Thornton

  The gong reverberates through the arena, marking the start of the match. My opponent moves before the sound has even faded—a blur of motion cutting through the air. I barely raise my sword in time to block as his blade crashes into mine, sending a jarring vibration up my arm.

  Fast. Too fast.

  The crowd roars as we clash, but I barely hear them. My opponent darts around me like a wraith, his speed making him seem almost untouchable. He wears light armor, a shimmering material that refracts the sunlight, making it hard to track him. His weapon—a slender, curved blade—moves with precision, striking at gaps in my defenses before I can react.

  A sharp sting flares along my arm. I glance down to see a shallow cut through the sleeve of my armor, crimson beading along the edge. He grins, his confidence palpable, and lunges again.

  I pivot, barely dodging, but he twists mid-strike, his blade slicing toward my side. My armor reacts, hardening in an instant to absorb the blow, though the force sends me stumbling back.

  The crowd's cheers grow louder, their excitement feeding off my apparent disadvantage.

  "Too slow," my opponent taunts, circling me like a predator.

  He's right. His speed is overwhelming, and every time I think I've anticipated his move, he's already two steps ahead.

  Another clash. Another narrow dodge. Another stinging cut.

  My breathing grows heavier as I try to keep up. My grip on the hilt of my sword tightens, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. I could end this quickly if I used my eyes—if I let the Liche power surge through me—but that would reveal too much. No one here is ready for what that means, not yet.

  No. I can't rely on that. Not now.

  I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. My armor shifts subtly, the plates thinning at non-essential areas to lighten my movements. I test my weapon, and it responds to my thoughts, reshaping itself into a lightweight short sword. The balance is perfect, familiar.

  He lunges again, and this time, I don't retreat. I sidestep, my newly lightened armor allowing me to move faster, and counter with a quick strike of my own. He blocks, but his eyes widen slightly—he wasn't expecting me to adjust.

  "Nice trick," he mutters, his grin faltering.

  I don't reply. Words are wasted breath.

  Instead, I press the attack. My sword moves like an extension of my arm, shifting forms mid-swing to keep him off balance—a dagger for a quick thrust, a longer blade to parry, and back to the short sword for rapid strikes.

  The tide shifts.

  He's fast, but his movements are predictable now, a pattern I've mapped out in my mind. His speed doesn't matter if I know where he'll be. I feint left, drawing him into a strike, and then pivot right, slamming the hilt of my sword into his ribs. He stumbles, the air rushing from his lungs.

  The crowd gasps, their excitement building as they sense the momentum changing.

  He recovers quickly, but his confidence has cracked. His strikes grow desperate, wild. I deflect each one with measured precision, my movements economical, deliberate.

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  Finally, I see my opening.

  As he lunges again, I sidestep and twist, bringing my blade around to press against his throat. He freezes, his weapon falling from his grasp as he raises his hands in surrender.

  The gong sounds, signaling the end of the match.

  For a moment, there's silence. Then the crowd erupts, their cheers deafening. I lower my weapon and step back, my armor shifting back to its default form as I catch my breath.

  My opponent nods in reluctant acknowledgment, his earlier cockiness replaced with a grudging respect.

  "Well fought," he says, his voice tight with defeat.

  I nod in return, offering him my hand. He hesitates but takes it, the crowd's cheers growing even louder at the display of sportsmanship.

  As I leave the arena, the announcer's voice booms once again.

  "Next match: Emberes of the Char Clan!"

  The crowd's energy surges as Emberes strides into the arena, his crimson cloak billowing behind him. The fire-like markings on his arms glow faintly, and his grin is as sharp as ever.

  I pause at the edge of the arena, watching him take his place. His opponent—a burly man wielding a massive warhammer—looks unimpressed. Emberes simply rolls his shoulders, flames flickering along his hands as he readies himself.

  This will be interesting.

  The gong hasn't sounded yet, but Emberes raises a hand to halt the match before it begins.

  "Wait," he says, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd. He takes a step forward, his posture calm but commanding. "Before we begin, I'll give you the chance to walk away. There's no shame in knowing your limits."

  A ripple of murmurs spreads through the crowd at his words.

  The man stiffens, his grip tightening on the warhammer. "I'm not a coward," he growls.

  Emberes nods, his expression respectful. "Bravery is admirable. But bravery without reason can lead to unnecessary pain." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "If you're sure, then let's give them a show."

  The man's jaw clenches, and he shifts into a fighting stance. Emberes sighs softly and raises his hands, flames flickering to life along his fingers.

  The gong sounds, and the match begins.

  The man charges immediately, his warhammer coming down with a force that shakes the ground. Emberes sidesteps effortlessly, the weapon smashing into the dirt where he had been standing. Before the man can recover, Emberes sweeps a hand upward, sending a wall of fire roaring between them.

  The man barrels through the flames, his armor glowing red-hot, but Emberes is already moving. He dances around each swing, his movements precise and deliberate. The warhammer whistles past him again and again, but it never finds its mark.

  The crowd watches in awe as Emberes controls the fight with an almost casual grace. Each step, each gesture, is calculated. Flames spiral around him, forming barriers, projectiles, and feints that keep his opponent on edge.

  The man begins to falter, his swings growing sluggish under the weight of his weapon and the oppressive heat. Emberes steps in, his fist engulfed in fire, and strikes the warhammer's head. The intense heat warps the metal, rendering the weapon useless.

  The man stumbles back, breathing heavily, his armor singed and his weapon a mangled wreck. He drops it with a heavy thud, raising his hands in surrender.

  The gong sounds, and the crowd erupts into cheers. Emberes steps forward, his flames dissipating as he extends a hand to his opponent.

  "Well fought," Emberes says, his tone genuine. "It takes courage to stand against overwhelming odds. That's something to be proud of."

  The man hesitates, then takes Emberes' hand, allowing himself to be pulled upright. The crowd cheers even louder at the display of respect.

  As Emberes turns to leave the arena, the murmurs of the crowd shift, their excitement growing. A lone figure strides toward him, clad in golden armor that gleams under the sunlight. A Guar Knight.

  The knight stops at the edge of the arena, his presence commanding. He removes his helm, revealing a sharp-featured face framed by short-cropped dark hair.

  "I am Sir Rhylen, a Guar Knight," he announces, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. "Your performance was impressive, Flameborn. So impressive, in fact, that I find myself wondering how you'd fare against someone like me."

  The crowd gasps, the tension thick in the air. Emberes pauses, turning slowly to face the knight.

  "A Guar Knight challenging me?" Emberes says, his tone calm but edged with intrigue. He steps back into the arena, his flames reigniting as a grin spreads across his face. "How could I refuse?"

  The knight descends into the arena, his every step radiating authority. He draws his blade, its edge shimmering with a faint golden glow.

  The two stand across from one another, their gazes locked. The crowd is silent, every eye fixed on the arena.

  The anticipation is electric, and even I find myself leaning forward, my heart pounding. This is no ordinary match. This is a clash of titans.

  The gong hasn't sounded yet, but the tension is so thick it feels as if the fight has already begun.