The healers finally reached Rhys.
He didn’t resist this ti.
"Just—do whatever you have to," he muttered. "If sothing falls off, put it back."
One healer sighed.
"Nothing is falling off."
Another added,
"Not yet."
Rhys did NOT find that reassuring.
They placed glowing hands over him.
Warm mana washed through his ribs and shoulders, knitting damaged muscles and sealing small fractures. The pain eased little by little.
Puddle hovered nervously beside him.
"MASTER, ARE YOU ALIVE? PLEASE CONFIRM."
Rhys groaned.
"I’m... slightly alive."
Sophia smiled in relief.
"Good! That’s a real improvent from earlier."
Lyra crossed her arms.
"You’ll be fine by tomorrow."
Rhys shot her a tired look.
"You sound very confident for soone not getting punched by Zenith’s cursed sword."
Lyra shrugged.
"You’re strong. You’ll adapt."
Rhys stared at her.
"...I think you believe in too much."
Puddle corrected,
"She believes MASTER will not die. That is different thing."
The healers helped Rhys walk toward the recovery wing.
Players stopped him along the way, cheering or staring in awe.
"Dude, you beat Balron!"
"Respect!"
"You’re crazy, man!"
"Teach that multi-elent explosion thing!"
Rhys waved them off weakly.
"I don’t even know how I did that... It just... happened. And almost killed ."
Lyra walked beside him.
"You should study it. Uncontrolled power is dangerous."
Rhys muttered,
"Yeah, I noticed."
They reached a resting room—soft beds, cool air, healing crystals floating above each bed.
Rhys imdiately fell face-first onto the nearest bed.
WHUMP.
He didn’t even use a pillow.
Puddle hopped onto his back like a tiny water cat.
"MASTER, you must sleep now. Tomorrow is scary day."
"I know," he mumbled into the blanket.
Sophia sat beside him.
"We’ll stay with you until you fall asleep."
Caria flipped to a fresh page.
"I’ll write down your condition. ’State: Mostly alive, ntally terrified, physically destroyed...’ "
Rhys groaned.
"Please don’t write that."
"Already wrote it," Caria replied.
Lyra leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"You should be proud. Top Ten is not a small achievent."
Rhys poked his head out of the blanket.
"I didn’t even finish healing and you’re already giving speeches."
"I’m giving facts," Lyra replied. "You fought well. Better than anyone expected."
Rhys sighed.
"I just... don’t want tomorrow to be worse."
Lyra’s tone softened slightly.
"It will be tough, but you are ready."
Puddle chid in,
"MASTER WILL WIN! OR SURVIVE! BOTH COUNT!"
Sophia giggled.
"We’ll support you, Rhys."
Caria nodded.
"And I will write about your glorious survival... or near-death... whichever happens."
Rhys lay back again, staring at the ceiling.
"...I really hope it’s the first option."
Night Falls
The arena outside grew quiet.
The last crowds left.
Lights dimd across the academy.
Inside the resting room, Rhys finally relaxed as the healing crystals worked on the last bits of pain.
His eyes slowly closed.
Puddle curled up beside him like a glowing water pillow.
Lyra watched until he fell asleep.
Sophia tucked the blanket around him.
Caria closed her notebook quietly.
Just before Rhys fully drifted off, he whispered:
"...Tomorrow... Top Ten...? What am I doing with my life..."
Puddle whispered back,
"You are being aweso."
And Rhys, too tired to argue, finally slept.
The next morning rose softly, the town still carrying the quiet calm it had settled into over the past few days. As people headed toward the training grounds, there was a gentle buzz in the air—nothing chaotic, just the steady excitent of a big event.
It was the day of the Top Ten Matches.
Crowds ford in small groups around the arena stands. Even here, where tension usually ran high, the atmosphere felt relaxed. Students chatted, joked, and traded predictions without the sharp edge of rivalry. The calm energy of the week lingered, softening everything.
At the comntators’ booth, Fate adjusted his headset while looking out over the field.
"They’re ready," said his co-comntator, Drear, settling into his seat beside him.
Fate nodded. "Not just to fight—but to show how far they’ve co this year."
The large display board flickered, announcing the next match. A ripple of excitent spread through the audience.
Rhys vs. Maxwell.
A matchup people had been talking about for days.
Both were magic swordsn, both rising stars—but with very different elental styles.
Rhys walked into the arena with controlled ease. He looked more relaxed than in previous rounds, shoulders loose, breathing steady. Puddle sat perched on his shoulder in her small child-form, wide-eyed and curious, her tail swaying lightly with anticipation.
Across from him, Maxwell strode in with confident steps. Lightning crackled faintly between his fingers and thin lines of heat shimred around him—subtle signs of his dual affinities for fire and lightning. He carried intensity, but none of it seed aid as hostility.
He offered Rhys a respectful nod.
"Been waiting for this one," Maxwell called out, voice firm but friendly.
Rhys returned the nod. "Sa here."
Up in the booth, Drear leaned forward. "Both fighters look calm. That’s always a good sign—not tense, not overthinking."
"Agreed," Fate said. "They know each other’s reputation. They’ll pace themselves... at least for the first exchange."
The referee lifted his hand.
The arena quieted.
"And—here we go," Fate said into his microphone.
The signal dropped.
Maxwell launched forward instantly, lightning bursting under his feet as he shot across the arena. Flas trailed behind him in sharp, heated streaks.
Rhys reacted just as quickly, lifting his blade as mana surged around him—water, fire, wind, and light flowing together in shifting colors across the steel.
Puddle leapt from his shoulder, dissolving into a swirl of radiant mist as she prepared her ancient water and light spells, her small body glowing like a living spark.
Steel t fla.
Water collided with lightning.
And the arena lit up in a burst of elental power.
"Beautiful start," Drear comnted. "No hesitation from either side."
"They’re testing each other’s tempo," Fate added. "But this is just the opening. Things are going to escalate fast."
Maxwell pivoted sharply, sliding past Rhys’s first strike as arcs of lightning curled around his arm. He swung his blade upward, sending a crackling shockwave toward Rhys.
Rhys braced, sliding one foot back. His mana flared—Water Blade forming a shimring crescent as he slashed through the incoming lightning. The clash scattered sparks into the air.
"Great reflexes from Rhys," Drear observed. "He’s reading Maxwell’s movents surprisingly well."
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