"Light tricks?" Mavrek laughed. "Cute. Doesn't matter."

"Mirage," Aston murmured, "Pattern Two. Don't let it see."

Above, the owl shrieked—a high, resonant tone. A ripple of iridescent air radiated from her feathers, and her form disappeared.

"Disappear all you want, it won't save you! Stonequake!"

The Brutewolf slammed both forelegs into the floor. The ring rumbled—shards of compressed stone burst upward like blades. But the airspace did not falter.

Aston remained still.

Then, out of nowhere, Mirage dove, feathers tight to her body, weaving through the debris field. The refraction off her wings caught light from every impact. She became part of the chaos.

Mavrek growled. "Up again! Take her down!"

The Brutewolf leapt, jaws wide, targeting the descending Mirage.

"Now," Aston whispered.

Mirage twirled mid-dive—her feathers glinting in the chaotic light—then flared her wings outward in a sharp, almost unnatural snap.

From her wings erupted a glistening spiral of frost, a sudden torrent of shimmering air laced with

biting cold.

But its effect was immediate.

The ice shards, although do not damage the Brutewolf due to its tough exterior, continue to pelt it with unceasing volley.

The Brutewolf's leap faltered in mid-air, its muscular form colliding with the gust head-on. Its momentum slowed dramatically, frost creeping across its snout and paws in delicate spirals. Its claws, mid-swipe, clenched slower. A fine mist of frozen spirit residue trailed behind its limbs.

The audience gasped.

From the edge of the ring, Instructor Tull's expression shifted—barely. A flicker of approval.

Mavrek's eyes widened. "What—?"

Mirage was already gone—vanishing upward with a spiral of wings, leaving behind only drifting flakes of ice that melted before they hit the ground.

The Brutewolf crashed—not into Mirage, but into the stone ring floor, slowed and off-angle. Its shoulder struck first, then it tumbled awkwardly, skidding with a painful grunt as its limbs scraped against the combat platform.

"Get up!" Mavrek barked. "NOW!"

But the Brutewolf staggered, breath heaving. Its front claws were half-numb, mist still clinging to its hide.

Aston didn't move.

He watched. Calculated.

Mirage hovered silently above, wings pulsing softly, her refraction forming faint arcs of light.

Then Aston spoke—his voice calm, but cold.

"Mirage. Set the rhythm."

The owl let out a single, crystalline shriek, and the ring suddenly felt colder.

Slower. Tighter.

Like winter folding inward.

The Brutewolf crouched again, but this time, even its growl came with steam—mist coiling from its nostrils.

It was still strong.

But now… it was also slowed.

Aston's gaze remained fixed—steady, unreadable.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He wasn't improvising.

He'd seen this kind of opponent before. Heavy. Durable. But predictable.

His fingers flexed slightly at his side, recalling that moment back during the Shale City trials—the Cragfang Ravager.

It had been faster than expected, but not fast enough to match Mirage in the open air. Not once they'd mapped its rotation arcs. Not once they'd bled it of its burst.

Back then, Aston had used terrain. The rhythm of the beast's own weight to turn every charge into a trap. The venom of Yosef's krait. The armor-piercing fangs of Genevieve's fox.

The key was always the same— Don't meet force with force. Redirect. Disorient. Undermine.

And now, facing the Brutewolf, it was déjà vu.

The beast wasn't just a brawler. It was a plow.

But a plow only ran in one direction.

"Mirage," he said softly, "pattern four."

Above, Mirage shimmered into a dive, spiraling sharply around the stunned Brutewolf—never striking, just weaving—her wings slicing through the air in calculated arcs.

The Brutewolf twisted, trying to track her.

Too slow.

Mirage flicked another pulse of chilled wind behind her as she banked, enough to dust the edges of the wolf's fur with frost again.

It lunged—

But Mirage was already gone.

The Brutewolf's eyes tracked Mirage in frustration, its bulk pivoting clumsily as the owl curved through the air. For every turn it attempted, Mirage had already shifted twice—never striking, only weaving, her presence like a whispered blur of motion and color.

"Stay still!" Mavrek barked. "Zone lock, now! Hammer the stupid bird down!"

The Brutewolf snarled, its claws cracking into the floor as it tried to leap again—but the movement was just a second too slow.

Another shimmer passed over the dome.

Mirage dove again, her wings radiating a fine mist, one that wasn't fog, but ice. Her next pass dropped the temperature further, her feathers flashing pale blue with inner essence. She didn't need a direct strike. She didn't even need to wound.

She was controlling the environment.

The Brutewolf's gray hide began to frost at the edges. Its front legs trembled mid-step. Steam hissed from its muzzle, visible now with each frustrated breath.

Aston remained perfectly still, arms folded behind his back, as if observing a lesson rather than engaging in combat.

Gray, from the sideline, watched with his tail flicking once—then still.

Mavrek's hands balled into fists. "She's just dancing! Land a hit already!"

But it wasn't a dance.

It was a noose.

Mirage passed again—this time higher, then dropped a flurry of air so cold that the very stone beneath the Brutewolf crackled with frost. The beast growled, shaking itself, but its movements were now sluggish. Each lunge was slower, less coordinated.

It tried to leap again.

But the moment it landed, the impact wasn't forceful—it was stiff.

The Brutewolf's limbs buckled slightly, and it let out a sharp growl of protest. Its breath steamed, now thick and slow. The fine frost coating its fur had thickened, now laced with crystal sheen. Its armor plates, once fluid and flexible, began to lock together.

Mirage circled once more above—silent as snowfall.

Aston's voice, quiet but clear, echoed through the dome.

"Finish it."

Mirage responded instantly—her wings tilting inward as she exhaled a chilling burst that spiraled like a halo before condensing into a wave of freezing air, slamming against the Brutewolf's chest. Ice traced over its legs, locking its forward stance.

The beast roared—but its roar was choked by the cold. It staggered, front claws digging into the ground as if trying to shake free.

"Get up!" Mavrek snapped. "She's just a flier—ground her already!"

He extended his hand, channeling his essence toward the beast—but the return pulse was sluggish. Dull.

The Brutewolf didn't respond.

"Brutewolf, break the frost! Stonequake now!"

Nothing.

The Brutewolf snarled, but its hind legs locked. Frost grew thicker over its shoulders, encasing its fur and skin in a frozen shell. It shivered once, then dropped to a crouch—not out of strategy, but because it could no longer stand.

Its breath came in short bursts. Its eyes flickered, not with fear—but resignation.

It couldn't move.

Mirage landed softly behind Aston, wings folding without sound.

Mavrek's voice grew sharp, nearly panicked. "Move! Do something!"

But the Brutewolf merely groaned, its claws twitching once.

Then nothing.

The dome shimmered—spirit energy shifting slightly as the automated safeguards registered zero offensive movement from one side.

Instructor Tull raised a hand.

"Stop."

His voice was calm, but final.

All energy in the dome froze.

"Beast unable to continue. Match over."

The assistant monitors confirmed it with pulsing sigils.

"Match: Rhyner."

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