"How? Just how does he know blood magic?" Samwell growled, his voice low and dangerous, fingers curling into a white-knuckled fist.
"That's not something he knew before… right?" Matthew asked, eyes never leaving the arena, locked on the red gleam of the blood-forged blade in Even's hand.
In the fighters' waiting room, Xain leaned closer to the glass, his expression stunned. "Is that… blood magic? I've heard of it before," he muttered, breath catching.
"It is…" Vilak answered quietly, trailing off with unease.
"But it's not really something he should be using," Calvinel added flatly.
Xain turned to him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Because blood magic runs on blood," Calvinel said, gesturing vaguely. "Usually your own. And, well—people don't exactly have an unlimited amount of that."
In the stands, Lia sat stiff, eyes wide with surprise. "I didn't teach him that," she muttered under her breath.
"Did he learn it on his own?" Dirk muttered beside her, astonishment creeping into his tone.
Back in the arena, Quincy swooped overhead, her voice echoing loud and lively across the walls.
"Wow, wow, wow! Who could've seen this coming? Blood magic! Now the real question—where did he learn it? And who taught him?" Her tone tried for neutrality, but the excitement bled through with every word.
Meanwhile, Even's smirk deepened as he leveled the blood blade at Annabel.
"Look at that expression. Didn't see this coming, huh?"
Annabel's eyes narrowed at the sword, her grin slowly returning. "You're right. I didn't." She lifted her weapon in response, voice calm but cutting. "But it changes nothing. You really think waving around a blood blade is going to win you this?"
Then, with no warning, she surged forward—slashing at him with her lightning-iced chainsaw blade held in one hand while hurling jagged ice shards at his feet with her other hand. The shards tore into his boots, freezing the ground beneath him. Ice encased his foot, locking it to the deck.
Even grunted, raising his blood-forged sword to block her slash. The impact cracked the blade, but instead of retreating—he poured more of his own blood into it, reinforcing the edge mid-strike. The sword solidified again with a hiss.
"See? It doesn't matter!" Annabel spat, drawing back for another swing, her eyes flashing with raw force.
But then Even's right hand glowed again—and the blood that had seeped into the frozen ground around his feet pulsed violently before exploding outward in a spray of needled tendrils.
Annabel snapped her fingers and raised an ice wall on instinct, but Even flexed his fingers, redirecting the blood to curve around the defense. The sharp threads slammed into her with pinpoint precision—one into her left thigh, another piercing her upper right arm, a third stabbing through her lower stomach, and one driving into her chest just below the collarbone.
"You little—!" she began, but her breath hitched.
Even didn't wait. His sword melted into crimson liquid, forming over his hand into a jagged blood gauntlet. He lunged forward and smashed through the weakened ice wall with it, sending splinters and shards flying as he closed the gap.
Annabel barely dodged, stumbling backward, her balance faltering from the injuries.
"Why are you running?" Even taunted, shaking the blood gauntlet with a laugh. "I thought this didn't matter?"
Annabel let out a huff, one hand resting on her hip as her breathing steadied. "You're using your blood pretty freely, aren't you?" she asked, brow raised. "Aren't you afraid of bleeding out?"
Even rolled his shoulder with a shrug. "I can regenerate it. Water magic," he replied casually. "Healing's kinda my specialty."
Annabel's eyes narrowed slightly. "So that's why…" She studied him a moment longer before her expression sharpened with realization. "You've got a lot of mana, don't you?"
As he began mending the ice wounds around his legs, Even gave her a pointed glance. "I do. But the same can be said about you, can't it? Considering the show you put on with your soul flame earlier before the fight."
Annabel's grin returned, sly and sharp. "Yes, yes it could."
Without further warning, she dashed forward, blade igniting with a searing blue flame. The ice-lightning chainsaw howled as it carved through the air. Her first strike came high and fast—accompanied by a sudden blast of fire aimed at his side.
Even immediately reshaped his blood gauntlet into a broad shield, crouching low as he blocked the swing. With his free hand, he reached toward the massive spike of stone nearby, ripping a chunk of it loose and hurling it into the fire's path to help absorb the heat.
But the moment it struck, Annabel snapped her fingers.
A thunderous crack shattered the stone midair. The sonic shockwave tore through the debris and slammed into Even's head and chest. Blood poured from his ears, nose, and eyes, his knees buckling slightly from the force.
Even gritted his teeth, eyes burning with focus as the red sigil on his hand flared. The blood he'd just spilled lifted from the ground in slender arcs and sharpened mid-air into glinting red daggers. With a flick of his wrist, they launched toward her—dozens of them.
Annabel's form blurred. Her body surged forward with a streak of lightning trailing behind her as she zipped between the incoming daggers, their whistling edges grazing her cloak. One cut her sleeve, another her thigh, but she didn't falter. She hurled a bolt of lightning in return, quick and compact, aimed at Even's chest.
He responded instantly, dragging the stone spike in front of him with raw force and coating it with a slick layer of blood. The bolt hit, sending a crackling web of current through the shield—but it held.
The battlefield was in chaos.
The once-solid deck beneath them groaned under the strain, cracking in spirals, fissures spidering out from every heavy footfall, from every magical clash. But neither of them paused. Neither acknowledged it. Whether they didn't notice or simply didn't care was impossible to say.
Annabel's aura surged again—lightning snapping from her blade while the air around her shimmered from the force of her thunder magic gathering. Sparks danced up her arms, her eyes glowing with focused fury.
Across from her, Even raised his hands, molding together a weapon from the blood and stone at his command. A lance—long, heavy, spiraling with jagged veins of red crystal and roughened rock—formed in his grip. Its tip burned with kinetic force, its shaft trembling from the sheer energy built within.
The two locked eyes. The crowd held its breath—and then roared with anticipation.
Even hurled the lance, its spinning body drilling through the air with raw momentum.
Annabel met it head-on, unleashing a blinding fusion of thunder and lightning, her voice silent beneath the boom that followed—magic crashing against magic, for what could be the final clash.