The aftermath of Nara and Isolde's match had left the arena in ruins, jagged ice formations jutting from the ground, scorch marks charred deep into the stone, and entire sections of the floor shattered beyond repair. With the final match approaching, the academy's enchanters and architects worked tirelessly to restore the battlefield, reinforcing it with stronger materials and layered protective enchantments to prevent another catastrophic collapse.
Even with all hands on deck, it would take the full day to prepare the new arena, giving the three remaining competitors time to finalize their strategies.
The City Holds Its Breath
Beyond the academy, word of the semifinals had spread like wildfire. Taverns and marketplaces buzzed with speculation, merchants placed last-minute bets, and nobles quietly maneuvered, whispering amongst themselves.
In noble circles, the match had turned into more than just entertainment—it was a matter of prestige. Some noble families saw an opportunity to attach their names to the rising stars, while others looked for ways to quietly sabotage potential threats. Among them, House Valehart fumed over Lucian's loss, while the Evernwood faction kept a close eye on Lyra, as if gauging her reaction to Kalem's continued success.
Among the common folk, the reactions were far more straightforward. Many had taken a liking to Kalem's unorthodox fighting style and relentless adaptability, while others admired Garrik's resilience or Isolde's overwhelming strength. The betting pools were split nearly evenly among the three, making the final match one of the most unpredictable in years.
Final Preparations
Garrik "The Iron Wall" sat in his quarters, rolling a small vial of crimson liquid between his fingers. The alchemist had warned him—the potion would enhance his strength, but there would be consequences. Muscles could be torn, stamina could drain faster, and the pain would be immense. But for Garrik, this was his last shot. He had watched Kalem dismantle opponents with pure adaptability, and he wasn't going to risk fighting at a disadvantage. He uncorked the vial and took a small sip, just enough to test the effects. His veins burned, his body tensed—but he could feel it working.
Isolde "The Frost Reaper" remained in quiet meditation, seated in the middle of a frost-covered training chamber. Her greatsword, still humming with residual energy from her last fight, rested in front of her, embedded into the icy floor. Her connection with the weapon had deepened, but she needed more. Slowly, she exhaled, focusing on the flow of magic. The sword pulsed in response. The bond between them was stabilizing—soon, she would wield its full power without risking control.
Kalem "Steel-Master" remained in his workshop, surrounded by half-finished designs and scattered blueprints. His fingers moved with practiced efficiency, tightening a set of fastenings, adjusting the weight distribution, ensuring that every detail was precise. The weapon in front of him was something new, something he hadn't yet tested in combat. It was a gamble—but that was exactly what made it exciting. He smirked to himself and set the weapon aside, making a final note in his journal.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the city fell into a hushed anticipation. The arena was ready. The contenders were prepared.
Tomorrow, there would be no more speculation. No more preparation. No more second chances.
Tomorrow, only one would stand victorious.