Rain pounding on cold tal.
A younger Lyrius, curled up behind a rusted car in a slum alley. Ribs showing.
Face dirty. Blood on his hands.
He rembered tearing open a dead rat's stomach just for food.
He rembered the footsteps of people passing by—and never stopping.
His father's face—fading away into the nothingness His final words:
> "You have to survive."
.....
And then—
A voice snapped him out of it.
"I've got your back!"
An arrow flew.
It knocked Oliver's next swing wide. Another shot planted between Oliver's feet, forcing him to reposition.
Lyrius turned his head in disbelief.
Vera. The boy stood beside him, bow half-drawn, breathing hard.
"Cas sent ," Vera said. "He's dealing with Darian. Said to cover you. Let's take him together—"
But Lyrius didn't respond. Not with thanks. Not with relief.
He didn't move.
He didn't even blink.
Instead—
He stared at Vera like he was a stranger.
And then, slowly, he said:
"Don't get in my way."
Vera's eyes widened. "What…?"
Lyrius stepped forward. Blood dripping from his elbow. A cracked rib screaming beneath his skin.
But his voice—dead calm.
"I don't need saving."
.
'From When did I start waiting for help?'
'When did I beco the kind of person who looks behind him during a fight?'
His hands clenched the sword tighter.
'I lived thirteen years with no one. Not even a dog followed through those streets. I bled, starved, broke bones—and not one soul stopped to lift up.'
'So why now?'
'Why the hell now would I suddenly think soone's going to save ?'
He looked at Vera once more—and his heart hardened.
Not out of anger.
But out of clarity.
"This is who I am."
"I'm the weapon that crawled out of a gutter alone. I'm not a pawn in soone's strategy."
His eyes snapped to Oliver.
"You don't need to understand it," Lyrius muttered, raising his sword.
"But today, you're not the king."
---
He moved like a shadow turned fla.
No feints. No hesitation.
Just pure, violent instinct.
Oliver stepped in, blade poised—but this ti, Lyrius didn't defend.
He crashed into him, taking the hit to the shoulder.
One-for-one.
And in that opening—he drove his elbow forward, knocking Oliver's hand wide.
Then—
Crack!
He slamd his hilt straight into Oliver's capsule.
[Oliver — Capsule 1 destroyed.]
Silence.
Even Vera didn't speak.
Lyrius stood there, blood pouring from his side, sword dragging behind him.
He turned back to Vera, expression unreadable.
"I'm not mad you ca," he said quietly.
"But don't ever try to save again."
.
[POV: Oliver Atticus]
Crack.
The sound was sickening. One of his capsules just burst.
He staggered back, his breath caught sowhere between a gasp and a growl.
The arena lights above seed to blur for a second as heat rushed to his head.
His blade trembled at his side—not from weakness, but disbelief.
Again?
He looked at the boy across from him—Lyrius. Sweat clung to his hairline. His footwork was unstable.
His grip? Loose. Breathing? All over the place.
He wasn't stronger. Not cleaner. Not sharper.
And yet—
He touched . Again.
First in the entrance exam. A brutal clash that ended with Oliver on his knees, winded, humiliated, staring at the sky like a rookie.
And now? Here?
No.
No.
No!
He took a step forward. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.
'I trained fifteen years under the Royal Skyblade tutors. Learned every form of the Seven Winds Style. Broke my knuckles mastering wind-edge before I hit fifteen.
I'm not just strong.
I was built for this.
He wasn't raised with a silver spoon. He earned the silver blade.
And he wasn't about to let so street-scarred stray from nowhere make him doubt that.
Lyrius raised his blade again—tired, slower, but still standing.
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Tch… You always drag it out, don't you?"
No answer. Just that sa quiet defiance in Lyrius' eyes. The sa one from the entrance exam. The one that said 'I won't fold, even if I lose.'
Oliver hated that look.
Because it reminded him of the one in the mirror—before he was broken the first ti.
Back then, I thought talent was everything.
But what good is talent if it doesn't let you win?
Wind coiled at his feet as he crouched slightly, left leg tensed.
Let's end this.
Step. Twist. Explode.
A compressed gust detonated beneath his foot, launching him forward in a low, slicing dash—so fast it tore the air behind him.
Lyrius parried high.
Oliver dropped low.
Clang!
Steel kissed steel—then wind scread.
He used his off-hand mid-motion to fire a direct air spike at Lyrius' ribs—a trick move taught by his father.
Lyrius jerked left, almost dodging—
But almost wasn't enough.
Crack.
Third capsule, gone.
[Lyrius — Eliminated.]
Oliver didn't stop. Didn't even blink.
Just sheathed his blade with a hiss of wind and muttered, "You lost better this ti."
He ant it.
---
Then—
"HEY!"
A sharp voice. A whistle of air.
Oliver twisted—an arrow sliced past his cheek.
Vera.
The archer stood thirty paces out, another arrow already drawn. Eyes focused.
"I won't let you do as you please," Vera said simply.
The first volley ca like rain.
Vera didn't hesitate—each arrow aid with surgical instinct.
One was aid at Oliver's left thigh. The next, two centiters above his heart. The third, intentionally deflected off the arena floor for a bounce-shot.
He's fast. Precise. Tactical.
But Oliver had fought archers before.
He carved through the first arrow mid-flight, dodged the second, and used a side gust to nudge the third off path.
Boom!
He launched toward Vera like a cannonball wrapped in air pressure.
The archer rolled aside, drew another arrow mid-move, and aid—
Oliver twisted his body in mid-air and kicked Vera's bow arm aside.
Vera responded instantly, drawing a small dagger and slashing upward—landing a deep cut across Oliver's shoulder and—
Crack.
Oliver's second capsule burst.
> [Oliver — Capsule 2 Destroyed.]
For a mont, Vera's eyes widened.
He's open—
But he wasn't.
Oliver didn't hesitate. His blade danced upward in a curved arc.
Whoosh.
Crack.
Vera's final capsule exploded in a burst of red.
His first two Capsule were explored by Darian.
The boy collapsed backward, eyes dimming as the system announced:
[Vera — Eliminated.]
Oliver stood alone in the center of the field.
Two capsules down. Chest heaving. Blade flickering with the residual hum of wind magic.
He didn't feel pride.
He didn't feel anger.
He just felt…
Empty?
He touched his shoulder where the dagger struck.
Why is it never clean?
Why is victory always ssy now?
He hated that thought.
He turned his eyes toward the last remaining fights.
Caspian.
Still standing. Still fighting.
'You're next.'
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