The instant Nyssara's voice faded, the courtyard fell silent — then, the sound of rushing water erupted from nowhere.

The Tidewarden moved first. His trident spun once, the air around it twisting into a spiral that shimmered like liquid glass. The pressure changed — Trafalgar felt it in his ears before the first strike even came.

The weapon blurred.

Trafalgar raised Maledicta just in time — metal met water with a sharp crack, the impact sending ripples through the marble floor. He was pushed back half a step, boots scraping against the soaked surface.

The guard's expression didn't change. He stepped forward again, his weapon moving in wide arcs that carried the weight of a tide. Each swing hummed with barely-contained power, and every parry felt heavier than the last.

Trafalgar exhaled through his nose, shoulders tightening. 'He's faster than I expected. Every hit carries a second wave beneath it.'

A thrust came straight for his chest. Trafalgar twisted aside — but the trident's flow changed mid-motion, bending unnaturally as if the air itself obeyed. The second blade clipped his arm, slicing through his sleeve and leaving a thin line of red.

The sting grounded him instantly.

The next strike came from below, a sweeping current that forced Trafalgar to leap back. Droplets followed the trident's wake, floating midair for a heartbeat before falling like rain.

He landed low, gripping the sword tighter, eyes darting over the motion of the weapon — every rotation, every twist. But there was no rhythm, no pattern. Just constant adaptation.

The Tidewarden advanced again, footwork smooth, silent. Trafalgar blocked one strike, then another — and the third slammed into his ribs. The hit threw him back against the mana barrier; a faint pulse of blue absorbed the impact, but the pain still burned across his side.

'Flow stage… right. He's literally controlling the damn atmosphere.'

He spat blood, wiped his mouth with his thumb, and forced a half-smirk. "If you're trying to impress your boss," he muttered, "you'll need more than flashy water tricks."

The guard didn't take the bait. Instead, he twirled the trident again — each motion perfectly balanced, his movements almost too calm. "I'm not here to impress anyone. I'm here to remind you that arrogance can make you sink."

Trafalgar's eyes narrowed. The insult rolled off him like the water droplets slipping from his armor.

'Alright, Poseidon…'

He stepped forward again, blade low, body coiled for another clash. The duel had barely begun — and he was already being swallowed whole by the flow.

The Tidewarden struck again before Trafalgar could even reset his stance. The trident's movements blurred — wide arcs turned to sharp thrusts, each motion guided by water bending unnaturally around it.

Trafalgar pivoted on his heel, the motion tight and deliberate. His left foot slid back, his upper body twisting just enough to let the blade skim across his chest. The rush of displaced air brushed his neck, cold and damp.

The moment the guard pulled the trident back, Trafalgar countered — right arm snapping upward, Maledicta slicing in a rising arc. The black edge cut through mist and light, the speed clean, surgical.

But before the strike could connect, the air itself retaliated. A spinning current burst from the trident's shaft — [Abyssal Flow]. A ripple of blue energy wrapped the weapon, splitting Trafalgar's attack mid-swing.

The wave slammed into him like a sledgehammer. His stance broke; his boots slid across the marble. He recovered with a backward roll, landing in a crouch, sword raised defensively.

'Delayed attacks… every swing leaves an afterimage made of water pressure. So he's striking twice each time.'

The Tidewarden didn't press immediately. He moved calmly, rotating his trident in one hand, letting it hum with soft vibration. The surrounding droplets obeyed his motion, forming delicate orbits around the weapon.

"Still breathing?" the man asked, tone almost casual.

Trafalgar rose slowly. "Barely."

Then he dashed forward.

Water splashed beneath his feet, scattering in every direction. Maledicta came down in a brutal horizontal cut, its edge humming with mana — [Arc Slash]. A ripple of dark-blue light burst from the blade, tearing a shallow groove in the marble as it rushed toward the Tidewarden.

The guard met it head-on, twirling his trident with effortless precision. The wave of water he summoned folded around the attack, smothering it midair before it reached him.

Trafalgar didn't hesitate. He charged through the fading mist, twisting his body at the last instant. His left shoulder led, lowering the center of gravity; his right arm followed, slashing upward from below.

Steel met the trident's lower haft. Sparks and water burst in every direction.

But the guard absorbed the impact like a veteran brawler. He turned his wrists, catching Maledicta between two of the trident's prongs and locking it in place.

The strain pulled Trafalgar off balance for a heartbeat — a single heartbeat that the Tidewarden exploited. The man drove his knee forward, slamming it into Trafalgar's side. The impact was brutal.

Trafalgar grunted, twisting away, breaking the lock with a violent roll of his wrist. He stumbled backward, holding his ribs. The pain pulsed deep — dull but sharp enough to make his muscles tighten.

"Your stance falters when you're cornered." the guard said, voice low.

Trafalgar's expression didn't change. He straightened slowly, resting Maledicta on his shoulder. "You talk like you've already won."

The trident gleamed, and suddenly Trafalgar felt the air shift again. Moisture gathered from the walls, condensing into sharp, floating spheres around them.

Then, with a motion too fluid to track, the guard spun his trident — a full circular sweep that unleashed a slicing current in every direction.

Trafalgar's eyes narrowed. He bent his knees slightly, shifting his body weight forward, and ducked beneath the first wave. The next came from the left — he pivoted on his heel, dragging his blade upward diagonally to parry.

Each movement was controlled, efficient. He let the weapon move with the pressure, not against it.

But the last strike came unseen — a surge from behind, hidden by vapor. Trafalgar barely turned in time; the blunt edge of the trident caught him across the shoulder, sending him crashing into the mana barrier again.

His armor flickered with a faint pulse, absorbing most of the impact. But the pain still tore through his back like lightning.

He staggered, catching himself with his left hand. 'He's playing me. Every step I take, he adjusts.'

Zafira's hands tightened around the edge of her seat. The air shimmered with the clash of mana and water — each strike echoed like thunder within the dome.

Trafalgar moved differently now. His steps were slower, his motions rough, but his blade carved through the mist with reckless precision. He looked battered — shoulder bleeding, armor cracked — and yet… he was smiling.

A faint, almost amused grin crossed his face as the Tidewarden lunged again. 'You're enjoying this…?' Zafira thought, her heart tightening. She could see it in his eyes — the sharp glint of someone who had finally found a challenge worth bleeding for.

The girl beside her tugged softly at her sleeve. "He's… not gonna die, right?" she whispered.

Zafira didn't answer. She couldn't. Her focus was entirely on Trafalgar.

He exhaled once, shifting his stance. Maledicta rose, humming with dark energy. The guard's trident slashed downward — fluid, perfect — but Trafalgar didn't dodge.

He smiled wider.

A black crescent burst from his blade, swallowing the light around it — [Morgain's Final Crescent].

The explosion of shadow ripped through the mist, cutting straight through the Tidewarden's defense. The impact cracked the floor, the noise deafening, the air filled with shattering water and steam.

When it cleared, both combatants stood frozen — one drenched in light, the other in shadow.

Zafira's breath caught in her throat.

The Tidewarden's weapon had stopped mid-motion… and a faint line of blood slid down his chest.

Trafalgar didn't move. His smile lingered — small, tired, and absolutely fearless.

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