Fighting Arena of Competition,

Ron and Maera's clash shook the arena.

Ron went in first—low, controlled, precise—his spear a blur of dark blue fire as he thrust straight for Maera's center of mass. It was the kind of attack meant to force distance, to dictate the rhythm.

Maera refused to let him.

Her dark red aura roared out like a wild beast breaking free, eyes narrowing with sharp, predatory focus. She didn't dodge—she stepped in. Her gauntleted arm snapped forward, claws scraping and screeching against the heated metal as she smacked the spear aside with brute force. Sparks scattered across the stone floor.

The redirected thrust slid past her ribs—close, but not close enough—and she used the recoil to drive her shoulder straight into Ron's chest.

Equalized strength or not, the impact was solid. Ron's boots slid back across the stone, muscles tightening as he absorbed the hit. He planted his heel hard, pivoted with practiced sharpness, and redirected all that momentum into a spinning sweep.

A wide, flaming arc slashed toward Maera's legs, heat distorting the air.

She reacted on instinct.

Her body blurred as she jumped, landing on the spear shaft as if it were solid ground. Claws bit into metal. Aura flared. She snapped a vicious kick toward Ron's jaw.

Ron dropped one hand instantly, letting the spear dip just enough. Her heel grazed the air beside his cheek, and he twisted the weapon with a sharp tug, throwing her balance off the moment before gravity reclaimed her.

Maera hit the ground in a tight roll, dirt scattering as she pushed herself back up.

She didn't even get the chance to breathe.

With a sharp exhale, Ron slammed the butt of his spear into the arena floor. The ground trembled—just once—before a wave of blistering heat rippled outward. A heartbeat later, fire burst upward in a searing pillar right beneath where she had been standing.

Maera dove sideways, rolling out of the explosion of flames as heat washed over her face.

She landed in a low crouch, claws dragging across the stone, eyes blazing.

Snarling, Maera dropped to all fours, fingers digging into stone as her aura thickened—wild, feral, thrumming like a beast unchained. Then she surged forward in a blur, no hesitating, no circling, no dancing at the edge of Ron's reach. This time it was pure instinct-driven assault.

Her gauntleted fists slammed into the spear again and again, each blow a sharp clang that reverberated through his arms. She wasn't trying to break the weapon—she was testing him. His grip. His rhythm. His patience. Every hit came from a different angle, relentless, unpredictable, forcing Ron's hands to adjust every second.

He responded with discipline, not brute force. Half-steps back, half-steps sideways, never giving ground fully. The spear moved like an extension of breath—a burning barrier that slid between her strikes, jabbing at ribs, redirecting claws, tapping pressure points at her wrists and shoulders to keep her from fully overwhelming him.

But Maera wasn't just fighting.

She was learning.

With a sudden shift, she feinted a brutal overhand smash—one that would cave his skull if it landed. Ron brought the shaft up to block.

She didn't follow through.

Her other claw raked across the floor instead, peeling up stone and sending a spray of dust, grit, and shards blasting into his eyes.

His vision flared white.

He grunted, instinctively tightening his grip—but that heartbeat of blindness was all she needed.

A punch crashed into his guard, so hard it rattled the spear and nearly tore it from his hands. Ron's feet slid back. His grip wavered.

For the first time, she was inside his range.

Exactly where a spear user should lose.

Her shadow loomed in his blurred vision, claws raised, teeth clenched, aura roaring.

One clean strike here could end him.

She drove forward, fist pulled back for the finishing blow—

but the moment her weight committed, Ron's instincts snapped into place.

Even half-blinded, he felt the opening.

When she lunged in, he pivoted hard to the side, a clean, practiced motion born from countless repetitions. His spear spun with him in a blazing arc, the fiery shaft cracking against her gauntlets with a ringing metallic clang. Sparks burst outward as the impact staggered her mid-sprint, forcing her claws to skid across the stone for balance.

Ron didn't waste the heartbeat he'd bought.

He stepped in, spearhead snapping upward in a fierce rising thrust. Flames curled along the tip, licking dangerously close to her chin as the weapon aimed to force her back—not kill, but control. His movement shifted from defense to pressure instantly, reclaiming the rhythm she'd stolen.

Maera snarled, backpedaling as the spear chased her retreat with relentless precision. Ron's strikes came measured, deliberate—each one placed exactly where it needed to be.

A jab toward her shoulder to disrupt her counter.

A short sweep at her knee to break her stance.

A flicker of flame at her peripheral vision to force hesitation.

His mastery of reach showed now—clean, disciplined, unyielding. Every attack pushed her to react, to block, to dodge, never giving her the chance to fully reset. The fire riding the spear didn't explode wildly; it pulsed in tight bursts with every thrust, pressuring her from angles she couldn't completely ignore.

For a moment—just a moment—Maera felt the balance shift.

Her wild, overwhelming momentum had been stalled.

