The air in the arena was still thick from Dai Micho's victory. The Combat Division's chants rolled like thunder, pride swelling from their champion's savage win.

But the quarterfinals weren't finished yet.

The announcer's voice rose again, pulling every eye back to the gates.

"Quarterfinal Match Eight! Vincent Fairbanks of the Trade and Commerce Division versus Devi Halsworth of the Spirit Engineering Division!"

The crowd's roar was mixed—Trade and Commerce rarely had fighters in the later rounds, while Engineering's constructs were always a spectacle.

From the eastern gate, Vincent strode confidently, a merchant's swagger in his step. His beast, a crimson-feathered drake with lean wings, stalked forward, embers smoldering in its breath.

Opposite him, Devi entered surrounded by the whirring of gears. At her side trundled a hulking construct-beast, metallic limbs glowing faintly with etched runes. The Spirit Engineering Division roared in pride.

The duel was a clash of opposites—flame against steel, instinct against invention. Vincent's drake circled wide, spitting gouts of fire, while Devi's beast countered with rotating shields and bolts of essence energy.

For a time, it seemed the engineer's creation might endure, its armor holding against the flames. But Vincent pressed relentlessly, driving his drake into the air and swooping low in punishing arcs. Each pass left the construct glowing hotter, runes sputtering under the strain.

Then, with a final searing dive, the drake unleashed a torrent of flame straight into the construct's core. The machine shuddered, gears screeching, before collapsing into a heap of smoldering metal.

The referee raised his hand. "Winner—Vincent Fairbanks!"

The Trade and Commerce students erupted, their cheers sharp and jubilant. For once, one of their own stood tall in the arena's center. Vincent grinned wide, bowing theatrically before leading his drake from the stage.

With that, the final name was carved.

—

The announcer's voice swelled as glyph-screens shimmered to life around the arena, projecting the official rankings.

"Ladies and gentlemen—your Top Eight of the Singles Arena!"

The screens flared, names and Divisions written in glowing letters:

The Great Eight – Quarterfinalist

Tristan Graves – Spirit Combat Division

Yosef Redrich – Spirit Alchemy Division

Francheska Guilbar – Spirit Combat Division

Aston Rhyner – Scouting Arts Division

Genevieve Ortega – Spirit Combat Division

Alain Price – Spirit Alchemy Division

Dai Micho – Spirit Combat Division

Vincent Fairbanks – Trade and Commerce Division

The stadium roared with deafening noise—cheers, jeers, chants, and laughter all crashing together.

Combat Division supporters raised their fists, crowing that four of the Great Eight bore their colors. Alchemy students shouted their pride, while Trade and Commerce practically wept with joy at their lone champion.

And in the Scouting Division's corner, the cheers were scattered but fierce, voices raised for Aston, the boy who had carried their name further than anyone had expected.

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The referee stepped forward, raising both arms until the crowd dimmed. His voice carried, sharp and clear.

"Participants, hear this. You have battled hard, proving your strength and resolve. The quarterfinals are next—the stage where the true elite of your generation will be decided."

The crowd hushed, leaning in.

"But first," the referee continued, "by decree of the Academy Council, there will be a one-hour recess. Participants are to rest, recover, and ready their beasts. When the hour concludes, the semifinal matches will begin."

The announcement rolled like a wave. Some spectators groaned at the delay, others cheered for the chance to place fresh bets, while the participants themselves exchanged glances of quiet calculation.

Aston remained still in the tunnel's shadow, Mirage perched calmly at his side and Gray watching with sharp eyes. He let the crowd's noise wash over him without reaction.

An hour.

Enough time to think. Enough time to prepare.

—

The crowd's roar still echoed faintly through the walls of the waiting hall, but in Aston's group, it was quiet.

Lyra sat on the bench, her hands trembling as they stroked Chill's frost-dusted fur. The lynx lay on its side, chest rising and falling shallowly under the healers' glow. Scorch marks marred its flank where the Warhound's fire had struck.

"Come on, boy," Lyra whispered, her voice breaking. "You're stronger than this. You have to be."

Rowan crouched beside her, expression softer than usual. "The healers said he'll be fine. Look at him—he's still breathing steady. He's tougher than he looks."

Lyra's grip tightened on Chill's paw. "He pushed too hard because I told him to. I made him fight into the fire when he should've pulled back." Her eyes glistened. "This isn't about winning or losing. It's about him. He could've…" She couldn't finish.

Kai leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his voice was gentler than his posture. "You didn't throw him to the flames. Chill chose to fight with you. Beasts aren't tools—they know the risks, same as us."

Lyra blinked at him, surprised at the rare note of understanding.

Aston finally spoke, his tone steady. "Chill fought because he trusted you. And because of that,

Dai's Warhound isn't walking away untouched either. You gave him wounds to remember."

Lyra looked down at the lynx, whose whiskers twitched faintly in sleep. Slowly, she exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "He's all I care about right now. As long as he heals, the rest doesn't matter."

Rowan smirked faintly. "There's the Lyra I know. Stubborn as ever—except now it's aimed in the right direction."

A thin smile ghosted across her lips. She stroked Chill's head once more, whispering so softly it was almost lost in the noise: "Rest easy. I've got you."

—

The quiet was broken by mocking laughter.

Tristan Graves appeared at the far end of the hall, his Infernal Fang Cheetah padding beside him, runes burning like molten brands. A cluster of Combat Division students flanked him, smug grins plastered on their faces.

"Well, look at this," Tristan drawled. His smirk found Aston instantly. "The Great Eight. Never thought you of all people would make it this far, Rhyner."

Snickers rippled through his group. One clapped Tristan's shoulder. "Guess even blind luck gets a name on the board sometimes."

Aston's expression didn't shift, but Mirage rustled her wings from her perch. Gray padded closer, tail swishing, eyes locked on Tristan's cheetah.

Tristan stepped nearer, lowering his voice so only Aston and his friends could hear. "Pray the lots don't put you against me next. Because if they do, your little fairy tale ends in flames. I'll make sure of it."

Rowan straightened, voice sharp. "Funny, coming from the guy who parades with half his Division at his back. You sure you don't need them in the arena too?"

The Combat students bristled, but Tristan only laughed. "Keep talking. The draw will decide, and when it does, don't say I didn't warn you."

He turned on his heel, his cheetah's paws leaving faint scorch marks as they exited.

Lyra's hand curled protectively over Chill, her jaw tight. "If he ever lays a hand—or paw—on Chill, I swear…" She trailed off, fire in her eyes despite her worry.

Kai muttered, "Then here's hoping the draw's cruel enough to throw him straight at Aston."

Aston said nothing, but inside, his resolve crystallized. Tristan's arrogance would be broken eventually—whether in the next round or later.

—

A bell tolled overhead, reverberating through the stone halls. The referee's voice echoed a moment later, carrying from the arena:

"Participants of the Great Eight! Report to the central stage. The quarterfinal draw will now commence. One hour of recess is granted for your beasts to rest and recover—but the brackets shall be decided here and now!"

The crowd above roared with renewed frenzy.

Aston rose, Mirage gliding down to perch at his shoulder. Gray fell into step beside him, steady as always.

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