The clash hit with a visceral shockwave, a crackling surge of raw mana that sent a tremor through the arena. Magic users in the audience flinched—they could feel it. Even's lance of blood and stone ground violently against Annabel's fusion of thunder and lightning, both forces snarling and writhing as they warred in the space between them. Every moment, pressure mounted. The deck beneath their feet splintered and buckled, massive cracks spidering outward beneath their power.
"What a clash!" Quincy shouted, soaring above the carnage, her voice riding the wind. "Who will come out on top from this one?!"
Annabel's arms trembled as she narrowed her gaze and pushed harder. The glowing orb at the center of her magic began to change. First, icy trails started coiling around the edges, then azure flames flared from her shoulders and wrists, crawling along her skin like ethereal serpents. The spell brightened—its core thickening, deepening in color, turning from raw white lightning into something far more unstable and beautiful. Sparks became flashes. The air warped from the heat. It wasn't just lightning anymore—it was fused with thunder, ice, and now, soul fire. And it showed.
Even's eyes narrowed. The lance buckled under the strain. The spiraling spear of blood and stone groaned audibly as it pushed forward, but Annabel's magic was overwhelming it now—pressing it back inch by inch. The tip was already near Even's chest.
The moment fire joined her barrage, Even's lance began to falter. The spinning force slowed as if it were being crushed from the front, barely holding together under the raw pressure. It inched back toward him, closer and closer, the point of the drill just feet from his chest. He bit his lip until it bled and fed more blood into the weapon, forcing more stone to twist out of the dwindling spike beneath him. The makeshift platform shrank with every inch he carved from it, stone melting into his spell even as he siphoned mana to patch his own body—healing his cracked limbs, regenerating blood, barely holding himself together.
*I'm running out,* he realized. The flow of mana in his veins was thin now, stretched between offense, defense, healing, and construction. He could feel it like a creeping weight on his back—mana exhaustion was coming. Fast.
In the stands, Lia stood, hands cupped around her mouth. "Come on, Even, you can do it!" she cried, voice hoarse.
"Don't give up, not at the first fight!" Dirk added, mimicking her.
Down in the arena, Annabel's voice cracked through the air, strained but still sharp. "Give up already! You can't win this!"
Her confidence rang out, but her arms trembled. Her breathing stuttered. She was forcing herself forward too—grinding her power against his in a battle neither of them could hold for long.
Even didn't answer at first. His arms trembled, his knees bent—but he didn't drop. He locked eyes with her, blood smearing the edge of his grin.
"Fuck it!" he snarled—and shoved both hands forward into the collapsing spell.
The lance now nearly gone, his hands reached into the fray themselves—flesh grinding against the spiraling remnants of his own magic. His fingers cracked, blood spraying as the force of the collision ripped into him. But he didn't stop. His lips curled into a growl.
"I'm not going to lose!"
Yellow light burst from his palm—sudden, blinding. His soul color. Pure, unfiltered mana surged into shape.
Mana Blast.
With a roar, he unleashed it.
The lance disintegrated instantly, the air ripping apart in a cone of golden energy. It slammed into Annabel's spell with a crushing, rippling explosion of force. For a breathless second, the attacks met—yellow against silver-blue, blood against soul. Then Annabel's entire spell collapsed inward, sucked into the blast and dissolved.
Annabel's eyes widened in a way they never had before—not with annoyance, nor amusement, nor calculation.
But with panic.
"Wait—!" she started, her voice swallowed by the blast.
And then the beam struck her, detonating with a thunderous boom that cracked the sky.
The arena fell into a breathless silence. Not a whisper, not a shuffle from the thousands watching. The only sound that remained was Even's ragged, uneven breathing—each inhale a sharp pull, each exhale trembling from the strain. He stood hunched over, drenched in sweat, blood still drying on his arms and face, his shoulders rising and falling as if the air itself had become too heavy to bear.
All eyes were on the clearing smoke.
And then, through the gray haze, a silhouette emerged. Annabel.
She stood—barely. Her arms were stretched out in front of her, shielding herself. From fingertips to shoulders, her skin was blackened and blistered, the flesh burned raw by the beam's intensity. Her clothes were scorched, her long hair half-charred, strands falling over her pale face. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths.
"You lunatic," she muttered weakly, her voice hoarse, lips cracked. "That could have killed me."
Her legs gave out a moment later. She dropped to her knees—then forward, collapsing face-first to the deck.
In the final seconds before the blast struck, Annabel had done everything she could to survive. She'd pulled every ounce of mana she had left into a single defensive spell combining all of her affinities—layered barriers of lightning, reinforced ice, deflective air, heat-dampening flame, reactive thunder—all of it crashing together into one desperate wall. It hadn't been enough to stop the beam, but it had been just enough to survive it.
And with her fall, the outcome was clear.
The silence broke like glass.
The crowd exploded into cheers—screams and applause erupting like thunder in the stands. The roar shook the arena. Cries of joy, disbelief, and awe poured down toward the battlefield in waves.
In the Mathers' VIP stand, Samwell Mathers had risen from his seat, unmoving. His eyes were locked onto his son with a stare as sharp as steel.
"He used it?" Samwell muttered, barely audible. "He used our hereditary ability? He can use it?"
Beside him, Matthew leaned forward over the railing, stunned. He didn't speak. He just watched Even, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and admiration.
In the general stands, Lia jumped up with a cheer. "He won! He won!"
"Good job, Even," Dirk added, a proud grin tugging at his face as he clapped with the rest of the crowd.
In the fighters' waiting room, Xain's jaw dropped.
"Holy crap, he actually won!" he exclaimed, staring at the screen as if it might change.
"I wanted him to win, but after all that, I… didn't expect it," he admitted.
"That final blast," Brynard said, arms crossed, "was more than just strong. It was refined. Precise."
Zeva said nothing at first. Her fists had curled at her sides, nails digging into her palms.
"That…" she whispered under her breath, "would have been hard even for me to block."
Back on the battlefield, Quincy's voice rang out again, rising above the roar.
"And we have our winner of this magical battle!" she cried, flying down from the air with a flourish. "It's Even Mathers!"
She swooped down toward him, slowing as she reached the battered, swaying fighter.
Even turned to her, his eyelids barely staying open. "Are you okay?" she asked softly.
"No…" he mumbled, his voice low and frayed. "I'm exhausted."
Then he collapsed forward.
Quincy caught him easily, her wings folding around them both as he went limp in her arms. For a second she just held him there, surprised by the sudden weight—by how quickly he'd burned out the last of his strength.
Then her expression softened. She brushed a bit of damp hair from his face, her voice low enough that only he might hear.
"You did great."