The arena roared as Tomas stepped onto its sand, Solvaris's sun a hammer overhead. Thousands filled the stands, Gifted in silks, their Sparks a riot of light. His borrowed pickaxe felt rough, its weight a challenge he'd mastered. Three veterans waited—Korr again, fire at his fists; Syl, ice shimmering; and Varn, a hulking man whose Spark bent steel into blades. Toren's picks, seasoned killers. Hard work beats talent. Time to prove it.
Elara watched from the bench, her nod a lifeline. Gavric smirked, shadows tight. The council loomed, Mara's eyes steady, Toren's glare venomous. The gate opened, and the veterans charged—Korr's fireballs first, Syl's ice shards flying, Varn's steel slashing air.
Tomas sprinted, dodging fire, rolling through ice, pickaxe swinging. He struck Korr's leg, metal clanging, and ducked Varn's blade, sand exploding. Syl froze the ground; he leapt, using a pillar, and tackled her, knocking her Spark dim. Korr roared, fire blazing, but Tomas hurled sand, blinding him, then cracked his skull with the pickaxe haft.
Varn swung, steel slicing his arm—blood sprayed, hot and sharp. Tomas roared, charging, and drove the pickaxe into Varn's chest, breaking through steel. Syl lunged, ice flaring, but he rolled, pinning her with a final blow. Silence fell, then cheers erupted—wild, fierce.
He stood, bleeding, pickaxe steady. "Work beats Sparks," he muttered. Elara clapped, tears in her eyes. Toren's face twisted, rage boiling. Mara rose—"He stays."
Tomas limped off, the chunk's hum a victory pulse. He'd broken their game—again.