The arena floor bore fresh scars from the day's battles—cracks in the stone, patches still smoldering, faint traces of essence lingering like aftershocks. Yet the crowd roared on, hungering for more.

Two more matches had come and gone, their victors less spectacular than the artificer team or Tristan's squad, but efficient enough to survive. Eight teams now remained. Eight would step forward. Eight would fight for a place in history.

The referee lifted his hand, his voice rising above the thunder of voices.

"Ladies and gentlemen, after a grueling round of combat, only eight teams remain! The brackets will be decided by a draw once again."

A hush rippled across the coliseum.

One by one, the representatives of each surviving squad approached the stone pedestal at the arena's center. Eight tokens lay waiting, etched with the numbers one through eight.

Marcellus strode forward on behalf of Team Eleven. His steps were heavy, deliberate, as though carrying the weight of his teammates' expectations. He reached down and plucked his token. When he lifted it, the number gleamed bright under the sunlight. "Six."

The crowd cheered, the bracket already forming in their minds.

The disciplined leader followed, expression as unreadable as carved stone. He pulled his token free—two.

Next came the artificer team's alchemist leader, gauntlet flashing as he plucked his token: three.

Rowan swaggered forward, Verdy perched smugly on his shoulders. He grinned as his hand closed on a token. "Lucky number four," he declared with a bow.

Tristan Graves walked without hurry, his presence commanding silence. His token lifted smooth and sure: Eight.

The sixth belonged to Kai's squad, Shelldon scuttling at his side. Kai's hand trembled faintly as he picked his number. "...Seven."

One and Five were claimed by the last two teams, their faces pale with the realization of the monsters they might soon face.

The referee raised both arms, his voice booming as the brackets shimmered into place across an overhead projection.

Match One: Team Thirty One vs.Team One Match Two: Team Twenty Five vs Team Twenty Nine Match Three: Team Eighteen vs. Team Eleven

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! Match Four: Team Seven vs. Team Thirty Seven

The coliseum erupted, speculation flying like wildfire.

"Participants, prepare yourselves" the referee declared. "Only four teams will stand after this!"

The coliseum quaked with anticipation as the referee raised his arm. The morning sun gleamed off the polished arena floor, banners snapping in the wind above. Eight teams had survived, but only four would see the semifinals.

"Quarterfinal Match One! Team Thirty One versus Team One!"

The gong boomed like a war drum, and the gates parted to let both squads stride into the arena.

From the east came Team One—led by the disciplined cadet-looking student. Their step was uniform, almost in perfect rhythm. Their uniforms were of different colors, but one can feel oneness when looking at them. They lined up in a V-formation, handlers behind them in a mirror stance. Not one wasted motion. Behind them prowled their beasts, the mastiffs in the lead.

From the west shuffled their opponents: Team Thirty One, a haphazard group of students. Their beasts were impressive but mismatched, each handler clearly used to fighting alone rather than as one. They barely defeated their opponents the previous match, so the crowd has already decided the winner of this match.

The referee raised his hand. "Quarterfinal Match One! Begin!"

"Formation Shield. Hold."

The cadet captain's voice cut like steel.

The mastiffs stepped forward, essence flaring, their bodies hardening into a bulwark. A lizard slid low behind it, exhaling smoke that cloaked the front ranks. Above, a swan spread its wings, forming a canopy of metallic feathers.

From Team Thirty One's side, a serpent emitted a bolt of lightning across the field, forcing the mastiffs back, but not harming it, as the bolt scattered harmlessly across the mastiffs' hides.

The cadet captain didn't even flinch.

"Counter—advance."

One of the mastiffs lunged, its armored jaws clamping onto one of the opponent's beast, twisting it aside. Another beast—a stag—darted in, antlers slicing with bladed precision, striking down the mastiff's opponent.

The swan dove, spear-feathers raining like arrows, forcing Team Thirty One to defend, but the feathers struck the lightning serpent—sparks fizzling into nothing.

Team Thirty One shouted over one another, their commands clashing like their beasts. One called for a retreat, another for an all-out attack. Another beast went down in seconds, the handler's essence flaring in defeat.

The crowd gasped at their sheer efficiency.

Not waiting for their opponent to make additional plans, Team One finished Team Thirty One off.

Silence fell, as Team Thirty One was wiped off.

The referee raised his hand, but the gesture was almost unnecessary. "Victory—Team One!"

The crowd erupted, half in awe, half unsettled. How can one student command a newly formed team into total discipline and obedience? Every move had been by the book, every strike delivered with finality.

"That Combat student is wild!"

"They crushed their opponents like paper!"

For the other competitors, watching from chambers and projections, one thing was clear: Team One did not need luck or cunning.

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