Combat Hall Epsilon was unlike the others.
Epsilon was a temple where Delta arena had been a pit of wolves. High ceilings. polished marble arteries carved with glowing mana lines. A skylight of a dome outlined with rotating rings of arcane throws a changing light on the ring.
This wasn't a place for brawls.
It was where legacy stood trial.
And every seat was full.
Professors from every college. Noble families draped in their crests. Scholars. Scouts. Even an envoy from the Dominion's military sect.
All gathered to witness the final match.
To witness the anomaly.
To witness Nclai Azrael.
He stood near the archway, coat restored, shirt still marred with faint flame-scars from the semifinals. His face blank.
Sync Ratio stable at 16.2%.
Lyra stood beside him, arms crossed tightly.
"You don't have to prove anything," she said. "But if you do, can you maybe not scare me to death this time?"
He didn't reply.
She looked up at him. "Brooding again?"
A pause. Then a whisper.
"No."
It was the first word he'd said that morning.
She blinked. Then smiled softly. "Good."
The bell rang.
...
Across the arena, Caen Valebran stepped forward into the light.
He looked every bit the part of a final-round noble.
Uniform pristine.
Gauntlets engraved with his family's sigils.
Wind-circles spinning lazily around his boots.
Magic gave off the scent of ozone and steel, clean, honed and sharp.
Professor Ileron's voice carried through the chamber.
"The final match. Valebran versus Azrael. Begin on my mark."
Caen stared directly at Nclai.
"You've made quite the mess climbing this far," he said. "But you're not the first wild blood to roar."
His stance shifted.
Wind thickened around him.
"I'll be the one to silence it."
...
"Begin."
Caen struck first.
But not like Dresk.
Not like the others.
He moved with discipline. No charge. No anger.
A sideways blink, a burst of pressure– then three rapid shockwaves.
Precise. Fast.
Nclai dodged with small, efficient motions.
No wasted energy.
Caen circled, trying to herd him toward the center.
To control the space.
Nclai let it happen.
He stepped where he was led, eyes watching the rhythm of the wind.
"Smart," Caen muttered. "You know not to rush in. But…"
The floor cracked. Caen's feet locked. Wind speared forward.
His palm shot out like a lance.
Nclai's eyes narrowed.
His blood stirred.
...
System Notification
Crimson Thread activated
Sync Ratio: 16.2%
Threat Predictive Mode: Engaged
...
He vanished.
Not with speed.
With thread.
A shimmer, like air folding.
Reality warped around him.
He reappeared behind Caen mid-lunge.
Palm already rising.
Caen twisted – barely blocking with crossed arms.
The impact cracked the air.
Wind sigils shattered.
Gasps erupted across the stands.
Caen slid backward, boots carving through stone.
Nclai didn't chase.
He only tilted his head, eyes tracking the threads again.
...
Caen wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.
But he wasn't angry.
He looked awake.
"So it's true," he said. "The threads. The Sovereign's reflexes..."
His stance changed again.
Not noble form.
War form.
One used by Dominion-trained elites.
The air went sharp.
He moved again.
No wasted flare.
Every strike precise.
Meant to kill.
But...
[Sanguine Reflex: Active]
Pattern Break Window Detected: 1.2s
Counter Advantage Calculated – Valid
Motion Sync: Prepared
...
Nclai stepped in.
Not dodging.
Not reacting.
Breaking.
Palm hit shoulder. Twist. Knee into gut. Pivot.
Caen's body folded.
The sequence hadn't existed a second earlier.
It wasn't taught.
It was whispered.
By the blood.
Caen coughed hard. Blood splattered the floor.
Still, he rose.
Roared.
Wind pulsed wild again.
Three layered seals lit up behind him.
His boots flared with sigils.
The air began to spin hard.
A vortex. Massive. Controlled.
A technique meant to end matches.
High-tier Dominion military grade.
Professor Ileron leaned forward in the stands.
But Nclai stood still.
...
System Notification
Threat level: High
Sync Ratio: 17.4%
Crimson Thread Immersion: ( Active )
...
Nclai stepped once.
Threads lit up his vision.
Red lines traced every move, every angle, every breath of the incoming spell.
And then –
He was inside the storm.
Time froze.
Then...
Crack.
Caen slammed into the arena floor, back-first.
The spell broke instantly.
Dust cleared.
Wind vanished.
Nclai stood over him.
Coat rippling from the sudden burst of force.
Caen didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He was unconscious.
...
Silence.
Then chaos.
The crowd roared.
Some nobles rose.
Some applauded.
Others whispered.
Many stared.
But none spoke his name.
Not yet.
They didn't know what he was.
Only that something had changed.
That a Sovereign's ghost had passed through Combat Hall Epsilon.
...
Later, in the high observation tower above the arena, Professor Ileron stood alone.
He stared at the boy walking out of the ring.
"…Impossible," he muttered.
Then, lower.
"No. Not impossible."
His fist clenched behind his back.
"Unacceptable."
...