Arid stood in the courtyard, practicing Mel’s web strike technique but adapting it with his vines. He flung a series of thin green tendrils into the air, letting them twist and flow with the breeze as though they were alive. His movements were fluid, almost like a tai chi master in perfect harmony with nature.

  “I can’t deny it—Mel was a genius,” he said, his voice steady but filled with admiration.

  Renita and Rue sat nearby, watching. Renita sipped from her juice cup and chuckled. “I know that for sure. I didn’t interact with him much at first, but… it was nice being with him—and all of you, really.” Her tone grew softer as she confessed.

  Rue laughed, leaning back with a smirk. “Oh, remember the resort? When Mel practically begged you to be on his team?”

  Renita’s face lit up at the memory, her laughter joining Rue’s. “I remember!” She smiled warmly, the nostalgic moment brightening her expression. “Honestly, though, I would’ve been on his team anyway. At first, I thought he saw me as a stand-in vampire for Dorian, but it turns out… he genuinely wanted to be friends with me.”

  “That’s Mel for you,” Rue added with a shrug, though there was an almost hidden fondness in her voice.

  Before they could continue reminiscing, Lance approached from the side, his face painted with bold streaks of gold and black that gave him an air of fierce confidence. “Hey, Arid. It’s time—we’re about to start the performances. Let’s go,” he said with a nod toward the stage.

  Arid wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled at the group. “Wish me luck,” he said, jogging toward the stage with vines still lightly curling around his arms.

  Behind the scenes, the festival buzzed with energy as performers and crew made their final preparations. Instruments were being tuned, costumes adjusted, and last-minute run-throughs whispered between performers. The stage lights flickered to life, casting a warm glow over the gathering crowd.

  Lance joined the performers backstage, hyping them up. “This is it, guys. Let’s show them what we’ve got!”

  On stage, the first act was gearing up, their vibrant outfits shimmering under the lights. The hum of anticipation filled the air as the festivalgoers gathered near the stage, ready to be entertained.

  Back in the wings, Arid stretched his arms and adjusted his vines, glancing at his reflection in a nearby mirror. His nerves buzzed, but the steady rhythm of the festival music gave him focus.

  Renita and Rue found a good spot to watch, with Rue smirking. “Think he’ll nail it?”

  Renita grinned. “He better. Mel’s watching from somewhere, I’m sure.”

  With a deep breath, Arid stepped onto the stage as the crowd erupted into cheers, the festival officially in full swing.

  First, Clyde and Lance stepped onto the stage, the energy in the air electric as the band launched into a powerful rock tune. The rhythmic pulse of the drums and the wail of the guitar set the tone, drawing the crowd’s attention.

  The two stood at the center of the stage, their postures strong and deliberate. Clyde took a deep breath, his fists tightening at his sides, while Lance adjusted his stance, his movements sharp and purposeful. Then, as if perfectly synchronized, they began performing a kata from Mel’s Hidden Cloud Martial Arts—a rare and fluid style known for blending precision and grace with bursts of explosive power.

  Clyde led with sweeping, arcing movements, his arms flowing like wind currents slicing through the air. He dropped low into a grounded stance, his hands tracing deliberate patterns as if drawing unseen sigils. Each motion was smooth yet carried an undercurrent of strength.

  Lance followed, his style sharper and more aggressive. He stepped forward with lightning-fast strikes, his fists cutting through the air in straight lines. He punctuated his attacks with sudden pivots and swift kicks, each one echoing with the thud of his boots against the stage floor.

  As the two moved together, their contrasting styles complemented each other—the smooth, flowing grace of Clyde’s techniques balanced by the direct, forceful precision of Lance’s strikes. They mirrored and countered one another in a seamless rhythm, their kata a dance of controlled energy and power.

  At one point, Clyde launched into a spinning leap, his body twisting midair like a storm cloud spiraling overhead, landing with cat-like agility. Lance followed with a forward roll, transitioning into a rapid-fire series of hidden cloud punches that mimicked thunderous strikes.

  The crowd watched in awe as the stage lights caught every motion, highlighting the intensity of their performance. Even the band seemed to sync their playing to the rhythm of Clyde and Lance’s movements, their martial artistry blending perfectly with the music’s raw energy.

