The Steel Arena seethed with expectation; the audience on the spiral tiers hummed with unease. Excitement clashed with tension, two forces pulling the crowd taut as a bowstring. Shravan's defeat had shifted the balance—now the final battle would decide everything.

Aran stepped back, chest heaving, fingers trembling with the drain of battle. He sank cross-legged onto the cool stone, sweat trailing down his temple, while Ahana hurried to his side, her eyes sharp with worry.

Beside him, Varesh's gaze swept over the arena before fixing on the youth who now rose to his feet. Pale, narrow-shouldered, but with an expression that bordered on arrogant calm—Kshaya.

Varesh's lips tightened. "Kshaya," he said, his voice a low growl, "you must win. No matter the method. Lose, and it won't only be my clan that suffers. I'll see to it your life becomes a misery before that."

Kshaya brushed dust from his sleeve, a careless grin tugging at his mouth. Then, he strode toward the stone stage, his footsteps echoing in the hushed arena.

Behind him, Aran and Varesh exchanged a glance with Jitesh. Almost in unison, their eyes flickered across the battlefield toward the opposite camp—toward the youth who had become the quiet axis of every gaze. Aaryan.

Varesh frowned. "Who's that boy?" Until now, his certainty of victory had made such details beneath notice. But circumstances had shifted, and details suddenly mattered.

Aran leaned close, voice tight. "The one who defeated Viyom outside the tower. Some time back."

At that, Varesh's expression darkened, and he cast a sharp glance toward Jitesh. Jitesh's jaw clenched, and the cold glare he turned on Aaryan could have frozen blood. Beside him, Viyom lowered his eyes, hatred curling through his chest. His lips shaped silent curses at fate.

"It won't be an issue," Aran said quickly, attempting reassurance, though the edge of doubt lingered in his tone. "I believe he hid his strength during that fight. Otherwise, the Meghs wouldn't have bothered recruiting him. Still… he won't be Kshaya's equal."

On the other side of the arena, Aaryan rose at last. His movements were unhurried, fluid, as though the weight of so many eyes on him mattered little. Subhash leaned forward, hand raised in a simple thumbs-up. Shravan, seated nearby with his face still pale from battle, gave a slow nod of acknowledgment.

Heat pressed up from the stone, thickened by the crush of bodies seated tier upon tier. The faint musk of sweat and incense drifted in the still air, heavy enough to prickle at the senses.

The others—Fairy Shuvi, Kavya, Pramod, even the elders of the Megh and Kaleen—remained silent, their expressions guarded. Only one voice broke through, smooth and melodious, as though it drifted from a realm untouched by dust. The Green Fairy smiled faintly, her laughter chiming like silver bells.

"Little friend," she said, "if you win this battle, I'll forget all about the matter of you bullying my daughter." Her tone, light as falling rain, eased some of the tension in the stands.

At her side, Babita flushed crimson. Her wound had closed, but her chest tightened with a different kind of sting. She turned away sharply, nails digging into her palm as her jaw clenched. The glare she threw at her mother barely masked the flush rising to her face. When she finally spoke, it was softer than anyone expected, words shaped as if dragged unwillingly from her chest. "All the best."

A ripple moved through the seats—robes whispering, a few heads snapping her way. The fiery princess of the Megh Clan, offering encouragement? It stood against every piece of her nature, shocking even her own kin.

Aaryan inclined his head, the faintest acknowledgment, then turned toward the stage. Midway to the stage, his pace faltered. Something—someone—pulled his gaze sideways. Slowly, deliberately, he turned back.

His gaze settled on Simmi—light blue robes, still as a hidden lake. She hadn't moved, and yet now she drew his steps. Aaryan crossed the distance toward her, the hush of the arena deepening with each pace.

When he leaned close, the air between them seemed to tighten. He whispered something, low enough that none around could hear. Simmi's eyes widened, her composure flickering for the first time. Surprise lingered, but after a brief pause, she nodded.

Babita watched from the side. A faint, sharp pain twisted in her chest at the sight. She clenched her hands until her knuckles whitened, unable to chase away the sting.

Unaware—or uncaring—of the emotions unravelling behind him, Aaryan straightened and turned once more toward the stage. This time, he did not hesitate. His figure, calm and steady, stepped forward into the arena's heart.

The two youths faced each other across the stone stage.

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Kshaya's eyes narrowed. His opponent looked absurdly young—thirteen, perhaps fourteen at most. Barely past childhood, yet standing before him with a calm that didn't match his age.

He himself was eighteen, his body hardened through countless drills and bitter cultivation. But he did not allow contempt to dull his focus. A mistake in this arena meant shame, perhaps worse.

His lips curved into a thin, mocking smile. "In battle," he said, his voice riding a ripple of qi to every corner of the Steel Arena, "fists and feet have no eyes. If you're struck down, don't blame anyone else."

The boy answered without the slightest change in expression. His smile was faint, almost casual—more suited to idle conversation than the moment before a clash. "True, true. Then perhaps concede now—you already look sick."

The words were quiet, but they struck like oil on fire. A stunned silence followed, sharp as the breath before laughter, and then the sound broke free. First a chuckle, then waves of unrestrained mirth rolling across the arena.

