Frost still clung to the stone when Lucaris lazily leaned forward.

  He wasn’t looking at Arden. Not even at Hanri as he walked away.

  His gaze lingered on the trace of cold left behind after the clash.

  One of his attendants asked quietly:

  "That was a second-tier spell?"

  Lucaris smirked at the corner of his mouth.

  "Yes."

  "But… he’s in the Qi Gathering realm. Is that even possible?"

  Lucaris slowly turned his cup between his fingers, as if the conversation amused him.

  "Tier One is mostly raw force. A burst. Coating a weapon. Reinforcing a strike. Sometimes a simple shape that lasts a few seconds. It works, but it’s straightforward."

  The attendant nodded, not interrupting.

  "Tier Two is different," Lucaris continued. "That’s where a clear effect appears. Not 'hit harder,' but 'change the situation.' Ice isn’t just cold—it starts behaving like part of the technique itself. Fire isn’t just heat—it presses differently. Those things were designed for Foundation Establishment."

  "Then why could he do it?"

  "Because learning something doesn’t mean unlocking it fully," Lucaris answered evenly. "In Qi Gathering it’s expensive. Hard to maintain. Hard to repeat. And the power is still limited by your level. In Foundation Establishment, those spells finally show why they were invented in the first place."

  The attendant frowned.

  "But Hanri tried to melt it—"

  "And couldn’t," Lucaris cut in, no smile now. "Because it was Earth rank."

  He lifted his gaze to the arena, as if checking whether he was being listened to closely enough.

  "With Earth-rank spells, the energy inside the spell is gathered better. It doesn’t spread out. And most importantly—the two elements inside don’t interfere; they work together. Not 'ice separately, metal separately,' but one supporting the other. So Hanri’s fire could be strong, but it was hitting a wall, not a crack."

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  The attendant fell silent for a moment.

  "So it’s not just talent?"

  Lucaris shrugged.

  "It’s inheritance. Access. What they put in your hands."

  He glanced for a moment toward where Arden stood, then smirked again—quieter this time.

  "Interesting how many more of those 'accidents' he has."

  ***

  After Arden’s fight, the arena didn’t come alive—it grew quieter.

  People no longer talked as freely as they had in the morning. Even those who’d come 'just to watch' were watching more carefully now. The barrier shimmered evenly. The stone circle took footsteps without a sound.

  The steward announced the next pair.

  Corvin stepped out quickly.

  His opponent was from the side branch—a familiar face, a familiar sword, a familiar stance. They met each other’s eyes even before the signal. A short, heavy look. No hatred.

  The first exchanges were even. Short strikes, angle changes, circling steps. Corvin didn’t rush. He didn’t waste. He was searching for a moment—and it appeared too easily.

  His opponent hesitated.

  Too subtle for the stands.

  But Corvin saw it.

  That hesitation was enough.

  One precise step inside the distance. A short cut—not to kill, to lock it in. A blade at the throat. The barrier flared.

  Corvin stepped back at once.

  He sheathed his sword without looking at the stands. His face stayed calm, but his fingers on the hilt squeezed harder than necessary. He understood what had happened. And that understanding sat inside him like a heavy stone.

  Mirella came out next.

  Her opponent was more cautious than the last one. He didn’t rush forward, didn’t try to crush her in the first exchange. He moved carefully, economically, as if he knew what haste would lead to.

  Mirella barely changed.

  A couple of exchanges—nothing obvious. No bright flares, no loud collisions. It looked like the fight was even.

  Then her opponent took a breath a little deeper than usual.

  A step—just a fraction late.

  His hand trembled at the moment of the parry.

  He tried to push more into the attack—and froze, as if his body decided for him.

  Mirella came close and stopped her blade at his throat.

  The barrier flared.

  In the stands that same whisper rose again—not delight, but confusion.

  She bowed and walked away as if everything had gone exactly as it should.

  When Lucaris’s name was called, the buzz changed.

  It didn’t rise—it tightened.

  His opponent looked strong, collected, not one of the timid. He stepped into the circle with dignity, held his weapon with confidence, didn’t hide his gaze.

  Lucaris walked out lazily, as if he wasn’t in any hurry to begin.

  For the first few seconds he 'played.' Tested. Moved at half speed. Smiled.

  Then the smile vanished.

  He accelerated sharply.

  In one exchange—pressure. In the second—difference. In the third—fear on his opponent’s face, when he realized he couldn’t keep up.

  And Lucaris didn’t stop when he should have.

  The blow went farther than necessary. Not to win—to break.

  The barrier flared hard.

  Blood on the stone looked too bright.

  Someone in the stands sucked in a breath.

  Lucaris stepped back only after the outcome was fixed, and looked at the fallen man as if he’d ruined his mood.

  The barrier still held leftover tension when the steward came back out to the center of the circle.

  A trace of blood remained on the stone. They quickly scattered sand over it, but the color still bled through the gray granite. The arena grew quieter than it had been a minute ago. Even those who loved a show were silent now.

  The steward raised his voice.

  "Based on the results of the bouts… four remain in the tournament."

  The names sounded one by one. Crisp. Without ceremony.

  "Arden Lunveyr."

  "Corvin Lunveyr."

  "Mirella Nerival."

  "Lucaris Crayne."

  Four figures stepped closer to the center, lining up.

  Corvin stood straight, but his hands tensed for a moment as he tightened his grip on the sword’s hilt. He felt the side branch watching. He felt that from now on, his path would come with no allowances.

  Mirella stood calmly. The veil hid her expression, but her eyes stayed clear. No joy. No nerves. Only attentive presence.

  Lucaris looked like he was already tired of waiting. His gaze slid over the three of them—acknowledging no equals. The corner of his lips lifted, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  Arden stood evenly. He didn’t display confidence. He didn’t hide it, either. He simply accepted this line as a fact.

  No one spoke from the elders’ stand.

  Selena didn’t change.

  Serael watched a little more closely than usual.

  Darion stayed silent, and in that silence there was no approval—only a cold mark.

  The steward took a step forward.

  "Tomorrow, the finalists will be decided."

  The gong sounded once.

  The sun sank lower, and the shadows converged toward the center of the circle, as if the arena itself were tightening around four names.

  This time, the tournament truly became personal.