"Useless trash," Aran muttered, his words cutting sharper than any blade. His gaze lingered on the bald youth as though the boy's very existence offended him. In Aran's eyes, weakness was rot. And rot deserved no place among warriors.

The fool had surrendered when victory was within his grasp. The thick-browed youth had been worse off, his body a thread away from collapse. A single strike more, and the outcome might have reversed. Instead, the bald youth had believed the facade.

A novice's mistake, unforgivable at this stage. What was done could not be undone.

Varesh and Jitesh exchanged brief glances. Dissatisfaction rippled through their eyes, though neither voiced it. Their silence was heavier than rebuke. Beside them, Chief Yuvi's face twisted between rage and panic. His disciple's failure was his own disgrace. He did not know whether to melt into hiding or kick the boy down the steps for all to see.

The youth himself said nothing. His eyes dimmed, shoulders slumped, he walked back to his seat like a shadow retreating from the light. Sitting cross-legged, he closed his eyes and forced his breath into rhythm, seeking to restore his fractured qi. Yet no meditative calm could wash away the sting of humiliation.

But the arena allowed no pause for regret. Another pair stepped forward—the fiery miss of the Meghs against the Dravhal enigma. At first glance, Babita seemed to hold the upper hand. Her wood-type qi wrapped around the stage, vines of green energy weaving a subtle net meant to choke out flame. Many among the crowd whispered that the balance tilted toward her.

Yet beneath that display, Ahana's confidence never wavered. She toyed with her opponent, her fiery aura licking at the edges of Babita's defences. Then, with the arrogance of youth, Babita pressed too far, vines coiling like a net ready to choke flame. For an instant, the crowd thought the match decided.

Ahana's eyes gleamed. In that instant her qi surged, blazing into the shape of a sword formed from searing fire. The weapon pierced through the wooden fortress and struck true, biting into Babita's shoulder. A cry of pain tore from her lips as blood soaked into her robes.

The duel ended. The Dravhals and Vermas claimed their first victory.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, but before the echoes could fade, the Green Fairy vanished from her seat. The air shuddered as she vanished, a sharp intake of breath running through the stands before awe could catch up.

In a single flicker of light, she appeared beside her daughter. Her presence was fierce and protective, the gentle warmth she wore in council stripped away. A hand pressed to Babita's wound, her qi flowing to staunch the injury, before she whisked herself back to her place on the platform.

Even then, the square did not rest. Storm gathered against frost as Kavya took the stage to face Viyom.

The battle that followed was no contest of mediocrity. Both fought with the polish of elites, each strike and counter carrying lethal precision. Yet superiority was plain. Viyom's icy qi swept across the stage, cold winds hissing as they bit into stone, but Kavya's lightning answered with crackling ferocity. Her strikes split the air, searing through his frozen defences as though winter itself bowed to the storm.

The outcome became inevitable. Thunder rolled, lightning struck, and victory fell to Kavya. The Meghs and Kaleens had claimed their second win.

Viyom staggered, blood spilling from his lips, the brilliance in his eyes dimmed to ashes. His steps back to his clan's side felt heavier than any wound. These past days had been nothing but humiliation. Loss after loss, defeat upon defeat.

Unbidden, his gaze turned toward the Megh seats. There, amidst the crowd, sat Aaryan.

Viyom's chest tightened. Since that fateful meeting, it felt as though every step of his path had been cursed. It was as though the boy's very presence twisted fate against him, every stride shackled by misfortune. In his heart, a single thought coiled bitter and dark: this black star.

Clenching his fists, he tore his eyes away and slumped onto his seat. Jitesh leaned forward, worry etched across his stern face. Seeing the despair in his son's eyes, he whispered words of comfort. But no balm could soothe the wound of pride. The taste of failure lingered, acrid and unyielding.

The arena trembled with noise.

From the stands, the uproar swelled like a storm-tide, surging against stone walls and wooden railings. Before the competition, the crowd's faith in the Dravhals and Vermas had been unshakable. Strength, schemes, alliances—everything marked them as victors.

Yet reality defied expectation.

The lead belonged to the unlikely pair of Meghs and Kaleens. One more victory, and they would claim the Ember Spire—unchallenged—for the next hundred years.

Cheers thundered from the few factions that had thrown their lot in with them, their joy unrestrained. They clapped, shouted, stamped their feet until dust rose from the stands. On the opposite side, silence curdled into gloom. For the great clans themselves, the setback was merely a wound to pride. But for the smaller groups that had pledged support, panic gnawed at their hearts. The balance of Steel City was shifting beneath their feet.

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Even before Kavya returned to her seat beside Fairy Shuvi, people surged toward her—heads of lesser factions, minor leaders who had once hesitated. Voices overlapped, thick with flattery—yet it all faded the moment the next bout began.

For the Dravhals and Vermas, this battle mattered more than any before. Their hopes now rested on Aran. He stepped forward, his figure proud, each movement brimming with the confidence of one accustomed to dominance.

Across from him, Shravan rose from his place beside Aaryan. His voice was quiet, yet firm. "Brother Vidyut, allow me to handle this one."

Aaryan met his gaze, unreadable as ever, and simply inclined his head.

Shravan walked to the stage with calm poise, his steps measured, his bearing unhurried. Where Aran's presence was like flame, burning and demanding notice, Shravan's was steady—an oak in storm winds.

The two stood before Deacon Puru, offering their bows. Aran's lips curved into a smirk, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Confidence is just painted glass. One strike, and it shatters."

Shravan's face did not shift. His silence was its own answer.

