win," I whisper.
I squeeze his hand. I hear the Sacred Water dripping into his arm. I hate that sound. I hate that slowness.
The doctor comes, like every day.
"Still unconscious," he says. "But his vitals are better."
I nod.
When he leaves, I stay a little longer. I stare at Brask's bandaged face. I remember his laugh. The way he spoke. The way he followed me even when I was a wall.
And there, in the silence, a question comes back to me.
Why was my fire darker?
No one knows that. Even I don't know that.
I think about what I saw, just for an instant, against Eldric.
The Carmine was… Carmine.
But denser.
Heavier.
As if the color had been dipped into something else.
As if my flame had lied.
I close my eyes. I replay the fight. The blows. The stands. The stares. I replay the name "Gaïa" ripping my heart out.
And I understand something that makes me go cold.
I didn't remember everything.
Not clearly.
It was like I was… enraged.
Worse than before.
Worse than on the island.
On the island, I was surviving.
Here, I wanted to crush.
And it's a miracle… a damn miracle… that I didn't kill anyone in Neutralis.
I straighten up, as if the air suddenly became too thick. I look at my hands.
They barely tremble.
But I feel like they could do something terrible if I leave the door open.
I breathe out slowly.
I force myself to remember: this isn't war.
Not yet.
It's "just" a final.
But I know that's false.
Because up there, in the private stands, there are people watching like predators. Because Earth is here. Because Gaïa is here.
And because Brontios… has never fought for show.
He fought as if every duel was a clean execution.
I stand up. I leave the hospital.
I walk outside.
Neutralis wind hits my face. Cool. Almost pleasant. Too normal.
I lose myself in the streets for an hour, as if that could erase what's waiting for me.
Then someone stops me.
A tournament official, white uniform, dry voice.
"Aydan Arin. It's time. Immediate preparation."
I nod.
My body moves before my mind follows.
They lead me.
Hallways.
Doors.
Marble.
Echoes.
I find the arena again.
The entrance tunnel.
The same smell of warm stone and sweat.
I press my hand against the wall for a second. I close my eyes.
I think of Brask.
I think of his face after Tharok.
I think of what I didn't have time to fix.
And I make myself a simple promise:
I'm going all out.
Not for pride.
Not for glory.
For him.
I won't hold back.
I can't afford to.
A voice in the tunnel:
"Fighters, in position."
I lift my head.
Brontios is there, across from me, in the other corridor.
He doesn't look at me like an enemy.
He looks at me like a problem.
A problem to solve.
I feel my stomach tighten.
But I'm calm.
Too calm.
As if all the noise inside me has suddenly lined up behind a single intention.
The massive doors open.
The crowd goes insane.
A wall of sound slams into me.
Thousands of voices.
Flags.
Screams.
Chants.
Bets.
The stands vibrate.
I walk to the center.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just straight.
I feel the eyes on me. I feel the expectation. I feel the pressure.
I look up toward the private stands.
I'm not searching for Gaïa.
I don't need to.
I know he's there.
The referee announces:
"FINAL OF THE ACADEMIES TOURNAMENT!"
The crowd erupts again.
"AYDAN ARIN!"
"BRONTIOS ORAGEVAL!"
I take my place.
Brontios takes his.
Silence falls for a fraction of a second, as if the entire stadium is holding its breath at once.
The referee raises his hand.
"FIGHT!"
Final — Aydan (Fire, Carmine Fire) vs Brontios (Lightning, Superbolt)
At first, there's nothing elemental.
Just two bodies.
Two wills.
Brontios attacks first.
Bare-handed.
A sharp straight punch. I block, counter with a hook. He dodges, strikes my liver. I step back half a pace, take it, answer with a knee. He slides aside.
Our fists cross. Our forearms clash. We land hits almost at the same time, again and again.
Perfect balance.
The crowd screams at every impact.
I feel his strikes: precise, clean, calibrated. He wastes nothing.
I feel mine: heavier, more aggressive, more… loaded.
Brontios pulls back for an instant, just enough to breathe.
Me too.
We stare at each other.
No smile.
No provocation.
Just the obvious truth: neither of us will let go.
Brontios moves his hand.
Lightning appears.
Not Superbolt. Not yet.
Normal lightning—bright, nervous, dancing around his fingers.
And his speed changes.
He almost disappears.
He appears in front of me, too fast. I retreat, but his strike grazes my cheek. A shock tingles across my face. Another blow comes lower. I jump back just in time.
Every hit could be fatal.
Not because he's trying to kill—
but because his speed doesn't forgive.
