The third round had begun.
A wave of cheers exploded through the colossal Combat Zone, the sound of thousands roaring like a rising storm. Every seat was filled, banners waved in the air, and mana crackled faintly around the stadium as anticipation climbed to its peak.
Drake quietly stepped forward, gripping his staff as he rose from beside Arthur.
His expression was calm—but his eyes were burning.
Arthur glanced at him, then nodded once.
"You'll have to survive all your matches, Drake. Only then will you face the 9th Mana Circuit."
Drake adjusted his grip on the staff, determination in every line of his body.
"I know. I won't disappoint."
Mana tension wouldn't be a problem—the tournament committee had arranged for mana potions between matches. And for those too exhausted, there was even an option to delay their fight and recover before stepping back in.
Arthur clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Best of luck."
Leona offered a short nod, her gaze stern. "Don't hold back."
Count Alaric, watching them from the side, gave a light nod of his own.
"I'll take my leave. This round will stretch for quite a while."
Arthur turned. "Take care, Father."
With a wave of his cloak, Alaric and several of the Valerian knights departed through the high-arched corridor, heading back to the Valerian estate.
Arthur watched their figures fade into the distance, then turned back just as the first match began.
The ground vibrated slightly.
Drake had stepped into the ring.
A ripple of mana spread through the arena. Spectators leaned forward, breath caught in anticipation.
Arthur narrowed his eyes as he watched his friend prepare for battle.
The tournament had truly begun.
And no one was walking away unchanged.
The referee's hand rose.
"Combatants ready? Begin!"
A crack echoed across the arena as two figures stepped forward into the combat ring—its stone floor already scorched and cracked from earlier battles.
On one side stood Drake, robe fluttering in the breeze, staff glowing faintly with heat. His golden eyes narrowed as he sized up his opponent.
On the other stood Lior Falten, a calm boy with silver-blue robes and a polished trident in his hands. Water coiled around his arms like serpents.
"Water mage…" Drake muttered. "Figures."
Cheers erupted from the audience. Water against fire. Classic.
Lior smiled faintly. "You can give up now. I don't like burning trash."
Drake didn't reply.
Instead, he stabbed his staff forward.
"F-Rank: Spark!"
A burst of light exploded from the tip of his staff, crackling toward Lior.
The water mage spun his trident. "Bubble Guard."
A dome of water intercepted the spark, dispersing it with a hiss.
The crowd leaned in.
"E-Rank: Burn Shell!" Drake called.
The ground beneath Lior flared with a ring of runes, and fire erupted upward in a circular blast. Lior dodged backward, but the edge of his cloak caught flame.
"Annoying," Lior growled. "D-Rank: Water Pike!"
Dozens of sharpened water lances shot toward Drake.
"C-Rank: Fire Lance!"
Drake thrust his staff forward, conjuring a blazing spear of fire that tore through the oncoming attack. The two elements clashed—steam exploded outward, blinding the arena in mist.
"Smart," Arthur murmured from the stands. "He's buying time to position himself."
"D-Rank: Molten Burst!"
From the mist, a core of red light flared—then exploded in a fiery pulse.
Lior screamed as he was flung back, his water armor barely absorbing the heat. His robe was singed, and blood ran down his arm.
Drake stepped forward.
"E-Rank: Heat Ring."
Rings of fire circled his body, spinning and warping the air around him. The temperature in the arena skyrocketed.
"Blazing Ray!"
A concentrated beam of fire shot forward like a sniper shot. Lior raised his trident in defense—but the force blasted him off his feet.
Silence.
Steam drifted off the arena floor as the referee stepped in.
"Winner: Drake of House Valerian!"
The crowd roared. Some stood. Others clapped with wide grins.
Arthur watched, satisfied.
Leona smirked. "Not bad for a first fight."
The stone floor had barely cooled before the next match was announced.
"Next Match — Drake of House Valerian vs. Kyle Terren, the Swiftblade!"
The crowd buzzed louder. Kyle was known for speed. A dual-blade user who had already defeated two mages in under thirty seconds.
Drake entered calmly, staff in hand. His mana had been topped off with a potion, and he was fully focused. Arthur and Leona watched from the upper chamber, tension building.
Across the arena, Kyle twirled his short swords, light on his feet, cocky grin on his face.
"Fire mage again? You guys burn out too fast."
Drake didn't reply.
The whistle blew.
"Begin!"
Kyle vanished.
Almost.
To normal eyes, he blurred — appearing in front of Drake in an instant, slashing low.
"Spark!"
A burst of light from Drake's staff forced Kyle to recoil, blinking back from the sudden flash.
"Fast," Drake muttered, then swept his staff wide. "Flare Net!"
Lines of fire shot outward in a semi-circle pattern, aiming to ensnare Kyle.
But Kyle jumped back, flipping in midair, and dashed in from the left.
"Heat Ring."
Rings of flame burst around Drake, forcing Kyle to circle wide.
"Predictable," Kyle smirked and launched forward again.
Steel clashed against stone as he slid low and slashed.
Blood grazed Drake's shoulder.
"Gotcha—"
"Molten Burst!"
A flash erupted right in Kyle's face.
He screamed, knocked back again, shoulder smoking from the blast. His left arm fell limp.
Drake panted lightly. "You think mages don't have counters for speed?"
He thrust his staff forward.
"Fire Lance."
The blazing spear tore across the field. Kyle blocked with crossed swords, but the impact blew him back, crashing into the arena wall.
"Still up?" Drake narrowed his eyes.