Then their qi stirred.

Emerald light unfurled around Shravan, wood qi flowing like sap through ancient roots. Ten wooden qi stakes materialized from the air, sharp and unyielding, lancing toward Aran in a spread that sealed every path of escape.

Aran snorted, disdain thick in his expression. Fire roared from his body, his qi blazing until the stage itself seemed to breathe heat. From that inferno, ten swords of flame emerged, their edges gleaming with searing brilliance. It was the same technique Ahana had wielded earlier—but where she had summoned one blade, he conjured ten.

The clash shook the arena.

Stakes splintered, bursting into fragments under the relentless assault. The fiery swords dimmed with each impact, their glow thinning, yet enough strength remained. They streaked forward, slashing toward Shravan.

His body shifted, smooth as flowing water, sliding past the deadly arcs with an elegance that drew a ripple of murmurs from the crowd.

Aran laughed, eyes glinting. "So, you've mastered the Sliding Wood movement of the Megh Clan to this degree? Impressive."

Shravan gave no reply. The first exchange slipped from his grasp, but the loss steadied him—it was an anchor, not a wound. His eyes narrowed, sharp with focus. Their strengths should have been equal—unless…

"Unless I've stepped beyond you," Aran interrupted his silence. His grin widened, and then his aura surged. Qi exploded outward, scorching, overwhelming. The air cracked as if dissolving under heat, a wave that made the nearest disciples flinch and shield their faces. The wave of heat pressed against Shravan's skin, searing the breath in his chest.

Peak of the eighth stage.

He froze. For a moment, disbelief flickered across his calm exterior. In the Megh and Kaleen camp, Fairy Shuvi leaned forward in shock, while Megh Pramod and the Green Fairy exchanged swift, heavy glances. Their expressions carried both surprise and unease.

On the opposite side, however, the mood transformed. Dravhal Varesh's lips curved in satisfaction, his earlier irritation fading. Verma Jitesh leaned toward him with a congratulatory smile. "Then the victory is as good as ours."

And in the eyes of Ahana, watching from the seats, admiration burned brighter than flame. Admiration burned bright in her gaze, her respect hardening into certainty—her brother was the pillar their clan needed.

Shravan steadied his breath. His fingers curled with quiet certainty, and in the hollow of his palm an emerald gleam unfurled into form. A jade sword—its surface smooth as flowing water, its edge humming with restrained force.

The sight drew a ripple through the arena. Even Aran, who had worn only disdain upon his face, lifted a brow in surprise. From the viewing area, Verma Jitesh nearly choked on his wine, the liquid catching at the back of his throat. Varesh's booming voice followed, cutting through the murmur of the crowd.

"So, the head of the Megh Clan truly came prepared… even daring to bring out the Jade Sword."

The weapon was no ordinary treasure. Forged by Megh Pramod himself, it carried not only the refinement of a master craftsman but the weight of lineage. Though counted as a rank three spirit weapon, it eclipsed most others of its grade.

That was the nature of spirit weapons: their true power lay not only in raw materials but in harmony—between vessel, spirit, and the hand that shaped them. Where that trinity aligned, spirituality deepened, and with it, destructive might.

Shravan's grip tightened. Both hands drew the blade into a single, clean motion. He cut downward, and from the arc of emerald steel burst a wave of qi—green light surging, sharp enough to rend the very air. The strike tore toward Aran with a howl that echoed across the arena stones.

Aran's fingers flickered through rapid seals. Ten flaming swords bloomed into existence, their heat blistering the space around them. They met the emerald arc head-on, clashing with a sound like colliding mountains. Yet the flames faltered. One after another, they broke, splintered, and dissolved, until the green slash carved forward undimmed, hunger still in its edge.

A collective breath tightened the spectators' chests. If Aran could not turn it aside, the match would end here.

At the final instant, fire roared again—this time not ten, but one. A single flaming sword appeared in Aran's grasp, crimson light licking its jagged surface. He swung, meeting Shravan's strike. The collision thundered through the arena, dust exploding outward. Aran staggered, thrown back, his hair dishevelled and his robe tattered.

But Shravan's gaze did not follow his fall. His eyes locked upon the weapon in Aran's hand. Recognition struck. Another rank three spirit weapon—the Flaming Maw, legacy of Aran's grandfather, the former Dravhal patriarch.

The balance that Shravan had clawed open with the Jade Sword sealed shut in an instant.

Aran's expression darkened, menace etched into every line of his face. He advanced with reckless fury, each stroke of the Flaming Maw came like a landslide of fire, weight and speed crashing down together. Shravan countered, even struck back—but though his resolve burned, his body could not keep pace.

Gashes split across his arms, his side, his chest. Blood flecked the arena floor. Still he fought, forcing Aran into missteps, landing shallow cuts that stained the Dravhal heir's robe with streaks of red.

Yet resolve alone could not bridge the gulf. His body trembled, vision narrowing at the edges—yet still he fought, spirit unyielding. Only when his knees threatened to give beneath him did a voice finally break the storm.

"Enough."

Megh Pramod's command cut sharp, father's authority beneath it. "Withdraw."

Shravan's teeth clenched, jaw trembling. For a long moment he held on, sword still raised, refusing. Then, at last, he exhaled. Slowly, he lowered the Jade Sword and forced the word out—defeat accepted.

He turned, battered but unbroken, his steps dragging toward his seat. As he sank down beside Aaryan, Shravan's head tilted just enough for their eyes to meet. His pain was plain, but so too was the weight he passed on—Brother Vidyut… the rest lies with you.

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