A strong, hot wind swept through the air, prickling Gabriel’s skin. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep a calm facade despite the whirlwind of doubts in his mind.

“It feels strange not to have trained this morning,” Jonan said to the group of boys, his voice light but with a tinge of unease.

Gabriel broke the silence. “I told you it would grow on you.”

Jonan sighed dramatically. “No one likes a know-it-all.” He then nudged Lakan. “Why the nerves? It’s just a few fights.”

Lakan’s face was pale, his fists clenched tight. “So much is riding on the next few days,” he murmured. Gabriel had seen this before—Lakan pushing himself too hard, afraid of falling short of his father’s legacy. He wondered how much longer his friend could bear the pressure before it cracked him.

Ryn fidgeted with his hands as they walked, his fingers moving as if they were tracing invisible patterns. Gabriel knew it wasn’t just nerves; it was Ryn’s mind working overtime, running through strategies, over analyzing every possible outcome. He was always thinking three steps ahead, but sometimes that made him anxious—seeing all the ways a fight could go wrong.

Gabriel felt the same pressure his friends did, a heavy weight growing inside him like a living thing. But he hid it behind a mask of stoicism. Battles started long before any swords were drawn, and he refused to show anything but strength. His friends needed him to be the steady one—their unwavering pillar of confidence, no matter what churned beneath the surface.

“Don’t worry about it, it’ll be fun,” Jonan said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You do realize that our next fights will likely dictate the rest of our lives?” Ryn countered; his voice edged with worry.

Gabriel, walking slightly ahead of the group, suddenly stopped. Turning to face them, he placed a hand on Lakan’s and Ryn’s shoulders, halting their progress to the Academy arena.

“We’ve trained for this. Harder than anyone else.” He turned to Lakan first. “You’re one of the strongest fighters here. You never back down, and your instincts are sharp.”

Then Gabriel looked at Ryn. “You’ve got one of the quickest minds in the Academy. You can see your opponent's moves before they even make them. Master Darrel was right to give you the highest grade. You know how to fight, and you know how to exploit weaknesses.” Locking eyes with both of them, he finished, “Don’t doubt yourselves.”

Lakan gave a small nod, mostly to himself. “I need to win this,” he muttered.

“Your father believes in you,” Gabriel said, offering reassurance.

After a short silence, Jonan, ever the joker, pouted, “What? No rousing pep talk for me?”

But Gabriel noticed the brief hesitation before the smile. It was subtle—the way Jonan's eyes flickered downward for just a second before his usual bravado kicked in. Gabriel knew his friend well enough to sense that the jokes were more than just humor—they were a shield. Jonan always laughed the loudest when he was hiding something, when the stakes felt higher than he cared to admit.

Gabriel forced a chuckle. “You already know what to do, you sneaky bastard.”

Jonan laughed, a loud, carefree sound. “That I do, brother, that I do.”

As they resumed their walk to the arena, Lakan stood taller, his gaze more focused and confident. “We’ve got this!” he exclaimed.

“There he is,” Jonan laughed, leaping onto Lakan’s back playfully.

Gabriel watched his friends laugh and joke, but behind his smile, tension gnawed at him. He felt a deep pride in them, a real sense of brotherhood—yet beneath it lurked something darker, more complicated. How far would their bond hold if it were tested? If they ever learned the truth about him? About his magic? I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.

He had spent nearly a year with them—sharing meals, training side by side from dawn to dusk. They had become his family. He glanced at Lakan, who was ranked first. The weight of his own ranking—near the bottom at fifty—pressed on his chest like an iron fist. He wanted to be happy for Lakan’s success, for his friends' victories, but deep down, a darker thought surfaced: if he was to become Prime, someone would have to fall. Each victory felt like a step closer to his goal, but also a step further from the trust they’d built.

The arena loomed ahead, pulling Gabriel from his thoughts. The low murmur of excited chatter buzzed in his ears, a constant hum from the boys already seated in the arena. Dust and the scent of sweat hung in the warm air. Gabriel and his friends claimed spots on the front bench, angling for the best view of the action to come. As he scanned the other students, he caught their nervous glances, restless hands, and eyes darting nervously across the arena. Tension rippled through the air, but Gabriel leaned back lazily, forcing himself to act as if today was just another routine event.

The Grandmaster stood in the center, his voice booming across the arena. “Congratulations to all of you who have made it this far. You are the best of Valandor. Yesterday, we bid farewell to those who did not rank high enough, but you—” his gaze swept over them, “—you have earned your place here.”