Ron's calm, spear-focused combat was taking the rhythm back.

When she lunged forward to close the distance, Ron moved like water—smooth, effortless, almost as if he'd been waiting for that exact moment. He sidestepped with a fluid twist of his hips, and the spear spun with him in a blazing arc. The fiery shaft slammed into Maera's gauntlets with a sharp crack, sparks scattering wildly as the force staggered her mid-charge.

He didn't hesitate.

Ron's arms snapped upward, spear driving in a fierce rising thrust. The flames coiled along the blade, licking dangerously close to her chin as the point carved a scorching trail through the air. His movements were sharp, decisive—every inch of space between them turned into his advantage as he forced her back step by step.

Though Maera's beastman strength kept her blows heavy and wild, Ron's disciplined assault held her at bay. He pressed forward with steady, suffocating pressure, each thrust tighter and more precise than the last. Every jab forced a parry; every sweeping arc blocked her attempts to regain momentum.

The arena quieted—an instinctive hush, as if even the air sensed the shift.

Maera lowered her stance, shoulders rising and falling with deep, feral breaths. Her olive yellow-green eyes sharpened, her aura thickening until it vibrated with raw instinct. Then—thump—her heartbeat aligned with a primal rhythm, a wild pulse that surged through her blood like ancient beast-heritage awakening.

"Let's go full power!" she growled, voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

Iron Pulse: Wild Resonance.

Her aura exploded outward—dark red, wild, almost storm-like. Every pulse sharpened her aggression, strengthened her muscles, heightened her instincts to a razor's edge. Her movements grew unpredictable, feral, lethal.

Opposite her, Ron inhaled slowly.

One breath.

One heartbeat.

His mind cleared. His muscles steadied. The blazing heat around him calmed into a firm, controlled inferno.

Iron Pulse.

Nothing dramatic happened on the surface—no roar, no wild flare. But his mana synced with his heartbeat, smooth and steady. His focus intensified. His strength surged quietly, cleanly, perfectly controlled.

Two warriors stepped forward—one wild, one disciplined—but both carrying the weight of a mutual, unspoken challenge.

Maera vanished into motion first. She spiraled low, claws scraping stone, her body twisting in a savage, chaotic rush. She aimed to tear through defenses and crash through any guard he raised. Her gauntlet came down with a brutal, crushing force—

Savage Spiral Rend: Twisting Fang Rush!

Ron answered with his flames.

His spear spun into a tight circle, dark blue flames bursting outward to form a burning shield that roared like a miniature sun.

Inferno Spear: Blazefire Aegis!

Maera's clawed slash slammed into the fiery barrier—sparks detonating as wild aura met controlled inferno. Her attack forced cracks through the flames, but the aegis held, pushing back against her wild pressure.

Then she drove in with her gauntleted fist.

Ron stepped into the blow.

His free hand cocked back, blue flame crackling around his knuckles, and he struck forward—

Their fists collided.

A shockwave blasted outward.

Stone cracked beneath their feet. Flames and wild aura burst in all directions. Both fighters were knocked back—Ron sliding several meters, Maera skidding on all fours before catching herself.

They stared at each other across the scorched stone.

Breaths steaming.

Eyes sharp.

A fierce, wordless respect settled between them—

the kind only born when two warriors meet each other's full strength head-on.

Meanwhile, Lia and Col's battle was a very different kind of storm.

Where Ron and Maera shook the arena with raw power, Lia and Col tore through it with blinding speed. Their clashes rang out in sharp, rapid bursts—clang, cling, shff, clang—Lia's straight white blade meeting Col's twin short swords again and again like a dance of razor-thin timing.

Lia slipped through his guard with fluid steps, pink wind aura swirling around her legs like rising petals. Col parried with crossed blades, his moss-green wind aura flickering with every impact as he tried to keep up with her unpredictable momentum.

Then Lia's eyes sharpened.

Her aura flared, turning vivid pink, small luminous butterflies fluttering through the wind around her. She tilted her sword back, feet digging into the stone, and—

shrrrk—!!!

She unleashed a barrage of pink-edged wind slashes, each one carrying a trail of shimmering butterfly wings, slicing out in crescent arcs that crisscrossed toward Col like a blooming storm.

Wind Butterfly: Multi Butterfly Slashes!

Col's eyes widened.

Too many. Too fast.

His body reacted before his mind could.

The moss-green aura surged to his legs—

a single breath—

and he vanished.

Gale Stride Arts: Fleetstep Veil.

For a brief instant, only drifting dust remained where he stood. He reappeared several meters away, one knee dropping as he exhaled sharply, chest rising and falling.

"That… was too close…!" he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat as the pink slashes detonated against the ground behind him, carving deep gouges through the stone.

The battlefield around them hummed with pressure.

Both fighters reset their stance—

both knowing the next exchange would be even faster.

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