Cecelia screamed.
Her eyes went black. The ground around her fractured outward as she rose — rocks splitting away, the arena floor tearing itself apart beneath the pressure. The form she'd worn the night her parents came for her. Raw, uncontrolled, everything at once.
The spectators shifted nervously. This kind of output wasn't common among students.
Damien watched her rise, calm.
"Ah," he said. "This form."
Alex leaned toward Wayne. "What's wrong with it?"
Wayne sighed. "Think of our power like fuel. Your percentage determines the type — and the type determines what techniques you can run. Higher percentage means more powerful output, same way paraffin can run a stove but not a plane." He paused. "But we all have a finite tank. And that form burns through hers fast. She's outputting everything and she can't even aim it."
Alex nodded slowly. "So it's potent but limited."
"There you go."
In the arena, Damien exhaled. "You would've had a better chance with your fire. But I'm trying to save energy for Tyrone, so — easy way out."
He raised both arms.
The water came from everywhere at once — not a wave but a sphere, pulling upward and inward, surrounding Cecelia in a contained pool high above the arena floor.
Sealed.
The air inside thinned. Cecelia shook, the black draining from her eyes as the form began to crack — and the moment it broke, Damien dispersed the water and dropped down to catch her.
She coughed, hard, water leaving her. Then she looked up.
"I lost already, a?"
Damien smiled. "You're strong. You just need more experience."
Mr. Han stepped forward. "Impressive, Damien. Clear the arena."
—
In the stands, Tina sat close to Tyrone, her hands folded in her lap.
"I know you don't want to be here long," she said quietly. "I can throw the fight if you want."
Tyrone looked at her. "You sure?"
She held his gaze for a moment. Then raised her hand.
"I forfeit."
The arena went still. Whispers broke across the stands.
"Thank you," Tyrone said. "You did well in your matches."
Tina looked down. "Now go do the same."
"Knowing this guy—" Tyrone shook his head. "This won't be fun."
"Just be patient with him."
He stood up. "Time is a luxury I don't have."
—
Mr. Han's voice settled the room.
"Given these unexpected developments, our final match is upon us. Damien Frost versus Tyrone."
They declared their abilities and stood across from each other.
"Begin."
—
Both boys moved at the same instant. Fists met in the center with a crack that echoed through the hall.
Damien pushed against the weight of him. Tyrone didn't give an inch.
"Fire Fist."
Flames wrapped his hand, bearing down hard.
"Ocean Water."
The torrent that erupted from Damien didn't fill the arena — it became the arena. A transparent barrier rose automatically around the spectators as water crashed in every direction.
Damien smiled and stepped back — then stopped.
Tyrone stood at the center of it, dry from the shoulders down, not a mark on him.
Alex frowned. "Reckless of him to open with that. Now Tyrone will just copy it."
"Wrong," Wayne said.
"What?"
"My brother isn't as stupid as he looks." Wayne watched the arena. "Mirror copies physical movement. Tyrone can't copy a technique he doesn't have the tank to run. Damien knows that."
Alex went quiet.
Across the floor, Tyrone rolled his shoulder. "This is going to take a while."
"Doesn't have to," Damien said. "Just give up."
"I'm not about to let Tina down."
Damien heard the name and felt something pull — the way it sometimes did, without warning.
A park. Afternoon light. Her hand in his as they ran, neither of them looking anywhere but ahead. Her laugh. The specific way she smiled back at him over her shoulder.
He looked up at the stands.
Tina was watching. But the expression on her face wasn't the one from that afternoon. It was older than that. Heavier. The look of someone watching two things at once and not knowing which one to follow.
Damien looked back at Tyrone.
"That's my line."
He launched into a barrage — water slashes, fast and relentless.
Steam rolled through the arena as they cleared. Tyrone stood behind a fire shield, arms crossed.
Damien's expression settled.
"I'm done messing around." He extended his palm forward, and the air in front of it began to compress, a dense point of pressure forming and growing. "Water Rifle."
Wayne stiffened in his seat.
The shot came out clean, low, and fast. Contact.
The shockwave shattered the spectator barrier. The arena filled with dust and the sound of settling debris.
When it cleared —
Tyrone stood there. Shirt gone, vaporized completely. Not a scratch.
No triumph on his face. No gloating. His eyes were somewhere else for a moment — somewhere quiet and distant and private.
Then, almost inaudible, barely to Damien and mostly to himself:
"No weapon formed against me shall prosper."
Damien straightened. "Hey — we were told to declare our abilities. That's illegal."
"I told you what my ability is."
"Then what was that?"
Tyrone's eyes came back to the arena slowly. He looked at Damien.
"That's none of your business."
The silence stretched.
Then, behind Wayne, the air shifted. A figure became visible in the empty seat — dark-skinned, orange dreads, neon blue lines running through black clothing. One hand raised in a loose wave at the arena.
"Alright," YT said. "I've seen enough." He tilted his head toward Damien. "This kid is lame."