Gabriel’s eyes flicked to the remaining students. Some looked hopeful, others somber, still feeling the weight of losing their friends. Last night’s dinner had been quiet. Losing a third of their classmates was a sobering reminder of how high the stakes were. Friends forged in the fires of intense training were now gone. For many, it was a bitter farewell. But Gabriel had grown accustomed to such losses. His close friends were still by his side, but so was Velar, whose toothy grin and mocking taunts of others' failures lingered in Gabriel’s mind, haunting him from the night before.

The Grandmaster’s voice echoed through the arena, commanding everyone’s attention. "Today, you will fight until only eight remain. This knockout rounds will determine the top eight students. The highest-ranked will face the lowest-ranked, and those who emerge victorious will move on to the grand amphitheater, where you will fight in front of friends, family, and the King himself. You will be honored. Fight strong, for every battle from here on could shape your destiny."

Gabriel swallowed hard as a sudden wave of nerves hit him. He had to make it—there was no other option. He needed power, enough to shape the future of Balatia, to protect Accamania from any threat. Enough to reclaim his place, exact his revenge, and, above all, save his sister.

As the first bouts began, Gabriel focused intensely, studying each fighter’s strengths and weaknesses.

Lakan’s opponent in the first fight never stood a chance. The poor boy barely lasted thirty breaths before Lakan’s strength and skill overwhelmed him. It was over in an instant.

Ryn's fight was more methodical. Though slower, he remained in control the entire time, maneuvering his opponent into traps with precision. It was clear his strategic mind was working even in the heat of battle.

Jonan, true to form, made his fight an exhibition of trickery. At one point, he kicked sand into his opponent’s face, then tossed his sword into the air, distracting his foe just long enough to deliver a solid punch to the jaw. It was reckless, but for Jonan, the fun of the fight was just as important as the victory.

Before long, Gabriel stepped onto the sand, feeling the weight of expectation from the surrounding crowd. His friends watched with hopeful eyes, their silent encouragement fueling his resolve. Even the teachers who had seen countless bouts before seemed more interested in this one. Soltis, in particular, was unusually quiet, his normally critical expression replaced with something more neutral—thoughtful, perhaps even intrigued. Though Gabriel knew he’d never fully win Soltis over, the man's criticisms had softened recently, occasionally accompanied by a few pointers.

Gabriel’s gaze shifted to his opponent, Malen. Tall for his age, Malen was a formidable fighter. Gabriel had faced him before when recovering from his injury and had lost. But this time was different—he wouldn’t lose today. There was no animosity between them; in fact, Gabriel liked Malen well enough. But in this arena, there were no friends, only opponents.

He bowed respectfully, and Malen returned the gesture.

The bell rang, signaling the start. The fight would end when a decisive, deathblow-like strike landed, or after three hits were successfully delivered. Gabriel wasted no time—he charged forward, giving Malen no opportunity to assess the situation or form a strategy. His strikes came fast and aggressive, using his one-and-a-half-hilt blade with precision and force. Gabriel’s muscles tightened under his shirt as he swung with both hands, driving Malen back with powerful blows. He wasn’t as large as Lexon or Lakan, but he’d grown in height and strength. Taller and broader than Malen, he could feel the other boy faltering under the relentless pressure.

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In a fluid motion, Gabriel feinted a heavy two-handed strike, then abruptly released one hand, delivering a swift blow. Malen parried the sword strike, but wasn’t prepared for the sudden fist that followed, landing squarely on his chin.

Dazed, Malen staggered, barely managing to raise his sword in time to deflect Gabriel’s next strike. His movements were sluggish, his defense unraveling with each passing second. Gabriel saw the opening and seized it—driving a swift jab into Malen’s sternum. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, and Malen gasped, his knees buckling. Before he could recover, the bell rang, its sharp sound cutting through the air, signaling the end of the match.

Gabriel blinked, savoring the victory. He offered Malen a hand, pulling him to his feet with a nod and a faint smile. The match ended as it had begun, with mutual respect, though Malen’s return gesture was slower, hesitant.

With the bout behind him, Gabriel returned to the seat beside his friends.

“You really have become formidable,” Lakan said.

“We spar with the demon every day. How did you just find out?” Jonan asked rhetorically.

“I think Lakan just means he’s come a long way,” Ryn said.

Lakan simply nodded. There was an undercurrent of tension in his posture though.

They watched in silence as the day stretched on, fight after fight, their focus unbroken. Rooted to their seats, Gabriel and his friends carefully assessed each bout, studying their competition with intensity. Every one of his friends won their second bout, and Gabriel’s victory came with little effort. The fights were largely predictable—except for one.

