Reika's eyes narrowed as the fight raged before her, every movement of Daigo and Ishigo cutting through the air like a whispered promise of destruction.
The world seemed to bend around the clash of steel, the sound of blades meeting with brutal finality.
But as much as her eyes were trained on the action, her mind wandered to the unspoken tension that weighed down the arena.
Ishigo was like ice—precise, cold, deliberate. Daigo, on the other hand, was a volcano, erupting with emotion and energy.
But there was something else beneath the surface of that fiery exterior, something Daigo wasn't ready to confront, yet Reika could see it.
The raw, gnawing need to prove himself—something deeper than the simple thrill of victory.
The fight, in Reika's eyes, wasn't the battle between them—it was the battle between themselves.
Daigo, fighting his demons behind his carefree mask. Ishigo, detached and distant, as if he had already accepted the cruelty of life.
But it was Daigo's struggle that drew her in. She saw it in the way he swung his sword, the desperate ferocity in his movements. He wasn't just fighting Ishigo—he was fighting for something more. Something he feared he might lose.
The world seemed to fall into a slow-motion trance when Daigo's victory was declared. His grin was like a knife, sharp and reckless, but underneath, Reika saw it.
The cracks. He was celebrating, yes, but it was a celebration that rang hollow, as though he was trying to drown out the weight of something bigger than the fight itself.
Her fingers twitched on the hilt of her sword. No distractions, she reminded herself. Focus. This was her moment now.
"No. 21 and No. 15, step forward."
Her name rang in the air, and Reika pushed herself into motion, boots silent on the stone floor, her breath steady. She could feel it then—the shift in the atmosphere. The boy in front of her, No. 21, grinned at her like a predator sizing up his prey.
His arrogance was thick, dripping from his smirk, but Reika felt the tension in his stance. The twitch in his muscles. He was more worried than he let on. He was a loose cannon. And she was the target of his misfire.
"Let's have some fun, lady," he taunted.
Reika didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her eyes met his with a calm that sent a shiver down his spine.
And then, with a shift, his smirk faltered. It was brief, but Reika caught it, the tell that told her everything. He was playing a dangerous game—one he didn't fully understand.
He lunged.
Reika's reaction was immediate. The clang of their blades sounded as though it had the power to shatter the world. But in that moment, her mind was clear, focused. She wasn't just fighting him.
She was fighting the part of herself that told her to kill him now, to end it. To show him who was really in charge.
The boy's attacks were predictable. She saw his left foot slip—his center of gravity off balance.
He gripped his sword too tightly, a clear sign of desperation. She moved with ease, the flow of her movements like a dance—precise, fluid, and deadly. Every strike was calculated. Every cut, deliberate.
His blade clashed against hers again, but she redirected it effortlessly. She could feel the weight of control settle into her bones. She was faster, sharper, more in tune with the rhythm of the fight than he would ever be.
And yet, as she saw the flicker of fear in his eyes, something inside her faltered. She could feel it—the power. The control. She could break him, destroy his spirit with one clean strike. She knew it. She had him right where she wanted him.
But then she hesitated.
The boy's desperation, his struggle to maintain his pride, was palpable. The pride he wore like armor—like a shield.
Reika saw the cracks, the weakness beneath his bravado. It wasn't just his body that was broken. It was his mind. His soul. He was already defeated. And yet, she couldn't do it.
Why?
The small voice inside her stirred—You could have killed him. You could have ended this. Why didn't you?
Her blade hovered near his throat, but she didn't press. She didn't strike. She lowered her weapon.
Her gaze dropped to his wrist, the wound she had inflicted—a small, precise cut that marked the beginning of his defeat.
And as he stood there, panting, gasping, his eyes wide with the realization of his failure, Reika felt it: that moment of clarity.
She walked away, her boots steady on the stone floor, her heart pounding, but it wasn't in anger. It was a realization. This fight, this whole life of combat, was never really about victory.
It was never about the blood or the battle—it was about the choice. The control. The power to decide when to strike and when to walk away.
Was this victory?
Reika's breath slowed. Maybe there was more to winning than just destroying someone.
She didn't have the answer. But for the first time, that uncertainty didn't scare her. It intrigued her.