Fate shouted beside him (from the booth),
"THIS IS THE KIND OF FIGHTING THAT CREATES LEGENDS!"
Rhys grabbed his head.
"STOP PRAISING THEM, COMNTARY PEOPLE! I HAVE TO FIGHT THEM!"
Puddle nodded sympathetically.
"Comnt people too excited."
The dust finally cleared.
Leon panted, flas flickering weakly around him.
His armor lted in places.
His hair smoked.
Zenith stood steady, only a small cut on his cheek.
The crowd gasped.
Fate’s voice bood from above,
"YES! SOONE FINALLY SCRATCHED ZENITH! THIS IS HISTORIC!"
Rhys stared.
"He... he tanked all that fire... and he’s STILL just WALKING?!"
Zenith’s deep voice echoed across the arena.
"You’re strong, Leon. But not enough."
Leon spat blood and grinned.
"Good... That’s what I wanted to hear."
His sword ignited bright white.
Instantly, the temperature spiked.
Puddle collapsed in Rhys’s lap.
"I am lting..."
Rhys fanned her quickly.
"DON’T YOU LT ON !"
Leon roared—
"BURNING ASCENT!!"
A phoenix of pure fire erupted behind him.
Fate nearly broke the booth window from excitent.
"YESSSSS!! FINAL FORRRRRM!!"
Drear added calmly,
"Leon Embersteel unveils his trump card, ladies and gentlen. This is peak fla combat."
Rhys scread back at the booth,
"WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE FINAL FORMS?! WHERE IS MY FINAL FORM?!"
Puddle patted his leg.
"Coming soon. Maybe."
Rhys wasn’t comforted.
In the arena—
Leon launched forward, a burning cot.
Zenith swung his greatsword.
Heat flashed white—
Shadows exploded black—
Then—
KAAAAAABOOOOOOOOOM!!
The shockwave slamd into the barrier.
Stands shook.
Referees fell over.
Half the audience scread.
Rhys ducked behind Sophia instinctively.
Puddle clung to his hair.
"WE—! DIE—!"
Dust and flas cleared...
Zenith stood alone.
Leon lay unconscious at his feet.
The announcer shouted:
"WINNER—ZENITH NIGHTFELL!"
The crowd exploded.
Above, Fate shrieked in joy.
"INSANE!! BEAUTIFUL!! BEST MATCH OF THE TOURNANT!!"
Drear nodded into the mic.
"Textbook destruction."
Rhys stared at the ruined arena, trembling.
"...I’m fighting THAT."
Puddle patted his arm gently.
"Rhys dood."
He whispered,
"...Puddle?"
"Yes?"
"...If I run away right now, will you cover for ?"
"No. Zenith too fast."
Rhys curled into a ball on the floor.
From the booth, Fate’s voice bood:
"AND NEXT UP—THE SEMIFINALS! RHYS, GET READY!"
Rhys scread into the ground.
"NOOOOOO!!"
Rhys’s scream echoed into the ruined tiles.
Sophia nudged him with her foot.
"...Get up. They’re calling your na."
"It’s not my na," Rhys said into the floor. "It’s my death sentence."
Lyra sighed and grabbed his collar, dragging him upright like a misbehaving cat.
Puddle floated beside him in spirit form, patting his cheek.
"Master must be brave. Or... brave-ish."
Rhys whispered, "What if I pretend to faint?"
Sophia blinked. "You literally survived being thrown through five walls. No one is going to believe you fainted."
"...Damn."
The arena staff ran around in a panic, rebuilding the barrier with frantic speed. Mages shouted, engineers cursed, and one poor healer sat on the ground mumbling, "I didn’t sign up for this..."
The announcer’s voice cut through the chaos:
"SEMIFINAL MATCH... RHYS VS. ZENITH!"
The crowd roared.
Rhys did not.
He squeaked.
Actually squeaked.
Puddle gave him another reassuring pat.
"Master strong! Master win! Maybe."
"Maybe is doing a lot of heavy lifting there," Rhys muttered.
Sophia crossed her arms. "Just rember—don’t die."
Lyra added without helping at all, "Yes. Dying would be bad for rankings."
"WHAT KIND OF ADVICE IS THAT?!"
From the comntary booth, Fate’s voice bood again—way too cheerful:
"THE DARK KNIGHT OF DESTRUCTION VS. THE GUY WHO KEEPS BREAKING THE ARENA BY ACCIDENT! THIS IS GOING TO BE AMAZING!"
Rhys yelled back, "STOP DESCRIBING LIKE THAT!"
Drear chid in, professional but amused:
"Contestant Rhys is entering the arena now. He looks... spiritually defeated already."
"THANK YOU FOR THAT, DREAR," Rhys shouted.
He stepped onto the cracked arena floor.
Zenith was already waiting at the center.
His presence felt like a storm wrapped in iron. His greatsword was planted in the ground, black mist rising from it. His eyes were calm, unreadable.
"Rhys," Zenith said quietly.
"...Hi," Rhys replied, voice cracking.
Zenith tilted his head slightly.
"You made it this far. Don’t disappoint ."
"I WOULD LIKE TO DISAPPOINT YOU, ACTUALLY. I WOULD LIKE TO LEAVE."
Zenith didn’t smile, but his eyes sharpened.
"This is your trial. Co with everything you have."
Rhys froze.
"...Trial?"
Zenith’s aura flared—dark, heavy, crushing.
Puddle gasped, wings fluttering.
"Master... his magic... no joke..."
Rhys swallowed.
The referee raised his hand.
"BEGIN!"
Zenith stepped forward once.
Just once.
The ground cracked.
Rhys’s soul left his body for a mont.
"...Puddle," he whispered.
"Yes?"
"If I die—"
"Master won’t die."
"That is NOT comforting!"
Zenith gripped his sword.
Rhys summoned every drop of courage he could find—which was... not a lot.
He raised his own blade.
"Okay... okay... okay—LET’S NOT DIE TODAY!"
And he charged forward.
The semifinal had begun.
Rhys charged.
Not bravely.
More like soone sprinting toward their own funeral because running away would look embarrassing on cara.
Zenith, anwhile, moved with the calm of soone choosing which tea to drink.
Their blades t—
CLAAAAAANG!!
Rhys’s arms nearly flew off.
He staggered back, sparks flying everywhere.
From the stands, Puddle clutched the railing, eyes wide.
"Master’s bones... I heard them scream from here..."
Rhys shook out his hands, the sting running up to his shoulders.
"Okay... okay... I can do this... maybe... probably not—"
Zenith appeared in front of him.
Instantly.
No sound.
No warning.
No rcy.
His sword ca down.
Rhys barely parried.
The impact launched him across the arena—
BOOOOOOM!!
He smashed into the barrier, headfirst.
The barrier flickered dangerously.
Rhys slid down like wet laundry.
"...ow."
He forced himself back up, wobbling so hard even Puddle in the stands winced.
Zenith’s voice carried calmly across the arena.
"Stand."
"I’M TRYING, YOU WALKING NIGHTMARE!"
Zenith lifted his blade.
Dark mist curled from it, cold and unnatural.
Rhys felt his skin crawl.
Oh that’s not normal—
No part of that is normal—
NOPE—
Zenith slashed.
A crescent of darkness shot outward—
Rhys dove.
The slash ripped a trench through the arena floor where he’d been standing.
He stared at it with wide eyes.
"WHY DOES EVERYTHING YOU DO LOOK LIKE A FINAL BOSS ATTACK?!"
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