I try to answer with my normal fire.
I channel it.
A flame bursts from my hand, a simple fireball, a direct shot.
Brontios avoids it like it's a joke.
He doesn't even step back.
He slips through the space where the fire was supposed to stop him, and punches me in the chin.
My head snaps back.
I grit my teeth.
I stumble back, wipe a drop of blood from the corner of my mouth.
Brontios advances.
He has the advantage.
I feel it.
The crowd does too.
I breathe. I close my eyes briefly.
Not to run.
To choose.
When I open them again, I channel Carmine Fire.
A dark red flame appears on my right hand.
Dense. Stable.
It stretches.
It becomes a blade.
Not a full sword. A short blade, like an extension of my arm—sharp, controlled.
The crowd roars.
Brontios doesn't react. He only lifts his shoulders slightly, as if it confirms what he was waiting for.
And then…
Superbolt appears.
Bright blue lightning.
Faster.
Sharper.
Deadlier.
The fight shifts.
Brontios rushes.
I raise my Carmine blade to block—
too late.
He slips to the side, brushes my shoulder. An electric burn shoots through my arm, makes my jaw clench.
I turn, slash.
He's already gone.
A strike hits my ribs. Shock. Pain. My breath breaks.
I retreat, slide, stabilize.
I feel my mana.
I feel my reserve.
I can't play at "enduring."
I have to impose something.
So I do what I do best.
I shape.
I channel Carmine harder.
I let it rise over my chest, my shoulders.
A Carmine armor appears, imperfect at first, trembling, but real. It doesn't cover everything—not like Elëv's—but it protects enough.
The crowd explodes.
Brontios, for the first time, takes a step back.
Not fear.
Analysis.
I take that second.
I concentrate the fire in my hand.
I pull it like a thread.
I solidify it.
A Carmine sword forms.
Long. Stable. Perfect.
The feeling is strange—
like I'm holding a piece of myself.
I take the advantage.
I charge.
This time, Brontios has to retreat.
I strike, he blocks with his sword.
The clash between our blades spits red and blue sparks. Heat and electricity mix. The air grows heavy.
I strike again. He blocks. I shift angles, feint, aim for his throat.
He dodges by inches.
My heart beats faster.
It's tight.
It's dangerous.
It's exactly the kind of fight where one mistake becomes an ending.
Brontios finally smiles.
A brief smile, almost invisible.
As if he's pleased I'm finally "worthy."
He changes style.
He combines his sword with lightning.
The blade becomes a glowing line—sharp, fast.
We exchange spectacular sword strikes. Parries. Counters. Deflections. Every impact makes my arms vibrate.
Even.
For a few seconds, it's art.
Then it becomes war again.
Brontios slips inside my guard and punches, charged with Superbolt, straight into the Carmine breastplate. The armor holds, cracks, but the shock still passes through. My body stiffens.
I stagger back, teeth clenched.
I answer with a brutal motion: my Carmine blade rises, falls, searching for the opening.
Brontios blocks, but the force drives him back a step.
I feel my fire… respond stronger.
I feel that "something" beneath the color.
That darker density.
As if my hatred wants to mix into the flame without my permission.
I shake my head inside.
Not now.
I keep going.
I use magic and sword together: I make Carmine spikes erupt from the ground—not huge, just enough to limit his movement.
Brontios jumps.
Dodges.
But he loses a fraction of a second.
And I strike.
I hit his side.
A cut.
Not deep.
But real.
The crowd goes insane.
Brontios steps back.
His gaze hardens.
He stops "playing."
He lowers himself.
More stable.
And Superbolt intensifies.
I feel the pressure.
I feel that the next exchange will be the last.
I breathe.
I tighten my grip on the Carmine sword.
I charge.
Brontios charges.
Our blades meet at the center.
The impact is so violent it feels like the air explodes.
Red.
Blue.
Sparks.
The sound is metallic, unbearable.
We push.
We force.
We tremble.
And then…
Brontios twists his wrist slightly.
Just a detail.
But that detail is enough.
My Carmine sword wavers.
His does too.
A second later, both blades crack at the same time.
Brontios's steel shatters.
The Carmine… fractures, like red glass.
And the Carmine sword disappears.
It goes out instantly, as if someone blew into my mana.
I stand for a fraction of a second, empty-handed.
Brontios too, broken blade still in his grip.
The stadium holds its breath.
And me…
I understand the real fight starts now.
Because I have no sword anymore.
Because he has no sword anymore.
Because all we have left are our elements.
Our bodies.
And that fire inside me…
waiting for exactly this.