Vayra pulled her hands out of the bucket of Stream water and drew all the mana back into her system. It flooded into her channels, fuelling her for the second half of today’s match. She flexed her fingers, then stood up and took a step back.
She’d already won the first half of the fight, but it took nearly all her mana to deal with the metal-wielding force manipulator.
The bulky man was just shy of a sword-Path. He used a giant metal cudgel, and he carried a double-barrelled musket on his back. Instead of directing the force into a wedge, like sword-Path users, he created giant anti-wedges that blasted people away and improved the blunt force of his strikes.
Fraynin Cai Kalos, according to the announcement Karmion had made at the start of the first fight, just over a half-hour ago.
She shook her hands off and spun around, then delivered a nod to Nathariel and King Tallerion’s aide, who stood nearby. There was no advice they could give that they hadn’t already given.
“Ready, Phas?” Vayra whispered.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ the Goddess replied. ‘Got the scythe ready.’
She walked out into the center of the arena, back into the blazing sun and scrutiny of the crowd. They fell silent.
She stopped as close as she could to the center divider of the arena. There was no true divider, but there was a darker patch of sand that they weren’t supposed to cross over before the fight started.
She needed to get as close as she could to Kalos before the fight began, or he’d overwhelm her with ranged attacks.
He, standing nearly three heads taller than her, and about twice as wide—all muscle—stomped up to the center of the arena, then twirled his cudgel around like it was a thin saber.
Before the trumpet could blare, signalling the start of the fight, Kalos whipped his cudgel up, dragging it through the sand, then blasting it out with a wave of extra power. Grains whipped past her face as fast as bullets, then a wave of invisible force struck her in the chest. She barely had time to Ward her robes and bring her arms in front of her face.
The blast ripped her off her feet and threw her back across the arena, sending her sliding through the sand and skidding back toward the entrance she’d come from. The drawbridge was already up, and a wall of water rose from the moat around the arena’s edge, protecting the viewers from collateral damage. Still, the mortal audience scrambled back in their seats.
Vayra landed hard on her stomach, but jumped to her feet right away. Winded or not, this wouldn’t be how she died.
If Kalos was attacking before the fight truly began, he wasn’t going to show mercy—dishonour or not. If she lost this round, she was dead. The crowd stayed silent, save for a few scattered gasps. Above, two golden projections displayed the competitors, broadcasting their movements to the distant audience moments later.
And high above, Karmion floated, watching with a smug grin.
How much had he paid Kalos to do this?
She Moulded the scythe in an instant, drawing on the spatial rift off to the right side of the arena. Kalos needed no source for his Path—it was all around.
Still standing across the arena, he raised his cudgel, then slammed it down onto the empty sand.
Even at such a distance, pressure weighed down on Vayra pushing her down into the sand and trying to crush her. She Warded her back and bent over, like she was carrying a heavy box on her back, but a shield wouldn’t stop her spine from compressing and shattering under the weight. She fed Arcara to her limbs and muscles, repairing the damage and strain as quickly as her body would allow, but the pressure grew stronger and stronger.
‘We need to get out!’ Phasoné exclaimed.
“How…quickly can you cross the arena?” Vayra grunted. “Your little ghost, white form thing?”
‘Better question: do I have the range?’
“I’m a Commodore now. We better have enough range to send you that far.”
‘No better time to try than now?’
“Not really! I’ll feed you half my mana supply. Use it to distract him!”
‘We needed that last time!’
“This time, we need to not die!”
Phasoné’s projection emerged from Vayra. For a brief moment, Vayra reached out and locked hands with the projection, feeding as much mana as she could, not really concerned over whether precisely half had fled or not, then dropped her arm to the ground to brace herself against the piling up weight of Kalos’ attack.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Then Phasoné pushed off and darted across the arena.
The Goddess skirted the edge of the arena, sprinting. Each step kicked up a wave of dust behind her, and soon, she had a beige wake. She wasn’t moving as fast as Vayra could with the Astral Shroud, but each step had power that Vayra just couldn’t match.
She reached Kalos in a matter of seconds, then stuck him in the side with a heavy punch. He staggered. His grip on Vayra melted, and she sprang back to her feet. She didn’t have the scythe anymore, not with Phasoné outside her body, but she drew her pistol and activated the Astral Shroud, then zipped across the arena to meet Kalos as he staggered. Now a Commodore, she moved fast enough that the air behind her turned to a cone and exploded with a deep boom, as loud as a cannon firing.
When she reached Kalos, she first struck him with a Starlight Palm to send him staggering back. He counter attacked, but she ducked. Phasoné, still standing behind him, caught his arm and pinned it before he could strike again.
Opening him up perfectly to Vayra’s pistol. She fired a condensed beam of Starlight out, catching him on the shoulder. He warded his tunic, blocking the main site of the blast, but she flicked her wrist to the side, dragging the beam of light across his body faster than he could react. It left a slice of burnt, cauterized flesh down his flank, and behind it, turned the sand to glass.