  By the time they finished, both stood in perfect stillness at the center of the stage, their final poses exuding strength and focus. The crowd erupted into cheers, the combination of Hidden Cloud Martial Arts and rock music leaving an unforgettable impression.

  It was clear to everyone that Mel’s influence lived on through his teachings—and through the dedication of those he had inspired.

  Bruno, still fuming and slightly unsteady from drink, stood abruptly, his anger boiling over. “I’m gonna see what Goldman fought that day,” he slurred, downing the last of his drink before tossing the cup to the ground. His steps were uneven as he pushed through the crowd, earning glares and muttered complaints.

  “Idiot,” Richard muttered, reclining in his seat and shaking his head.

  Bruno shoved past a few people before a man grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, watch it!” the man said, but Bruno, without hesitation, swung a fist and knocked him out cold. The crowd gasped as Bruno stormed onto the stage, his movements heavy with drunken confidence.

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  He grabbed the microphone and grinned arrogantly. “So this is the famous technique Melanthius used and still managed to die? Hidden Cloud Technique? More like send you to the clouds technique!” His laugh echoed through the speakers, drawing a mix of boos and murmurs from the crowd.

  Clyde quickly approached him, his face calm but tense. “Sir, please step off the stage,” he said firmly.

  Bruno smirked, dropping the mic to the ground with a thud. “Hit me,” he demanded, pounding his chest. Clyde glanced back at Lance, who nodded, urging him to handle it.

  With a reluctant sigh, Clyde threw a clean punch to Bruno’s chest. Bruno barely flinched. “Harder,” he sneered, brushing off his shirt.

  Clyde hesitated but delivered a Hidden Cloud punch, channeling the signature technique’s precision and power into the strike. This time, Bruno staggered slightly but managed to stay on his feet, wincing at the blow’s impact. Then, with a quick sidestep, Bruno retaliated with a brutal punch to Clyde’s face.

  The hit landed with a sickening crack. Clyde crumpled to the ground, unconscious, blood trickling from his mouth.

  “Clyde!” Lance shouted, shoving Bruno back and kneeling to check on his friend.

  Bruno, chest puffed out, turned to address the crowd. “So this is all Melanthius’s students have? Pathetic. You might as well join us in Camelot!” He laughed, his voice dripping with mockery as the crowd erupted in boos.

  “They’re from Camelot?!” Rue whispered sharply, standing up, her face pale with fear.

  Suddenly, members of the Steel Pact surged toward the stage, determined to defend Clyde and their honor. Before they could act, Bruno let out a sharp whistle, and several Red Coyotes stormed the stage, their presence turning the situation volatile.

  Chaos exploded. Punches flew in every direction, the Steel Pact and Red Coyotes colliding in a vicious melee. One Steel Pact member launched himself at Bruno, but Bruno caught him mid-charge, slamming him into the stage floor.

  Nearby, Lance ducked a wild swing and retaliated with a sharp elbow strike to an opponent’s ribs, sending them stumbling back. The stage rattled under the weight of the brawl, cheers and jeers erupting from the onlookers as fists, kicks, and bodies clashed in a chaotic display of brute strength and martial skill.

  Bruno roared with laughter as he held his own against multiple Steel Pact members, his movements feral yet precise, while the Red Coyotes fought with unrelenting aggression. Lance, now bloodied but determined, pushed through the fray, locking eyes with Bruno.

  “This ends now!” Lance growled, charging forward, but Bruno only grinned, ready for the next challenger.

  As Lance made his way across the stage, Richard suddenly grabbed his shirt and threw a sharp punch, knocking Lance to the ground. Lance groaned, dazed, while chaos erupted around him.

  Mark rushed onto the stage, trying to forcefully separate the Steel Pact and Red Coyotes members, his voice booming over the commotion. “Stop fighting! Stop it, now!” He turned to Bruno, who was winding up for another swing. “Bruno, enough!” Mark yelled, stepping between the brawlers.

  Bruno, fueled by adrenaline and anger, threw a punch at Mark. Mark blocked it cleanly. Another punch followed, then another, each one expertly deflected by Mark’s quick reflexes. Mark stood firm, his calm resolve shining through the madness, until Bruno launched a wild haymaker.

  Suddenly, Yasmine appeared, shoving Bruno off Mark with surprising force. She spun and delivered a precise sidekick to Bruno’s chest, sending him stumbling off the stage into the crowd below.