Jara, one of the smallest boys in the academy, was performing far better than anyone had expected. Most had assumed he would be eliminated in the first round. He was quiet, unassuming, and kept mostly to himself. Gabriel barely remembered exchanging words with him. Jara had always blended into the background, unremarkable in every way. But as Gabriel watched him fight, he realized something: Jara had been wearing a mask, just as he was. The difference was, it seemed, that Jara had become his mask.

During a break, Gabriel approached Jara, who sat still, lost in thought. Only the rise and fall of his chest showed he was even present.

“There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?” Gabriel asked.

Jara’s gaze remained forward, his voice flat as he replied, “It’s been a lucky day for me.”

“Lucks got nothing to do with it,” Gabriel said, watching him closely.

Jara’s expression stayed neutral, guarded. “I’m not one to stand out,” he said, offering little more.

Gabriel leaned forward slightly. “You’ve spent your life in the shadows, haven’t you? Doing just enough to qualify, remining unnoticed so that no one expects much when the real fight comes. And then, when the time is right, you surprise them. It’s a smart strategy—and not an easy one to maintain.” He paused. “But I hope, after this tournament, you’ll step out of those shadows.”

For the first time, Jara looked at Gabriel, a shy, awkward smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not the only one who hides things,” he said, his eyes meeting Gabriel’s. “I can see it in the way you fight. There’s more to you, too.”

Gabriel let out a genuine smile. He hadn’t expected to find such a strategic mind in someone he’d barely noticed before. Patting Jara on the shoulder, he said, “Well done. But let’s hope we don’t have to face each other. I’d hate to ruin the start of this friendship.”

Jara chuckled softly, and the two exchanged smiles before Gabriel stood and returned to his seat next to his friends.

Ryn, who had been watching the exchange, raised an eyebrow. “What was that all about?”

“I was curious.” Then Gabriel looked at each of his friends. “He’s one to watch out for.”

The conversation shifted as they discussed the remaining competitors, scrutinizing the strengths and weaknesses of each. With only sixteen fighters left, the remaining students were of the highest caliber. Every match from now on would be a test of their true skill.

Before long, the next fight was called. Jonan against Lakan.

Both boys turned to each other, their expressions solemn, but Gabriel caught the hesitation in the way they moved. Lakan’s usual confidence was there, but something about his stance felt heavier, more conflicted. Jonan, despite his usual jovial nature, seemed slower to joke this time, the grin on his face lacking its usual sharpness.

After a brief nod to one another, they stood and walked toward the arena. Crossing the balustrade, they stepped onto the sand and made their way to the weapons racks. Lakan chose the same massive great sword he’d been wielding all day. Jonan, however, surprised everyone. Instead of the one-handed sword he usually fought with, he picked up twin daggers.

Gabriel watched Lakan’s expression shift—thoughtful, calculating. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Jonan to choose such a different weapon. Gabriel felt a flicker of pride for Jonan; he was more strategic than people gave him credit for. Trickery had always been Jonan’s style, but this was a new kind of surprise. It might just give him the edge he needed against Lakan.

The clear voice of Soltis rang out across the arena. “Begin.”

Lakan circled Jonan, his movements controlled, his feet crossing over each other with the practiced ease of a seasoned fighter. Jonan, on the other hand, was never one for patience. He lunged forward, daggers outstretched, aiming for Lakan’s sternum. Lakan parried the blows with a deft twist of his sword, pivoting to reduce the area Jonan could strike.

It was a smart move—Lakan was adjusting for the imbalance between their weapons. His great sword, while powerful, was slow and unwieldy compared to Jonan’s swift daggers.

As Jonan pressed his attack, Lakan found himself on the defensive, parrying and dodging each swift strike. It didn’t take long for Lakan to realize his defensive stance was weakening. With a sudden roar, he shifted tactics, driving his shoulder hard into Jonan's chest. Jonan stumbled, skidding across the sand, but he quickly scrambled to his feet, refusing to stay down for long.

Lakan followed with a massive overhead strike, one that Jonan had no hope of blocking with his daggers. Jonan barely dodged in time, the force of the swing stirring the sand beneath his feet. Lakan was relentless now, attacking with a fierce intensity Gabriel hadn’t seen before. His powerful swings sliced through the air, and Gabriel could see the sweat pouring from his friend’s brow. If any of those blows landed, it wouldn’t just mean Jonan’s loss—it could mean serious injury.

Jonan, quick as ever, kicked up a cloud of sand to obscure Lakan’s vision. He weaved under another high swing and feinted a strike to Lakan’s chest. But Lakan knew Jonan’s tricks too well. He had seen him execute the same tactic just before. Anticipating the move, Lakan swung again. Jonan managed to dodge the strike, but he was too slow to avoid the follow-up. He desperately tried to parry, but Lakan’s strength was too much. The great sword grazed Jonan’s chest, sending him stumbling.