Any reasonable person would’ve surrendered, but he ripped his arm free from Phasoné’s grip and tried to slam one more containing hammer of force down on her. She jumped to the side, dodging the main brunt of the attack. It pinned her mechanical foot, shattering the wooden panels covering it.
Phasoné punched him in the back as hard as she could, sending him staggering forward, and Vayra lined up her pistol beneath his chin. As he fell, she launched one more concentrated beam through it.
It shot up, straight through his head, and blasted high into the sky—above the arena’s top ring—before it dissipated.
She fell back on her hands, panting, and Kalos collapsed beside her, dead and unmoving.
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Karmion hovered high above the arena, raising walls of water to block any incoming bursts of debris from harming the crowds. A flick of a finger here, and wave of a hand there. His control of the water had been tempered over hundreds of years. He didn’t think about Arcara or mana. Manipulating his energies was like breathing.
But it meant he had more attention to spare on the fight below him. Kelos was supposed to destroy her. The first round? He had hoped that in a fair fight, the Commodore would succeed, but she’d closed the distance too fast.
So Karmion had promised fortunes, not to mention entire star systems of domain and control, to Kelos, in order to betray the rules of the tournament and smear his own honour—if only the boy would attack prematurely and kill her. He could gain the upper hand.
And for a little while, he did. But it wasn’t enough.
She pummelled him, too fast to manage. Each of her palm strikes sent up a cloud of sand and a wave of debris into the crowd, and Karmion had to spare a thought or two to block them. She’d melted a pattern of glass into the arena floor, and when she’d darted across, she created a sonic boom that Karmion had to consciously cycle Arcara to contain.
His heartbeat sped up, but he hadn’t lost yet.
Before she slew his champion, he turned around and floated back to his tower, bearing himself upon a cloud of moisture. He floated down through the open wall of the viewing level, where his Admirals and advisors stood, watching the fight.
And Larra, who waited at the very back of the room, leaning against the wall. She stood in the shadow of a doorframe, letting the others mill about in front of her. Before her excursion on Harvest Sanctuary, she’d have been mingling amongst the others, telling Admirals where to stand and ordering them to step out of her way.
“You advanced to Commodore?” he demanded.
“I did,” she whispered.
“Advance to Admiral, and then we’ll speak. Can you defeat her?”
“I’m improving your technique daily.”
“It’s not good enough,” Karmion stated. “Leave, and keep working. And tell Varion to enter on your way out.”
“Yes, Father,” she said, bowing her head, then pushing off the wall and turning to the door. She heaved it open and stepped outside.
A different child of Karmion’s waited outside. Larra whispered to him, his silhouette, and beckoned for him to enter.
Flanked on all sides by Admirals, Karmion approached the table at the center of the room. His older descendants, some of them with graying hair and long beards, stood around the table. He recognized grandchildren, great grandchildren, and even a descendant so many times removed that Karmion couldn’t count the relation or the line that brought the boy back up to him—only that the boy was strong. They all wore black coats, and the most distinguished wore cloaks with ocean foam at the hem.
But Varion was a different breed. He’d consistently veiled himself down to Commodore for the sake of the tournament, for ease of entering, and pretended to advance to Commodore later. Though, even now, he was on the brink of reaching Admiral.
Unlike the others, he wore a frost-dusted fur cloak, the hide of a beast he’d slain on the ice planet of Norpath. He wore no wig, rather, let his long red hair spill down his back freely. He’d been the product of some affair long ago, with a mortal who’d died and whose name Karmion had forgotten—that was where the hair colour came from.
He was only slightly shorter than Karmion, and as slender as a God-heir could be. His staff-length battle axe swayed and clinked on his back as he approached the table.
“What do you ask of me, father?” Varion bowed his head respectfully and placed his hands on the table.
“You are my failsafe.” Karmion tapped the table, and an attendant set down a sheet of blank parchment, then passed him an inkwell and quill. Karmion snatched up the quill and scrawled down a few lines. “There are five more matches before the victor will be decided.” He pulled over a different sheet, which displayed a current potential bracket. “The Mediator’s next fight? We have it planned. She should face a God-heir suitable to counter her abilities, but that hasn’t stopped her before. I will switch your fights up. If you win your next few fights, you will face the Mediator before the final match.”
“Father, it doesn’t matter where I face her. I will win.”
“Yes, well, I’d prefer to not have to worry about her in the final round.” Karmion rolled his eyes. Better to have backup plans upon backup plans. “And the sooner someone knocks her out of this tournament, the better.”
“Understood. In the presence of your will, I am blank and empty. I am a sword for your use, and nothing more.”
“Apology accepted. Now, leave us.”