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Chapter 65: Measured Steps
The tournament grounds had barely recovered from the shock of Byron's fall when the next wave of battles resumed. The air was thick with tension, a pulsing current of anticipation sweeping through the crowd. Yet for Lyrian, seated quietly in the elevated observation rows with the other non-participants, it wasn't just the buzz of the arena that unsettled him.
It was a feeling.
A presence.
His eyes instinctively drifted back toward the now-vacant stage where Contestant 1172 had stood.
He felt it. Even through the chaos, even in the distant stands… it was as if that masked figure had looked directly at him.
Stared into him.
And for a flicker of a moment, the noise around him dulled to a low hum, and all he could see was that motionless, masked silhouette—unreadable, yet oddly... familiar.
He blinked.
The stage was empty now.
But the weight of that silent gaze lingered like smoke.
"Lyrian?" Elyreina nudged him gently. "You okay?"
He gave a curt nod, brushing off the sensation with a faint scowl. "Yeah. Just… zoned out."
Down below, the next match was already underway.
Contestant 1156.
It was Seraphina's turn.
A hush swept across the crowd the moment her name was announced. No grand declarations, no theatrics. She stepped into the arena with quiet grace, silver hair catching the light like polished glass. Her opponent—a hopeful first-year with twin daggers—tried to mask his nerves behind forced bravado.
The fight didn't last long.
Seraphina moved like a bladed wind. Elegant. Precise. Cold. The first-year rushed in with an impressive burst of speed—but she was already gone, reappearing behind him in a burst of icy mist. One clean slash across his back, and he collapsed, unconscious.
The crowd barely had time to react.
Observers took furious notes. Some students whispered about how she didn't even break a sweat.
"She's terrifying," one muttered. "I didn't even see her draw her blade…"
Seraphina simply walked off the stage without a glance back, her sword still gleaming.
An unlucky situation for the first-year—meeting someone of her caliber.
Moments later, another name was called—
Contestant 298.
It was finally Reynard's turn.
He stepped into the light with casual confidence, spinning his sword once before settling into a low stance. His opponent, a lean second-year with shadow-walking magic, tried to disappear into wisps of black mist—but Reynard had faced illusionists before.
The second-year reappeared behind him—only to find a blade waiting.
Reynard moved with the elegance of a dance, each step flowing into the next, like wind weaving through a storm. His technique, Zephyr Dance, wasn't just combat—it was art. Dodging, weaving, countering with pinpoint strikes. The crowd erupted with every evasive motion, every perfect parry.
Eventually, his opponent faltered.
One final sweep of his sword sent him crashing to the ground.
Reynard exhaled softly. "Next."
Back in the viewing area, Michael gave an approving nod. "He's better than I thought."
The announcer barely had time to calm the crowd.
Dorian's fight was about to begin.
"Contestant 299."
Lyrian leaned toward Elyreina and whispered, "Watch this one."
Dorian stepped onto the stage—calm, collected, and precise.
His opponent tried a blitz assault—rapid dashes and elemental bursts—but Dorian's control over space itself made it impossible to land a hit. He manipulated the field like a master tactician, folding distances, shortening reactions, warping paths.
At one point, the opponent charged straight at him—and simply vanished mid-step, reappearing a few feet off-target, utterly disoriented.
Dorian ended it with a flat-palmed strike that folded space and compressed force into a single pulse—knocking his opponent clean off the arena floor.
He stepped back silently, adjusting his gloves.
Above, an instructor narrowed his eyes, jotting something beside Dorian's number.
Then the air shifted.
The announcer's voice rang out again.
"Next match: Elyreina!"
Her name echoed like a drumbeat through the stadium. The crowd leaned forward in expectation. She stood, the light catching the edges of her armor, and slowly began her descent toward the arena.
Lyrian watched her go, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Her fight was next.