Arena 3

The crowd roared like a tidal wave of teeth and thunder.

Toma stood in the center of the Circle of Ascent, the coliseum floor trembling beneath his boots. He could feel the weight of thousands of eyes pressing down on him, hungry, eager, bloodthirsty.

Opposite him, Shiverglass raised her blade. Her expression hadn’t changed from before: blank, hollow, as if she were already mourning something neither of them had lost yet.

Toma glanced down at his own weapon.

A wooden sword.

He shifted his stance.

“Begin!” the announcer shouted, voice booming like a cannon.

Shiverglass moved instantly.

She dashed forward with the speed of a lightning strike, her sword cleaving the air in a diagonal arc meant to sever his collarbone and shoulder in one swing.

Clack!

Toma caught the blow with his wooden blade.

The impact rang out like a snapped tree branch. A cheer burst from the crowd, only to falter a second later when Toma didn’t falter. His feet remained planted. His grip, loose but controlled.

Shiverglass’s eyes twitched.

She stepped back and came again—faster this time. A flurry of cuts. One, two, three, four. Slashes at his ribs, neck, knees. Killing strikes.

Toma parried every one.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The wooden sword danced in his hands, flowing around her attacks like water over stone. He didn’t attack. He didn’t need to.

Shiverglass exhaled—sharp, ragged.

From the stands, a few of the spectators began to murmur.

“…is he blocking everything?”

“Wait, why isn’t he striking back?”

“C’mon, is he stalling?”

Shiverglass pivoted again, using a burst of wind magic to boost her movement. She closed the gap instantly, swinging low, then twisting into an upward arc meant to break his guard.

Toma ducked beneath the blade and stepped to the side, letting her spin past him.

She stumbled slightly.

He didn’t capitalize.

The crowd grew louder. Not in cheers. In confusion.

“Is this a joke?” someone shouted.

“Hit her already!”

“What kind of duel is this!?”

Toma ignored them.

His focus stayed locked on Shiverglass.

Her breathing was heavier now. Each swing came with more weight, less precision. She was burning through energy like a star collapsing into itself.

He could feel it—her desperation. The tremble in her left wrist. The way her feet slid just a fraction more with each step. Her form was flawless, refined by something harsh and unrelenting. But even perfection could crack under pressure.

And she was cracking.

But still, she kept swinging.

Twenty exchanges in.

Thirty.

She attacked. He parried.

Again. And again.

Like a metronome of survival.

CLACK.

CLACK.

CLACK.

Each sound echoed louder in the arena than the crowd itself. Each miss fed the growing unease in the stands.

Shiverglass screamed.

It wasn’t a war cry. It wasn’t rage. It was pain. A raw, bitter sound of something hollowing out from the inside.

She swung again—and this time, Toma stepped into the attack.

Wood met steel.

The force of the impact sent a shock through his arms, but he held. He twisted slightly, knocking the sword off-line, then flowed around her with a simple pivot. His blade tapped her side—light, gentle.

A love tap.

But the crowd gasped.

Because it meant he could have struck her.

He just didn’t.

Shiverglass froze.

The announcer didn’t know what to say. For the first time in fifteen fights, Shiverglass wasn’t slaughtering her opponent. She wasn’t even touching him.

And he wasn’t fighting back.

The crowd was restless now. Angry. The illusion was breaking.

“Get serious already!”

“Kill her!”

“What are we even watching!?”

“IS THIS A SCAM!?”

Toma ignored them all. His gaze never left the girl in front of him.

She charged again. Sloppy. Desperate.

Toma let the blow come, then tilted his sword and guided hers away. She stumbled past him. He didn’t chase.

She came again.

This time, he met her head-on—and locked her blade with his.

For a long moment, they stood inches apart, steel grinding against wood, eyes locked.

Boos. Shouts. Some people stood and began to throw things—scraps of paper, half-eaten food, whatever was at hand. They were promised blood. Glory. Death.

Instead, they were watching a boy with a toy sword make the undefeated champion look like a child having a breakdown.

“This is pathetic!” someone yelled.

“FINISH HER!”

“C’MON, DRAGON—PROVE YOU’RE REAL!”

Toma stayed silent.

Shiverglass broke the lock and stumbled back, panting hard. Her sword wobbled in her grip.

Toma raised his blade.

For the first time in the fight, he moved forward.

One step. Two.

He advanced slowly, eyes steady, not a flicker of hesitation in his body. His footwork was precise. His form, effortless.

Shiverglass raised her blade, tried to swing—

CLACK.

Toma knocked it aside.

Another swing—desperate, wide.

CLACK.

Again. Again. Every attack, he dismantled.

She couldn’t touch him.

And everyone knew it.

Toma stepped in—closer than ever before—and with a single fluid motion, swept his wooden blade up and around.

THWACK.

It landed on her shoulder. Not hard. But precise. A clean, winning strike.

She froze.

Her sword dropped.

Then she fell to her knees.

Silence.

The announcer fumbled for words.

“L-LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… YOUR WINNER… SLEEPING DRAGON!”

The coliseum didn’t cheer.

They didn’t boo either.

They just… watched.

Toma lowered his sword. His breath was calm. No sweat on his brow. No wounds. No strain.

He stepped forward—toward the girl on the ground.

Shiverglass knelt in the dust, staring down, shoulders shaking. Her hands trembled as if trying to grip a blade that wasn’t there anymore.

Then tears.

Not sobs. Not screams. Just tears.

Silently. Relentlessly.