Subhash slapped his thigh so hard the sound echoed. He roared with delight, eyes shining—this was the kind of sharp tongue he adored in a fighter. Even Pramod and Fairy Shuvi, usually composed, allowed rare smiles to touch their faces.

Babita felt a strange flush rise to her cheeks. She had long found the boy distasteful, brazen in ways that made her grit her teeth. Yet in recent days, with that fearless grin and words that cut like whips, something in him pulled at her—enough to make her jaw tighten in frustration, as though her own pulse betrayed her. More so than Shravan, who had always been the one she measured others against.

On the opposite side of the stands, Aran's brows drew together. He had studied this boy from a distance, piecing together fragments of method from his own exchanges. Confidence was a weapon as sharp as any blade, and this display unsettled him. The certainty of victory he had carried now rippled, faint but undeniable.

On the stage, Deacon Puru shifted slightly, his gaze sliding toward Elder Nema. Though serving as referee, he had been little more than a silent observer so far. Yet now, interest glimmered in his eyes. Raised under Nema's hand like a son, he knew well the Elder's hidden mind. When Nema had quietly asked him to watch this boy, Puru had not understood the reason. But with each exchange, curiosity rooted deeper.

This was no idle banter. Kshaya's taunt had been a probe, a strike meant to weigh his opponent's nerve. Instead, the boy had reversed it with ease, turning the blade back into Kshaya's chest. And worse—the mockery had drawn laughter from the crowd, setting the stage itself against him.

Heat flared across Kshaya's face. His nails bit into his palm as he forced the fury down, his jaw locked so tight the veins at his temple stood out. Anger surged, threatening to unmoor his calm, but he clamped it down with iron force. His voice came out clipped, sharp as broken glass. "Such boasting."

Then his qi erupted. It poured from him in suffocating waves, heavy enough to rattle the stone beneath his feet. Cracks spread outward as his aura swelled—eighth stage of Qi Condensation, fierce and unrestrained, and the audience's laughter faltered into tense silence once more.

The storm was about to break.

Aaryan's aura surged, his strength stabilizing at the seventh stage of Qi Condensation. The declaration rippled across the Steel Arena like a pebble cast into still water. The crowd leaned forward, yet their anticipation dulled into murmurs. A gap of nearly two levels—surely this battle would be brief. To them, Aaryan's earlier comment now seemed little more than bravado.

But the boy himself carried no such doubt.

He willed the Smoulder Vein Art into motion. Silver Qi roared through his channels, a reckless tide breaking against the boundaries of his veins. His body temperature climbed, skin faintly aglow, as if molten light sought to burn free from beneath his flesh. Each heartbeat pounded like a drum of war, stoking fire into marrow.

Beneath it all, the scrape of his bare soles against stone grounded him, a reminder that this was no vision but flesh and blood.

Kshaya struck first. His hands blurred through seals, fingers cutting sharp arcs in the air. The Qi obeyed, coalescing into a dense orb of water—yet not smooth, not harmless. Jagged spikes jutted from its surface, cruel and glass-like, each thorn vibrating with hidden menace. With the final seal, the sphere snapped forward, tearing across the stage at a speed that rattled the air.

Deep within Aaryan's Elemental Nexus, something stirred. A single petal quivered, upon it the faint silhouette of a silver dragon etched in flame. Its eyes slid open, blazing with ancient defiance. A silent roar resounded through his core. In answer, silver fire surged, lacing itself over his Qi until his fist shone like a moon wreathed in living flame. Heat warped the air around it, bending light into wavering distortion.

The spiked water sphere descended. Aaryan did not flinch. He drove his fist forward with brutal simplicity, fire colliding with water.

The impact rang out—a hiss, a crack, then an explosion of steam. Mist surged upward, swallowing his figure whole. The damp heat clung to skin. Even Kshaya felt his breath rasp loud against the hush, the world narrowed to shifting white.

The clash of elements turned the air damp and scalding, droplets falling back like fine rain. The mist crawled over the stage, damp and hot, carrying the metallic tang of stone newly scalded.

Kshaya narrowed his eyes. That strike had been a probe, meant to test, to force weakness into the open. Yet instead of panic, the boy had met it head-on, scattering the technique into fog.

For a breath, the mist gave him nothing—no silhouette, no falter of movement. His lips tightened. Then the white split, fire lancing through as Aaryan burst forth. He lunged, his fist wreathed in silver flame. His knuckles cut toward Kshaya with unshaken intent.

Kshaya's mouth twisted in disdain. He met the attack with his own, his arm flashing out in a counterpunch.

The collision cracked the air. Stone grated beneath their feet as both were thrown backward. Kshaya stumbled only two steps before steadying. Aaryan's feet skidded across the arena, carrying him six paces before he halted, chest heaving.

Silence clung to the stands, broken only by the shuffle of feet as men leaned forward, eyes fixed on the boy who should have already fallen. Even Varesh and Jitesh—once relaxed—watched with unease, their eyes narrowing.

From the stands, Elder Nema's gaze sharpened. He had sold Aaryan the Smoulder Vein Art himself, a technique as dangerous to the user as to any foe. To see it wielded so cleanly, so fearlessly, stirred even his old heart.

"It seems fate truly has sent you to this old man," he murmured, voice caught between surprise and something far deeper.

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