Blood dripped once more. Then again. Staining his top even further.
Aurelian Veyl stared at it as if it offended him. It wasn’t that it hurt him. But because it stained him.
It stained his career. His image. His stature. His breathing slowed down. Deliberate, as his Soul Art instinctively adjusted to stabilise the damage that was dealt to him. Even though it was just a slight poke. Shallow. It was more than that.
But nevertheless, it was still a hit.
The referee hadn’t moved yet. He was just like that crowd. Too focused on the match.
Veyl looked up at Kieran with bloodshot eyes.
For the first ti since stepping onto the stage, his eyes were fully open. Fully awake. He had perfect blue eyes that were dazzling.
“So… That’s how your Soul Art works,” Veyl stated. His voice was louder and audible. He left a pause before continuing; the tone was slightly different than before. "I assud wrong at first that it returned anything it touched. But now I think I know what it is. Your Soul Art is ant to reflect anything that your mind wants to be reflected, but does it have any downsides?”
“What happens if you don’t react in ti? Do you even get a choice in what you choose, or is it that you need to et so sort of criteria for it to be activated?” Veyl carried on mumbling to himself as he cleaned the dust off his clothes.
Kieran didn’t respond imdiately to Veyl’s questions. His arms trembled from strain. The last exchange had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. His lungs were burning cold.
“I don’t decide,” Kieran said finally. “It just does it on its own volition.”
Veyl laughed softly. Not mockery but appreciation that Kieran answered his doubts.
“A dangerous soul art indeed. For you and especially for .”
He rolled his shoulder, testing the range of motion he still has available. The wound resisted, pulling just enough to remind him it was there. Gold-trimd fabric darkened slowly.
Around them, the arena floor was ruined. Craters. Fracture lines. Shattered stone radiating outward like the aftermath of a siege. This was no longer a fencing match. It hadn’t been for a while.
Veyl lifted his foil again, aiming it at Kieran’s head.
His foil is aid at Kieran’s head. He began his attack.
But this ti, the air didn’t distort violently. The ground didn’t groan. The magnitude he drew was restrained. It was compressed so tightly it barely leaked into the world.
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Roy leaned forward in the stands.
“He’s not holding back,” Roy said quietly. “He’s condensing.”
Brock swallowed. “That’s worse, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Veyl exhaled.
Then he moved.
There was no spectacle to it. No explosive force. No dramatic bending of the environnt. Just a single step, perfectly placed, followed by a thrust so precise it felt inevitable.
Kieran raised his blade.
The impact hit.
For a fraction of a second, Kieran felt everything Veyl changed.
The weight. It’s direction. It’s force.
Kieran’s prana scread as he accepted the strike fully, letting it pass through his guard, through his stance, and into him. His knees buckled. Stone cracked beneath his feet.
Then… He turned it, not outward nor back at Veyl. He knew that if he reflected it back at Veyl. He would have countered it and then attacked him, knowing that he supposedly doesn’t have control over his Soul Art.
So Kieran countered a counterattack.
Down. He aid the reflector downwards.
The magnitude vanished into the ruined stage, driven deep into the Colosseum’s foundation. The ground howled as the force dispersed, swallowed by layers of stone and earth below.
The recoil was instant.
Veyl’s eyes widened. He was shocked that Kieran didn’t fall for his trap.
His balance that was perfect until now failed him. Not because of excess force, but because there was nothing to push against. His own Soul Art found no resistance to scale against.
Kieran surged forward.
The movent was ugly. Desperate. Human.
No elegance. No technique worth praising.
Just resolve.
His shoulder slamd into Veyl’s chest, driving the air from his lungs. The foil slipped from Veyl’s grasp, clattering across the stone. Kieran followed through, blade pressed to Veyl’s throat as they skidded to a halt at the edge of the cratered stage.
Silence fell again.
Real silence this ti.
The referee stared, frozen between instinct and disbelief.
Veyl lay still, chest rising sharply, eyes locked onto Kieran’s. Slowly, deliberately, he raised both hands.
This new generation really was different.
“…I yield,” he said.
The words hit harder than any strike. For half a second, nothing happened.
Then…
“THE WINNER IS KIERAN NAZAROFF!”
The Colosseum erupted.
Sound crashed down like a tidal wave. Cheers, screams, chants. Not of Veyl but his na tearing through the stands in disbelief and awe. Brock was yelling sothing incoherent. Tanaka was on his feet. Roy exhaled, tension finally leaving his shoulders.
Kieran stepped back, blade lowering at last.
Why did he yield already? He could have fought more.
His legs gave out.
He dropped to one knee, gasping, hands shaking uncontrollably as the adrenaline burnt itself out of his system. The world spun. The noise felt distant again but not empty.
Veyl sat up slowly, wincing, then laughed.
A full, unrestrained laugh.
“…So that’s why I gave up, huh,” he said. “To be a winner, you don’t have to overpower the world.”
He looked at Kieran with sothing close to respect.
“You just need to think outside the box a bit.”
dics rushed the stage. The referee moved at last. The crowd continued to roar.
“Tell then, why did you yield?” Kieran asked without a smile on his face.
Veyl, with a lot of blood spewing out from his mouth, with so of the blood landing onto his foil, smiled in return to Kieran’s question.
But as he stared at the shattered stone beneath him, at the blood on his blade, at the weight still echoing through his bones…
He knew.
This victory would follow him.
And so would the lie.
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