The battlefield had begun to thin. The weaker competitors had either fallen or fled to the edges, while those who remained were true threats.
Kalem, resting atop his metal crate on the artificial mountain, reviewed his notes one last time. His attempt to disrupt the enchantments—like he had in the first round—had failed. The academy officials had been thorough in restructuring the circuit.
"Expected," he muttered, tapping his journal with his pen. "But not impossible to work around."
The enchantment had changed, but Kalem had memorized the flow. The new structure was denser, more layered, but that also meant there were weak points. He only needed time.
His gaze lifted. Time was running short.
Below, chaos raged on.
Jhaeros moved first.
Before his opponents could strike, he vanished from sight.
The noble with the spear barely had time to react before Jhaeros' dagger flashed. A deep cut ran across the side of his leg, forcing him down with a grunt of pain.
Velka launched forward, tackling another, her massive paws pinning him to the ground. The man screamed as razor-sharp fangs closed inches from his face.
The third noble spun, sword slashing toward Jhaeros—only to meet empty air.
Jhaeros had already shifted behind him.
The Ilvaar's advantage was absolute.
Heightened agility. Enhanced senses. He had lived in forests, hunted in harsher terrains, fought real battles outside of tournaments. These nobles—trained in dueling and war strategy—were out of their depth.
He could end this now.
But that wasn't his goal.
"Nara is loose in this arena," Jhaeros said evenly, stepping back. "I don't have time for this."
He let out a sharp whistle.
Velka, with one last snarl, leapt back to his side.
The nobles hesitated. Their formation was broken. Their confidence shaken.
"You can chase me," Jhaeros continued, "or you can focus on surviving."
They didn't follow.
He disappeared into the trees.
"Enough running," Nara growled.
Her prey—the elf—had stopped struggling.
He lay on the ground, barely conscious, the fight completely beaten out of him.
But the rage inside her still burned.
Her hands clenched into fists. Her breath came heavy, heated, like embers in a forge. She had been tricked, manipulated. That thought only fueled her fury.
Her mind barely registered the presence closing in behind her.
"That's far enough," a deep voice cut through the air.
Nara's head snapped up.
A massive figure stood a few feet away, easily towering over her. His armor was thick, dark, covered in claw marks. A two-handed war axe rested against his shoulder. His tusks were chipped but strong.
But this one wasn't afraid.
She recognized him.
Gorran Stonehide. A veteran fighter. A former tournament champion.
He tilted his head. "You're causing quite the scene."
Nara exhaled through her nose. Still burning. Still raging.
"Move," she said simply.
Gorran chuckled. "Or what?"
Flames curled around her fingertips.
Gorran grinned.
"Good." He raised his axe. "Let's see what you've got, then."
Kalem was running out of patience.
He had spent the last few minutes mapping out the enchantment grid. The academy's adjustments were thorough, but flawed.
The energy wasn't evenly distributed.
Certain biomes were overloaded, while others barely functioned.
Kalem smirked.
"If I can't disrupt the whole system," he muttered, "then I'll just redirect it."
He reached into his crate, pulling out a set of small metallic spheres—mana conductors.
He rolled his shoulders, flexing his gauntleted fingers.
Then, kneeling, he began his work.
In the Noble Stands
The nobles continued to analyze and debate.
Lyra, seated beside her father, listened quietly.
"That orc girl is dangerous," a noble murmured. "If she learns control, she could rival even our best warriors."
"That Ilvaar is too unpredictable," another scoffed. "Fast, yes, but unrefined."
"And the boy, Kalem?" someone asked.
Silence.
Lyra glanced up. Many of the nobles didn't know what to say.
Kalem had barely fought. Yet, he was still in the game.
That was what made them nervous.
Lord Evernwood finally spoke.
"He's a strategist."
The nobles turned to him.
"He isn't fighting for sport," Evernwood continued. "He's planning something. And that, dear friends, is far more dangerous than raw strength."
Lyra remained silent.
But deep inside, she knew her father was right.