This wasn’t like the previous trial rounds. Not even close.
Dela, Uzen, Lionel,… even that phantom called Lige, especially him—they were fighting like their lives depended on it.
And perhaps it did.
But then, slowly, the realization settled in.
Of course it was different.
This was the main event.
There was a reason the climax of every event was always so far beyond the preliminaries.
Because this was the moment they showed it.
However, unlike others, for Michael…
The current battle in the arena…
It was a bit boring.
Everyone moved so slow….
—
Back on the stage, it was chaos.
Dela was bloodied but breathing hard, her daggers slick with effort. Joss was finally down, collapsed after a brutal exchange with Uzen and a well-placed kick from Sir Ma that shattered his footing. His sword had clattered to the floor.
“Joss is out!” the commentator bellowed. “And look at that—Sir Ma finally joins the attack, and bam!—we lose a scout!”
The crowd roared.
Then it happened again.
Uzen caught Ner’s shield with one hand and ripped it away, dragging the man off balance. Dela slashed behind Ner’s knee just as Uzen brought his axe down—not to kill, but to crush Ner’s shoulder into the arena floor.
“Two down! Ner’s out! Group A is rolling strong!”
But not without cost.
Lionel had collapsed to one knee, bleeding heavily from his right arm after a precision thrust from Fenrick earlier. Dela’s left ankle had been twisted during a misstep near Lige’s zone of influence, and Uzen had a deep cut running from his ribs to his lower back courtesy of Fenrick’s desperate flurry.
And still…
Lige was moving.
Each time they cornered him, he darted away like a
He slashed across Uzen’s thigh and disappeared.
Flicked a cut along Sir Ma’s gauntlet and vanished.
But he was slower now.
It was three versus one—and it was catching up.
The crowd sensed it. The commentator knew it.
“Alright, alright, what’s the time here… We’ve got a dangerous Lige dancing between three injured but hungry lions!” he said, voice electric. “But make no mistake—this man is not down yet!”
Sir Ma lunged forward, cutting the field off from the east. Uzen came from the left with a swing heavy enough to shake the stone.
Dela waited.
Eyes like daggers.
As Lige darted through a small arc of smoke, Dela moved.
She threw one dagger—not to kill, but to distract.
Lige’s foot faltered.
It was slight—but enough.
Sir Ma’s blade swept in.
Not at Lige, but to force him toward Uzen.
Uzen roared, his axe raised for the final blow—
DING!
A bell rang.
A chime that echoed through the coliseum like a divine interruption.
Every fighter froze mid-motion.
Even Uzen’s axe stopped—mere inches from Lige’s side.
“What…?” Dela breathed, lowering her stance.
Sir Ma stepped back, blade humming with halted mana.
And Lige—still crouched low, chest heaving—blinked slowly in disbelief.
Above them, silence spread across the crowd like a wave of confusion.
Then, with impeccable timing, the commentator coughed into his magical mic.
“Ah… hahaha—oops!”
“I might have forgotten to mention something important earlier…”
He cleared his throat dramatically.
“For the team battle,” he said, voice rising again into theatrical glory, “the time limit is… fifteen minutes!”
The crowd exploded with laughter, boos, applause—all blended into a chaotic storm of noise.
“But hey! No deaths, right? Just glorious, bruised, battered warriors and one mysterious rogue who refused to die!” he added quickly. “Let’s give it up for both teams! What a fight!”
The arena barrier shimmered once more, lowering the combat field’s enchantments.
Healers began to move in.
But before anyone could speak—the commentator’s voice once again boomed across the coliseum.
“Group A, victory by eliminations! Three down, one standing—and a rogue who managed to survive a pack of wolves! I don’t know about you all, but that’s what I call a perfect opening round!”
The crowd exploded.
And just like that—the first battle ended.
The applause was still echoing through the coliseum when the commentator’s voice returned, this time with a tone of deliberate drama and deep satisfaction.
“Whew…” he exhaled theatrically, letting the tension hang for a beat. “Was that not a sizzling start to our grand team contest?!”
He paced along his platform, robes fluttering.
“That match-up, folks,” he said, pointing to the scene, “was quite special. Unique, even. Do you know why?”
He held a hand to his ear, waiting for a response that would never come. The crowd laughed, already locked in his rhythm.
“Well, allow me to enlighten you!” he bellowed.
“All eight participants—yes, all of them—were either at the late stage of the intermediate rank or just stepping into the early advanced stage. That’s right, folks! We weren’t just watching good fighters—we were watching peak performers, right at that razor-thin edge where technique meets power and instinct decides the rest!”
The commentator wasn’t done.
He gestured to the center of the arena, now being cleared and reset.
“They were all so close in power. That’s what made it so hot! So intense!”
The crowd erupted again. Applause, cheers, and chants rose like a wave.
The commentator’s voice cut back in, now with a teasing grin lacing each word.
“But alas! The stage does not rest! The crowd does not sleep! And the blood of warriors does not cool for long!”
His voice boomed louder.
“It’s time…”
A slow, dramatic pause.
“For our second battle of the team phase!”
“Group B!”
A cheer broke out.
“And Group D!”
“Twenty-five warriors in each! Six squads to enter! And one lucky soul to advance without lifting a blade!” The commentator clapped once, sending a ripple across the field.
He leaned forward on his platform, grinning.
“So, what do you say, folks? Shall we see if Group B and D can match the fire?”
The answer from the stands came in one thunderous voice:
“YES!”
And in the waiting room, Michael watched everything quietly.
What he hadn’t just expected was what happened next.
“Group B!”
“Mic Nor!”
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