"It's time to end this," Celestia said, her voice calm—unnaturally so amid the surrounding chaos.
Nathael nodded, his eyes locked on Anneliese, who slowly rose, brushing dust from her black tunic.
"It's time to show them," Nathael said with a playful smile, "why it's necessary to step into the field… and hunt treasures."
It wasn't arrogance. It was conviction.
Because you don't learn to dodge death from books.
You don't learn to read an enemy's intent from scrolls.
And you certainly don't learn to trust that your companion would give their life for you in a classroom.
That's learned in the desert. In ruins. In the shadows.
Celestia closed her eyes.
And began to sing.
In Ancient Persian.
A tongue even the most erudite in the family had forgotten—a language the first treasure hunters used to call upon the spirits of the sands.
"Ay az bar khâke bâd…"
"Ruh-am bâ to ast…"
At the same moment, Nathael raised his hands.
And something impossible happened.
From the ground, a blue aura enveloped him.
Not like Lysander's. Not like Celestia's.
It was the same—but amplified.
In the stands, silence fell like a stone.
"What… what is that?" an elder whispered.
"It's the blue magic!" another gasped. "But… humans can't use it!"
Sabine stiffened.
Selene narrowed her eyes.
"I've never seen that before," she murmured.
Because blue magic belonged exclusively to the ancestral-line cats. It was how they—without wands, without words—enhanced their bodies: speed, strength, anticipation, resilience. It was magic made flesh.
But Nathael…
Nathael was using it.
It was absolute synchrony.
Because if Celestia could share her soul with him… why not her magic?
"Let's go!" Nathael said.
And both shot forward.
Lysander reacted instantly, wrapping himself in his own blue aura and launching toward Celestia.
But Nathael wasn't after Lysander.
He was after Anneliese.
She raised her wand, preparing a Protego.
But Nathael didn't cast a spell.
He threw a punch.
Fueled by blue magic, his fist struck the shield with a force no Protego, however powerful, could contain.
The shield shattered.
Anneliese flew backward, slamming into the stadium wall. Her rune-enchanted tunic absorbed the impact—preventing broken bones—but the blow left her breathless.
Before she could recover…
Nathael was already there.
A kick.
This time, delivered with surgical precision—not to break bones, but to immobilize.
Anneliese tumbled several meters more, rolling across the stone.
"He's too fast!" Mira shouted. "He's not giving her time to cast!"
Lysander tried to help.
"Anneliese!"
But Celestia wouldn't allow it.
"Not so fast!" she yowled, unleashing a barrage of spells: Stupefy, Confringo, Impedimenta.
Lysander dodged as best he could—but the damage was done.
Nathael approached his sister, who struggled to her feet.
"Surrender," he said firmly. "If you keep going, you'll be worse off."
Anneliese looked at him—and shook her head.
"You underestimate the power of ancient texts… and knowledge."
She glanced at Lysander.
Lysander, despite Celestia's assault, nodded.
He knew what was coming.
Celestia didn't understand.
Anneliese raised her wand—and began to speak.
In a dead language.
One not even the grimoires mentioned.
"Vhala irnash… kethra'mel…"
Each word drained her magic. Her skin paled. Her eyes grew brighter, more desperate.
Nathael sensed the danger.
"Celestia, let's finish this—now!" he cried, lunging toward Anneliese.
But when he was three meters away…
a shield appeared.
Not an ordinary one.
It was indestructible.
Every time Nathael tried to break it—with spells, with strikes, with ancestral magic—it instantly regenerated.
"It's a soul shield!" Eldrin cried. "She's anchoring it with her own life!"
Anneliese finished the incantation.
She collapsed to her knees.
But across the field…
Lysander changed.
Not gradually. Instantly.
His body lengthened. His muscles tensed. His white fur grew denser, brighter. From an elegant cat… he became a white panther, as tall as a horse, with eyes glowing like twin moons.
The entire stadium held its breath.
Sabine stood.
Selene purred—a mix of awe and nostalgia.
"It's not possible…" she murmured.
In the stands, the eldest elders bowed in reverence.
"It's the ancestral form!" one said. "The one lost centuries ago!"
On the platform, Mira and Tobias stared wide-eyed.
"What is that?" Mira asked.
Eldrin, the judge, stood trembling.
"When the first Grauheims walked the earth," he said, voice shaking, "magic was crude. Spells were complex. Wizards struggled to cast even a simple Lumos. And their companions… had it even harder.
"So ancestral cats learned not to cast magic—but to enhance their bodies. That is blue magic.
"But over time, the most gifted discovered something more: they could alter their physical form—not through transfiguration, but through pure magical will.
"To do it, they needed their human partner's magic. That's why Anneliese collapsed. She gave all her energy to Lysander.
"This form… is called the White Moon. Those who achieved it were faster than thought, stronger than dragons. They say they could teleport—but it wasn't Apparition. It was movement so swift the eye couldn't see it.
"Over time, the ability was lost—because modern magic was easier. Because it was more convenient to cast a spell than to transform your body. And the talent required was too great.
"But today…
"Today, Lysander has awakened it."
On the field, Lysander moved.
He didn't vanish.
He multiplied.
A shadow. A flash. A silent roar.
He struck Celestia before she could react.
The blow sent her crashing to the ground.
Her right foreleg snapped with an audible crack.
Blood trickled from her muzzle.
"Celestia!" Nathael cried.
He sprinted toward her.
But Lysander was already there.
Nathael barely had time to raise a Protego.
The impact twisted him midair. He hit the ground on his knees, blood trailing from his lip.
"Damn it…" he muttered.
He looked at Celestia.
She was barely conscious. Couldn't stand.
Her eyes—filled with pain… and acceptance.
In that instant, Nathael knew he'd lost.
Not for lack of power.
He had reserves. He could unleash dark magic. He could summon the Fire of the Ancients, cast Protego Diabolica… but it was forbidden in the Tournament. And even if he did… he wasn't sure it would work against the White Moon.
He looked at Anneliese—still on her knees, exhausted, but eyes open.
He looked at Lysander—who now approached, not with arrogance, but with respect.
And he understood.
The Tournament wasn't just about who was strongest.
It was about who best understood the Grauheim legacy.
Nathael knelt.
"I surrender."
Silence held for a heartbeat.
Then the stadium erupted—cheers, tears, thunderous applause.
Sabine raised her hand.
"Victory to Anneliese Grauheim and Lysander."
Even in the stands, Romilda and her fan club clapped.
"That was… incredible," one girl said.
"Yes," Romilda said, tears in her eyes. "But Nathael… was too."
Celestia, with great effort, dragged herself toward Nathael.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You have nothing to apologize for," he said, stroking her head. "You were perfect."
And in the center of the field, Anneliese rose with Lysander's help.
"Thank you," she said, looking at Nathael. "You made me give everything."
"And you made me do the same," Nathael replied, smiling.
Because deep down, they both knew:
Winning wasn't what mattered.
It was having proven themselves worthy of the Grauheim legacy.