Lakan didn’t let up. With a quick reversal of his grip, he brought the hilt of his sword down hard on Jonan’s head.

Dazed, Jonan staggered, nearly collapsing. He tried to parry Lakan’s next strike, but his movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. The blow landed on his chest, sending Jonan to the sand.

Lakan immediately kneeled beside him, concern flashing across his face. Gabriel watched as the two exchanged quiet words, too low to hear. Then, Jonan’s familiar toothy grin spread across his face, and Gabriel knew he was alright.

Lakan stood, pulling Jonan to his feet, and the two embraced. Lakan slung Jonan’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried him back to the bench where Gabriel and Ryn sat.

Gabriel and Ryn exchanged a glance, unsure of what to say. But Jonan, ever the one to break the tension, chimed in, “The damn huge bugger and his big sword. I guess we can say he’s got the win this time.”

The group erupted into laughter, their amusement stemming from Jonan’s antics—the very reason they all cherished him. Gabriel turned to his friend, a smile tugging at his lips. “You did well. Maybe now you’ll finally start practicing more with me.”

Jonan rubbed his head where Lakan’s sword had struck him, groaning theatrically. “Aren’t I doing enough already?”

The light-hearted moment carried them through the next few fights. Ryn won his bout handily, and Lexon followed suit. Gabriel's smile, which had faded during Velar's victory, returned as he watched his friends excel. He knew he couldn’t take full credit for their success, but a part of him swelled with pride, knowing he had played a role in their growth.

And then it was time for the final fight to decide who would claim the last spot in the top eight.

Gabriel’s gaze drifted to Elias, his next opponent. He should have felt nothing more than focus—an eagerness to get through the fight. But instead, a different emotion lingered beneath his resolve. Guilt, maybe. His friends had all fought, many of them won, and now it was his turn to continue the march toward his ultimate goal. Yet the path ahead felt lonelier than ever.

Gabriel schooled his features, revealing nothing of the storm churning inside. His eyes locked on Elias, studying every detail. The slightly furrowed brows, the clenched jaw—it was subtle, but Gabriel knew Elias well enough to recognize the signs of anger. It could be something Gabriel would exploit.

While they weren’t exactly friends, there had always been a level of respect between them. But today, that didn’t matter. Gabriel stayed silent. There was no room for pretenses—he had to win. When the bell rang, his resolve hardened. He would keep winning, no matter the cost.

Gabriel swung aggressively, forcing Elias to parry the blow immediately. Elias countered swiftly, his sword arcing toward Gabriel’s head. But instead of deflecting the attack traditionally, Gabriel did something unexpected—he swung his blade in direct opposition to Elias’s, the two wooden swords clashing with a loud clatter.

It was a reckless move, one that would be disastrous with real steel. No seasoned swordsman would risk damaging their blade in such a manner. But Gabriel had calculated the risk. He was stronger than Elias, and he knew he could handle the impact.

The shock of the clash reverberated up Gabriel’s arm, the numbing sensation spreading from his forearm to his shoulder. He saw Elias wince, clearly unprepared for the force behind the blow. Gabriel pushed harder, driving his sword against Elias’s chest, momentarily trapping his opponent's blade.

Elias’s eyes darted, tracking Gabriel’s next move. With a clenched fist, Gabriel delivered a sharp punch to Elias’s stomach.

It wasn’t the hardest punch, but it was enough. Elias folded inwards, and before he could recover, Gabriel withdrew his sword and thrust forward. The blade stopped just a hair’s breadth from Elias’s exposed neck.

Gabriel held the position, his sword pressing against Elias’s throat. He watched as a series of emotions played across Elias’s face—confusion, then shame, and finally, anger. His face reddened, his nostrils flaring in frustration.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the fight, and the crowd erupted in gasps and shouts of disbelief. It had been the shortest bout of the day, over almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving everyone stunned by how swiftly it had finished.

Elias dropped his sword into the sand with a scowl, his pride bruised. Gabriel lowered his blade, letting Elias retreat.

Without a word, Elias stomped out of the arena, his back rigid, not once looking back. Gabriel watched him go, exhaling slowly, the weight of victory settling on his shoulders. He could have fought more conventionally, but there was no need. The move he'd practiced with Tunklard had been calculated, precise—and devastating.

A quiet satisfaction flickered within him, but it was fleeting, replaced by the familiar pull of something darker. This battle was over, but the real test was coming. He glanced at his hands, imagining the weight of his two swords. He knew—tomorrow, he wouldn’t just be fighting for victory. He’d be fighting for everything he could never afford to lose.