Even struck first—swinging the butt of his rifle toward Annabel's temple with a sharp, controlled motion. But she dipped beneath it effortlessly, her body gliding low. As she slipped past him, her ice blade flashed upward, cutting across his stomach—a wound that both slashed and seared at once with cold fire. Before he could react, she spun behind him, slicing across his back in one clean stroke.
"Ugh—damn it!" Even hissed, staggering forward. But already a faint blue light began to pulse from his body. His injuries sealed shut in seconds, the glow vanishing as he recovered fully.
He turned and swung again, this time bringing the rifle down at a steep angle, aiming to smash her jaw. Annabel leaned backward in one fluid motion, letting the weapon whistle past her face. But before she could counter, Even suddenly let go—hurling the rifle into the air—and stepped in close. His left fist came flying toward her face, while his right arm drew back in a suspiciously loaded stance.
A sound cracked behind her.
She caught a glimpse—stone shifting. Spikes beginning to erupt from the towering construct Even had ridden in on. He'd rigged it as a trap. They were timed to impale her the moment she dodged forward.
"Clever," she said, twisting her body sideways—but not without cost.
Her ice blade lashed out, stabbing through Even's punching hand, splitting it clean in half with a jagged crunch.
Before the stone could skewer her, she slammed her foot against the deck. A thick wall of ice surged up behind her, crashing into place just in time to absorb the incoming spikes with a shattering roar.
"But I can do that too," she added, eyes glinting. "After all, we're on my ship."
She yanked her sword free from Even's ruined fist with a wet rip. The audience visibly recoiled at the sight, many cringing.
"Ooh, that definitely looked like it hurt," Quincy announced from above, clenching and unclenching her own hand instinctively.
Even grunted but raised his arm again—his healing already stitching the damage shut. The rifle, still spinning overhead, fell toward him, and he caught it mid-air. Without hesitation, he fired point-blank.
The shot never made it.
Annabel's blade carved through the barrel in a single, graceful motion. Lightning surged along the edge of her sword, crackling with violent energy—it didn't just slice; it screamed through the metal like a magical chainsaw made of ice and lightning.
"Combination magics, huh?" Even muttered, tossing the broken weapon aside. "Goddess, I hate sorcerers."
He barely managed to leap back as Annabel's sword swung again, cutting through the air with a force that would've cleaved him clean in half.
"Hey, it's not our fault we're born naturally talented," Annabel said with a smirk, twirling her blade once. "Then again, considering your family, you're not exactly lacking in talent, are you?"
Her eyes briefly flicked to the Mathers VIP stand.
"Still," she added with a shrug, "this feels like a rather disappointing performance—especially with that bloodline of yours."
In the stand, Samwell Mathers' face darkened as his fist clenched tightly.
"See, Matthew?" he growled. "This is exactly why we threw him out of the family. And now, look at him—humiliating our name in front of everyone."
Beside him, Matthew stared at Even, voice barely a whisper. "Is that really everything you can do…?"
In the fighters' waiting room, Xain leaned forward with a furrowed brow. "What was that?" he asked, eyes still wide from the display. "That thing she used—it looked like a magical chainsaw made of ice and lightning."
"Combination magic," Calvinel replied, arms crossed casually. "She fused her ice and lightning affinities to create a new effect on the fly. Sorcerers can do that. They're naturally gifted at mixing different elements and improvising spells."
He gave a small shrug, then chuckled. "Goddess, I'm just glad I'm not the one fighting her."
In the stands, Dirk was wringing his hands against his thighs, anxiety etched across his face. "This is bad," he muttered. "He hasn't landed a single hit yet."
Lia smacked his arm—not hard, but enough to make him blink. "Stop worrying! He's got this," she said with forced cheer. Then, without missing a beat, added, "Even if he hasn't managed to hit her once and is completely outclassed in magic."
Was she defending him… or insulting him?
Back in the arena, Even exhaled slowly. His eyes narrowed, locked on Annabel.
"Bloodline, huh?" he echoed. "You know, if you'd said that to me a month ago, I probably would've gotten pissed. Or maybe just sat down and sulked about it[1]."
He flicked his wrists, flexing his fingers slowly—subtle movements that didn't go unnoticed.
Annabel's gaze sharpened, her smirk still in place. "Oh? That's good then. You grew past something."
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks, I guess," Even muttered. "But you're right."
The red mark on the back of his right hand flared suddenly, glowing brighter and brighter until it pulsed like a heartbeat.
Quincy's eyes gleamed. She leaned forward with a grin far too satisfied. "Here it comes," she whispered to herself, practically glowing with anticipation.
"This is a very disappointing performance," he said calmly, his grin slowly returning, "considering my bloodline."
Then—his veins swelled, bulging beneath his skin before rupturing. Blood poured down his arm, trailing from his wrist to his fingertips—before hardening midair, shaping into a glistening crimson blade.
"Let me put it to better use," Even said, gripping the hilt as the sword fully formed.
Silence swept across the stands for a brief moment. Samwell's eyes widened. Matthew's mouth parted slightly in disbelief. And on the field, Annabel's smirk faltered for the first time as her gaze locked onto the weapon in his hand.
*Blood magic!?*
The same thought hit them all at once.
Up in the air, Quincy's eyes lit up with a flash of hunger. Her lips parted slightly as she licked her fangs, voice soft and heavy with excitement.
"I shouldn't be biased," she purred, grin widening, "but… ah~ Show them what you learned."
[1] Is that what you call feeling suicidal?
-The Editor.