  Meanwhile, Jake darted through the chaos, narrowly dodging strikes from a group of Red Coyotes chasing him. “Jake, duck!” came a shout. Jake turned just in time to see Lucy, wielding a stick like a seasoned warrior, fend off his attackers with graceful yet forceful movements.

  “I got you, Captain!” she yelled, taking another swing that sent one assailant flying.

  Jake froze, his jaw dropping. “L-Lucy… she’s amazing,” he muttered in awe, unable to tear his eyes away as she handled the situation.

  On the other side of the stage, Arid faced off with Richard, their fight charged with emotion. Richard lashed out with a kick, but Arid raised his leg to intercept it, their limbs colliding mid-air. Without missing a beat, Arid leapt up and drove his foot into Richard’s chest, sending him stumbling backward.

  “What are you even doing here? Haven’t you done enough?!” Arid yelled, tears streaking down his face as he thought of Liam taking Elowen.

  Fueled by his pain, Arid summoned a vine from his hand, wrapping it tightly around Richard’s neck. He pulled Richard toward him and delivered a vicious knee to his face. Richard clawed at the vine, but Arid ducked under his grasp, spun behind him, and locked his arms. With a burst of strength, Arid slammed Richard into the ground with a suplex that rattled the stage.

  “Why did you take Elowen?!” Arid shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. He climbed on top of Richard and pinned him down, his knee pressing against his chest.

  Blinded by rage, Arid unleashed a flurry of punches, each strike landing harder than the last. “Why?! Why?!” he screamed, his knuckles bloodied as tears mixed with his fury. What felt like seconds stretched into agonizing minutes as he pounded Richard, lost in his grief and anger.

  “Stop!” Lance shouted, grabbing Arid and pulling him off Richard. Arid stumbled backward, his breaths heavy, his eyes wide with the realization of what he’d done.

  As silence fell, Arid looked around, noticing King Percival and the wardens arriving. They were tending to the injured students and Steel Pact members, their stern expressions demanding order.

  Richard groaned, staggering to his feet with a bloodied face. He spat blood onto the stage, his lips curling into a sneer. “Damn psycho,” he muttered before limping away, disappearing into the crowd.

  Arid sank to his knees, his head hanging low, guilt and exhaustion weighing on him as the aftermath of the chaos settled around them.

  Later, in Lance’s room, the group sat in heavy silence, the tension palpable. Arid sat on the floor, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his head bowed low. “I’m sorry you guys had to see me like that,” he finally said, his voice trembling with regret. “I just… I’m so fed up with Camelot. They’ve taken so much from me…”

  Clyde winced as he pressed ice to the bruise on his cheek. “Don’t worry, Arid. We understand,” he said softly, though his gaze was distant. He let out a heavy sigh. “We were having such a good time. Everything was finally normal, and then Camelot had to ruin it—again. Why do they keep doing this to us?”

  Rue sat across the room, her gloved hand clenched into a tight fist. Her jaw tightened as she stared at the ground. “Because no one’s stopping them,” she growled, her voice sharp with anger. “Camelot thinks they can do whatever they want. They’re untouchable, and it’s sickening!” Her voice rose, her frustration spilling over as her glove squeaked from the pressure.

  Amara, who had been invited by Lance, sat quietly beside Cassius. She rarely left his side since Mel’s death, her grief and loyalty to him keeping her close. “If it wasn’t for King Liam…” she began, her voice trembling with fury and sorrow, “Goldman would’ve stayed in hiding. He wouldn’t have captured Elowen, and Mel would still be alive. It’s his fault. All of it. And I’m so tired of watching people suffer because of him.”

  Cassius placed a hand gently on her shoulder, grounding her as her voice broke.

  Renita leaned back, running her fingers through her hair, her mind clearly racing. “Aldara said the ones we fought were an elite group—the Red Coyotes. If they were that strong, there’s no doubt Camelot has more like them.” She frowned, her tone tinged with worry. “We can’t ignore this. They’re not going to stop coming after us.”

  The room fell into an uneasy quiet again, each of them lost in their own thoughts. The weight of Camelot’s shadow hung heavy over them, but within the silence, a determination began to grow—a silent agreement that something had to change.