The moment Kalem and Isolde collapsed, the entire arena froze in silence.
For a long second, no one spoke. No one moved.
Then, the explosion of noise came. The crowd erupted—cheers, gasps, shouts of shock. Some called for a rematch, others demanded an immediate verdict, but none could deny the sheer spectacle of the fight.
The medical staff and academy volunteers rushed into the arena, healers already preparing spells as they ran toward the two fallen fighters.
In the noble stands, whispers turned into hushed discussions, and hushed discussions into sharp evaluations.
Isolde had been a second-year student, a prodigy of frost magic, and many noble families had already considered marrying their sons to her—not just for her talent but for the prestige her name carried. She had proven her strength today, and now, the mage guilds wanted her.
Her magic—so raw, so powerful yet uncontrolled—could lead to breakthroughs in elemental research.
But Kalem?
Kalem was different.
Kalem's Growing Shadow
He had already been an enigma before this match, a first-year student who had defeated Lucian Valehart, battled through the tournament, and created a weapon capable of cutting through enchanted armor.
Now?
He was even more dangerous.
Mercenary groups, warlords, and even merchants wanted to recruit him. A swordsman of his caliber could decide the outcome of battles, or even wars.
But just as many wanted him dead.
Despite his well-known stance of not wanting to involve himself with nobility, his association with Lyra Everwood, daughter of Lord Mathias Everwood, had made him a political threat.
"That boy is dangerous."
"He should be recruited, not eliminated. You don't kill a weapon—you wield it."
"You think he can be controlled? That's a mistake."
While the nobles debated, the commoners celebrated.
The stands roared with cheers, voices rising in chants for both Kalem and Isolde.
"That was a fight!"
"Unbelievable! That final exchange—!"
"They're both monsters! In a good way!"
Where the nobility saw political maneuvers, the people saw legends being born.
Jhaeros, Nara, and Garrik had not been forgotten either.
Mercenaries and warlords—especially those led by non-human factions—had set their sights on them.
Jhaeros, with his unmatched agility and Ilvaar heritage, had gained the attention of those who thrived in the shadows.
Nara, the Raging Demon, was a warrior worth having in any battle.
And Garrik, The Iron Wall, had gained even more respect after his honorable conduct and sheer endurance.
Kalem's consciousness returned slowly.
The first thing he noticed was pain. His body felt heavy, wrapped in bandages, soreness radiating from his arms and torso.
The second thing he noticed was quiet.
The medical ward was dimly lit, the soft glow of healing crystals pulsing faintly in the air.
He turned his head.
Isolde lay in a bed beside him, her breath steady, still unconscious.
A chuckle broke the silence.
"You're finally up."
Kalem turned his gaze and saw Jhaeros, sitting on a nearby stool, arms crossed, Velka curled at his feet.
"Took you long enough," Jhaeros said.
Kalem sighed. "I'm alive, aren't I?"
A new chapter in their journey had begun.