Kyle stood, shaking, eyes blazing. "I'm not done—!"
"Sear Trail."
Drake stomped his foot, and a line of fire raced across the floor, following Kyle's every move.
"Blazing Ray!"
A concentrated beam followed the trail—Kyle barely had time to block before being swallowed by fire and light.
The explosion cleared.
Kyle lay unconscious, blades scattered.
The referee raised his hand.
"Winner — Drake of House Valerian! Two victories in a row!"
⸻
Arthur smirked in his seat.
"Still holding back."
Leona nodded, arms crossed. "Drake's adapting. He's using his spells smarter every round."
.....
Two days passed like wildfire.
Drake fought five more matches—each more difficult than the last, but his flames never wavered. Word spread across the arena grounds: "The Valerian mage isn't just talented—he's terrifying."
From controlling space with Flare Net, to burning through defensive formations with Molten Burst, Drake's style had begun to shift. He was no longer just casting. He was commanding the battlefield.
Crowds gathered every time his name was called.
"Drake of House Valerian vs. Elyas Windhelm!"
"Drake vs. Zara the Breaker!"
"Drake vs. Edwin Stormfist!"
One after another, opponents fell. Speed-type, defense-type, even hybrid magic swordsmen—all scorched, outmaneuvered, or overwhelmed.
Arthur watched from the private chamber each time, golden eyes calm but impressed.
"He's learning," Arthur muttered.
Leona, arms crossed beside him, nodded. "He's not just reacting anymore. He's predicting… like you."
Arthur didn't deny it.
By the end of the third day, Drake had fought seven matches total. Despite his stamina nearing its limit, he stood unbeaten.
And then, the announcement came:
"Drake of House Valerian will skip the remaining eliminations and advance directly to the 9th Mana Circuit bracket."
A thunderous cheer followed.
Backstage, Drake stood still, gripping his staff. Sweat on his brow, his breathing low—but his eyes? They burned brighter than ever.
Arthur met him after the match, stepping into the preparation tent.
"You've done well," Arthur said plainly. "But the real fights begin now."
Drake didn't smile. He only nodded.
"I'm ready."
Drake's 9th Mana Circuit Battle
The arena buzzed with anticipation as the sun beat down mercilessly. Drake stepped forward, staff in hand, fire flickering along its length. Across from him stood his opponent—a towering figure cloaked in dark armor, aura heavy and unforgiving. The 9th Mana Circuit challenger, known as Riven Blackthorn, a ruthless swordsman-mage whose reputation preceded him.
The crowd hushed. The air thickened with tension.
Drake gritted his teeth and ignited his staff in a blazing lance of fire. "Let's see if your blade can stand the heat," he muttered.
Riven smirked, drawing a jagged, blackened sword that shimmered with dark energy. "I'm more than ready."
The duel erupted like a storm.
Drake surged forward, launching a barrage of fiery blasts: Blazing Ray, Molten Burst, and a swirling Flare Net that danced like burning chains. Riven deflected with swift parries, his sword emitting bursts of shadow that dissolved the flames with eerie silence.
They closed in, steel against blazing staff. Sparks flew as Riven's sword slashed with brutal precision, aiming for Drake's exposed side. Drake twisted, barely evading, retaliating with a Fire Lance thrust that scorched the air.
Riven staggered but countered with a deadly combination, his blade slicing through the air in a dance of shadows and fury.
The fight wove back and forth—Drake's fiery magic meeting Riven's relentless sword strikes. Sweat dripped from Drake's brow; his mana pool strained against the enemy's overwhelming pressure.
With a roar, Drake summoned Heat Ring—a swirling wall of fire surrounding him, scorching everything near. Riven raised his sword, channeling a shadow blast that shattered the ring in a flash.
Desperation crept in as Drake's mana waned. He unleashed Molten Burst with all his strength, engulfing Riven in a fiery explosion.
But Riven emerged, barely singed, his eyes glowing with cold malice.
With a swift movement, he dashed forward, piercing Drake's guard. The blade found its mark.
Drake stumbled, chest burning, and fell to one knee.
Gasping, Drake looked up at his opponent—exhausted but unwavering.
Riven raised his sword for the final blow.
Before it struck, Drake summoned a last flicker of fire—Ember Shot—aimed to blind his enemy. The flash gave Drake a moment to retreat.
But it was not enough.
With a heavy strike, Riven's blade cut through Drake's defenses.
Drake collapsed to the ground, the fight over.
The crowd erupted into stunned silence, then a wave of cheers for the fierce battle.
Though defeated, Drake's spirit burned bright — a warrior tempered by fire and shadow, ready to rise again.
After the fight ended, Drake staggered back toward their private chamber, exhaustion and disappointment heavy in his steps. His staff dragged slightly behind him, scorched and worn.
Arthur and Leona were already inside, waiting quietly. As the door slid open, they looked up.
Drake entered, his shoulders slumped, eyes downcast.
Arthur stood and approached him with a calm but encouraging tone. "You fought with everything you had, Drake. Don't let this loss define you."
Leona stepped forward, her voice gentle yet firm. "Every warrior faces setbacks. What matters is how you rise from them. Take this time to recover and grow."
Drake looked up, meeting their eyes, and a faint smile cracked through the fatigue. "Thanks. I'll learn from this and come back stronger."
Arthur nodded. "That's the spirit. Rest now. The tournament is far from over, and we need you at your best."
Leona gave him a supportive smile. "We're all in this together."
The three stood in quiet solidarity, the tension easing as the weight of the battle settled.