Tharion pushed himself upright, blood soaking his leg where the blade had pierced him. He forced a faint, stubborn grin. "I'm not done with you," he said through gritted teeth.

Kyrion's eyes were cold. "You still talk when you don't even understand the position you're in," he replied. "If you move like that, I'll go all out."

Tharion frowned, then steadied himself. All out in defense, that's everything I have left, he thought. He planted his feet and raised his sword, bracing for the onslaught.

Kyrion surged forward, slashing in a furious, unrelenting rhythm. Tharion met each blow, holding a pure defensive stance, blade clashing against blade as sand and sparks flew. Kyrion's strikes were relentless, each one trying to force an opening.

"You've decided to only defend?" Kyrion snarled between strikes. "That's meaningless. Die."

Kyrion's body began to hum; lightning crackled up his legs and coiled along his blade. He accelerated until he became a blur, the speed compressing into a single, devastating assault. Tharion scrambled to predict the pattern, to place his guard, to hold his ground.

They slammed swords again and again; the force of one clash was stronger than the last. Tharion could barely keep up. Then, in a heartbeat, a blade split, Kyrion's attack found a gap. He leaned in, whispering close, "Move fast. It's already over."

Kyrion followed through with a brutal kick, sending Tharion sprawling face first into the sand. Blood dotted the rim of Tharion's mouth as he tried to push himself upright. Kyrion stood over him, breath measured, sword ready.

A cold, strange thought crossed Kyrion's mind as he watched the fallen man: Life feeds strength. I will take what I need to become stronger, immortal if I can. He steadied himself, intent clear in his eyes.

Tharion struggled to his feet, one leg trembling. Kyrion charged again, faster, more precise. Tharion managed a backflip to evade one slash and, with ragged breath, held up his hand. "I surrender," he called out, voice wavering but decisive.

The arena froze. Kyrion's eyes blazed with incredulity and fury. "You surrender? Where's your pride?" he spat. "If you yield now, you're a coward."

Tharion shook his head, pain and resolve mixing on his face. "Pride means nothing if I die here. I know when I can't win. I won't be foolish." He stared directly at Kyrion. "You and your allies are hiding something. Before this ends, the truth will come out."

Kyrion's jaw tightened. He raised his blade as if to strike anyway, fury pushing him forward until the Emissary's voice boomed through the wind amplifier.

"Stop! He's surrendered!" the Emissary shouted. "The match is over. Kyrion, hold!"

Kyrion's sword stayed mid swing. The hall erupted with shouts and protests, but the rules were clear. Tharion, still breathing hard, was tended by arena stewards and escorted away as the crowd buzzed with debate.

Kyrion stared after him, chest heaving, expression hard as iron. The taste of victory was bitter, unfinished. The tournament moved on, but something deeper had been set in motion.

Why did I have to end it so quickly? Kyrion wondered as the stewards hauled the wounded Tharion away. I didn't take his life. Not today. Maybe not in this tournament at all. Maybe I'll have to wait until night, maybe the girls and I will go out then. Take what we need to feed our mortality, make ourselves stronger.

The thought slipped through him like a cold whisper; it didn't frighten him. It sharpened something inside.

He watched Tharion carried from the sand, the crowd still roaring around the arena. The noise felt distant, like thunder underfoot. Kyrion's smile was slow and unreadable.

"Wow. That was a good match," Prince Alaric said from the royal box, leaning forward with interest.

"Both were impressive," Davin, the hero, agreed. "But Kyrion, he's on a different level."

King Rovanis watched solemnly. "He used the same method that Cora used," the king observed. "A strange skill for a swordsman."

"Perhaps they learned it from the same source," Alvoryn muttered, rubbing his chin. "It's no ordinary technique."

"Still," Alaric said with a faint smile, "a win is a win. That match was spectacular."

All their gazes lingered on the arena as Tharion was guided away and Kyrion remained, chest even, watching the path they took. The cheers washed over him, praise, fear, admiration, and underneath it, a quieter current, opportunity. Tonight, when the lights dimmed and the crowd left, Kyrion would decide how to use it.

"Wow! That was an outstanding match!" the emissary announced, his voice echoing through the arena. "Now then, it's time for the moment many of you have been waiting for. Our next participants, two exceptional fighters, both female!"

The crowd stirred with excitement.

"First, we have Linda, who continues to surprise everyone. Though she carries an E rank card, her skills are anything but ordinary. And facing her, the fierce and undefeated Cora!"

The arena erupted in cheers.

"Linda versus Cora! This is going to be amazing!" someone shouted from the stands.

"Yeah, maybe Linda will finally be the one to defeat Cora!" another voice yelled.

"I hope so! Linda's last match was incredible," a man added. "She's not just strong, she's graceful too."

In the waiting area, Linda rose from her seat and turned toward Nolan. He didn't speak, he just met her gaze, calm and steady.

"Master," she said softly, determination glowing in her eyes, "I'll make you proud."

Nolan gave a faint nod. "If things get too difficult, don't hesitate to forfeit. It's a wise choice to live and fight another day."

Linda smiled gently. "Understood."

With that, she turned and began walking toward the back entrance of the arena. Across the hall, Cora did the same, her expression cold, her stride confident.

"Now," the emissary announced, his voice booming through the arena, "it's time to welcome our next fighters!"

He lifted a hand toward the stage. "Cora! Step into the arena!"

The massive steel entrance slid open with a low rumble.

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