For a beat, there was silence.

Then murmurs.

"Aside from the first dodge…"

"He didn't even move…"

"It didn't land a single hit…"

"Does he really only have a red potential?"

"Wasn't that owl supposed to be a support beast?"

"What kind of precision freezing is that?"

Aston stepped off the platform with steady feet. No dramatic gestures. No triumphant look. Only the sure motion of someone who already knew what the outcome would be.

Mirage glided behind him, wings tight to her body, refracting the combat dome's dull overhead lights into soft aurora hues. She didn't gloat. She didn't caw.

She simply returned to her perch on Aston's shoulder, her feathers folding inward like glass curtains closing after a show.

Gray was already padding beside them, eyes half-lidded as if nothing about the match had surprised him.

Mavrek remained at the platform's edge, staring not at Aston, but at his own beast.

The Brutewolf's breath came easier now. The spirit medics had siphoned the worst of the frost using dispersal glyphs and aura-guided heat flares. No lasting damage. No scarring. But the bruises were clear.

And the humiliation?

Colder than any freeze.

Mavrek clenched his fists. "You… you didn't even fight fair," he muttered.

Aston stopped for only a second. Turned, just enough for their eyes to meet.

"Fighting fair means dying on the battlefield."

Then he kept walking.

—

At the edge of the dome, Instructor Tull tapped his board, reviewing the spirit sigils tracking the match flow. His expression remained unreadable, but his nod—short and sharp—held meaning.

Not praise.

Recognition.

"Next pair," he called, breaking the tension with authority.

The dome moved on. Another match. Another pair of beasts summoned. Another layered collision of essence, claws, and control.

But everyone's rhythm was off.

They were still trying to understand what they had seen.

—

The dome tried to move on, but the cadence had shifted.

What had once been sparring exercises now felt like quiet trials. Every clash that followed Aston's match seemed somehow dimmer, as if the specter of his win had reshaped the standard.

But the instructors didn't stop. Matches continued.

Instructor Tull's voice rang again.

"Next—Sacramento versus Marr."

Seria stepped forward with her usual grace, though her posture held a slight tension. Her opponent, a lanky boy from the Spirit Alchemy track, wore reinforced gloves and a pendant that shimmered with essence—likely a reactive talisman keyed to support glyphs.

On her hair, prismatic wings shimmered to life as the butterfly pin came alive, the soft gleam of multicolored light flickering faintly across its wingspan.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

From Callen Marr's robes emerged a Lichenback Mole—a spirit beast not known for speed, but highly resistant to sensory confusion. Its thick hide and dirt-slicked talons dug eagerly into the ring floor.

Tull gave the signal. "Begin."

At once, Seria flared a gentle wave of chromatic dust. The butterfly darted into the air, light twisting around its fluttering path. For a moment, the Mole flinched, disoriented by the shifting hues and pulsing vibrations.

But Callen didn't panic.

He dropped a small alchemical pellet onto the ground. It exploded in a harmless puff of yellow mist—but it countered Seria's field perfectly. The dampening effect dulled the butterfly's illusion resonance, blunting the edge of her interference.

Seria's eyes narrowed. She pressed her hand forward, guiding her beast in sharp, elegant patterns. But the Mole wasn't chasing the light—it was sensing vibration through the floor.

In the next moment, it vanished underground.

"Lumine!" Seria called.

Too late.

The Mole erupted from below, its curved back colliding with the butterfly in mid-air. The butterfly shrieked—a soft, high note—as it tumbled out of formation.

Seria raised her hand.

"Surrender."

The field pulsed. The match was over.

"Match:Marr."

There was no shame in her posture. She helped her beast return to her shoulder, the butterfly clearly drained but unharmed. Still, the murmurs returned.

"She's too soft for this."

"Maybe she's more scholar than fighter."

Rowan said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

—

"Next—Delle versus Ka."

Rowan adjusted his gloves with a quick flick of his fingers and strode toward the platform. His beast, Verdy the Verdalune Moss Lemur, hopped onto his shoulder, vines flexing with latent tension.

Emrel Ka was from Spirit Engineering, lean and composed. Her beast was a Hardshell Lynx—a squat, plated creature with shock-absorbent armor and pulse-reactive limbs. Its claws flickered with tiny sparks as it entered the ring.

"Begin."

Rowan opened well—Verdy casting spectral vines to tangle the terrain, growing moss over the field's central slope to give him natural advantage. But Emrel wasn't new to this tactic.

She tapped her bracer—deploying a miniature spirit-tuned relay disc into the floor. A glowing grid flickered to life—artificial terrain reprogramming.

The moss wilted.

The vines cracked and receded.

Rowan blinked. "Crap."

Emrel's Lynx charged forward, low and brutal, shrugging off Verdy's frontal tangles with pure momentum. The lemur dodged, agile as always, but with the forest advantage erased, his stamina dwindled quickly.

One charge. A second. Then a roll.

Verdy hit the ground with a yelp.

Rowan raised his hand. "Yield."

"Match: Ka."

Rowan returned to the bench with a wince and a rueful smirk. "Guess I'm only half a ranger without trees."

—

"Kaiser Vernhollow versus Illan Vok."

There was a beat of laughter from the back—murmurs of a mismatch.

Kai stepped forward with visible hesitation, his head down, sleeves tugged nervously at the cuffs. Beside him, Shelldon, his Spiral Bastion Crabling, waddled with quiet determination.

Across the ring, Illan Vok smirked, cracking his knuckles as his Flarespine Rat flared red-hot across the spine.

Instructor Tull gave the signal. "Begin."

The rat charged.

Kai flinched back instinctively. "Shelldon—Anchor. Now!"

The little crab rooted itself, runes lighting along its shell. The rat slammed into it, sparks flying from the impact.

It held.

Barely.

Another charge. Another crash. Shelldon's shell cracked faintly—but still stood.

"Shellforge Wall!"

A barrier sprang up, absorbing a follow-up tail strike.

The crowd watched with growing surprise.

Illan scowled. "You can't hide behind your turtle forever!"

"He's not a turtle," Kai muttered. "he's a crabling."

One more command. "Anchor deeper."

Shelldon's glow intensified. Heat surged around them—but the rat's flames flickered. Its backplates, overstressed from repeated attacks, dimmed.

And then—the Flarespine Rat faltered.

It dropped to a crouch, breath steaming, overheated and winded.

Tull raised a hand. "Match over. Vernhollow wins."

A few gasps.

Then stunned silence.

Kai blinked. "...Wait, I won?"

Shelldon let out a tired click and curled into her shell.

From the sidelines, Rowan called out, "Stonewall Kai!"

Even Aston gave a rare nod of approval.

Kai flushed red, rubbing the back of his neck.

"…Thanks, Shelldon."

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