The sun slid lower, painting the training fields in a copper glow by the time Mavis returned to the waiting area. Her hands still trembled from the last match. She flexed them subtly, trying to shake off the lingering ache from blocking the Fides trainee's shield so many times. Jerry draped lazily around her shoulders like a smug scarf, occasionally flicking his tail as if reminding her he had "assisted spiritually."
"You know," Alya said, fanning herself, "I knew you'd be good, but I didn't think you'd be the type to win by—uh—terrorizing everyone."
"I didn't terrorize anyone," Mavis said.
"Your opponents literally screamed."
"Only one of them screamed."
Alya stared. "Mavis, he screamed your name like you were haunting him."
Jerry chimed in, "He shall fear her again. And again. Until he perishes."
"Jerry," Mavis muttered, "stop sounding like a tiny demon."
"I am a mighty serpent."
"You're six inches long right now."
"Mighty."
Alya snorted loudly enough that a few nobles stared.
But before Mavis could reply, an instructor shouted from the center platform, "Contestants for Round Four! Assemble in Arena One!"
Alya gave Mavis's shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "Good luck. Don't die."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Mavis asked.
"You have a vibe."
Mavis blinked. "…A vibe?"
"A killing vibe."
Jerry hissed proudly. "As she should."
Alya marched them toward the stands. "Shut up, Jerry."
Once Alya had plopped herself among the spectators and Jerry had resumed his perch, Mavis jogged toward the first and largest arena.
Her heart thudded harder than it had in earlier rounds.
Because this arena wasn't like the others.
It was grand.
Circular.
The stands rose high in tiered layers, packed with students and nobles who had gathered specifically for the top thirty duels.
The semi-final selection round.
Mavis's pulse quickened.
Only a handful of fighters remained.
And this time—everyone watching knew who she was.
Not by name, but by reputation.
The barbaric sword girl.
The water-bubble accident disaster.
The Arena Master, a broad-shouldered man with gray hair tied in a warrior's knot, stepped forward. He slammed the butt of his spear into the ground, sending a ripple across the sand.
"Round Four," he boomed, "is a traditional one-on-one duel. No alliances. No interference. No magic items or artifacts. Summons may watch, but are not allowed to intervene unless explicitly ordered to protect your life."
Jerry stiffened. "I object."
"You're not allowed to object," Mavis whispered.
The Arena Master continued, "Victory is decided by clean strike to the torso, disarming your opponent, or forcing surrender. Lethal intent results in disqualification."
He looked Mavis straight in the eyes.
She looked straight back, refusing to flinch.
"Choose your starting gate," he said.
She walked to Gate Eleven, adjusting her grip on her sword, feeling the familiar weight settle into her hand.
But before she could center herself, the crowd's hum shifted suddenly into a hush.
Whispers rippled.
Gasps followed.
Mavis turned—and froze.
Seraphina of Fides entered the stands.
But not like earlier.
This time, she was accompanied by her entourage of knights, her family's crest displayed proudly on her dark blue coat. Her hazel eyes scanned the arena with a calm authority that radiated royalty in every movement.
Students bowed unconsciously.
Even nobles straightened.
She walked with the posture of someone born knowing the world would obey her—yet her expression carried a softness beneath the steel.
Mavis swallowed.
She looked… different than before. More polished. More regal. And for whatever reason, Mavis's stomach twisted.
Then—behind her—
Cassian.
Her fiancé.
The future Duke of Fides.
He trailed several steps behind her like a shadow, his dark hair tied neatly, his shoulders broadened in armor that gleamed under the lantern light. His expression was civil, polite, princely.
Mavis knew better.
His eyes held calculation.
And irritation.
Especially whenever Seraphina wasn't looking.
"Of course he's here," Alya muttered under her breath from the stands. "Nobles love showing off."
Seraphina took her seat gracefully, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her knee, posture pristine.
Cassian sat beside her.
Their proximity felt wrong.
Mavis tried to look away.
She didn't.
Seraphina's gaze scanned the arena—passing over everyone—until it landed on Mavis.
Hazel eyes lingered.
Mavis's breath caught unexpectedly.
Seraphina tilted her head.
A small, soft smile.
Barely there. Almost imperceptible.
But real.
Mavis's heartbeat stuttered like a broken drum.
Jerry whispered, "You are staring again."
"Shut up," Mavis whispered violently.
"She is staring as well."
"Jerry—"
"Perhaps she wishes to mate—"
"JERRY."
The serpent snorted.
The Arena Master raised his hand.
"First duel! Contestant 217 versus Contestant 93!"
Mavis stepped forward.
Her opponent—a muscular Laetitia noble—rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. "No hard feelings when I beat you?"
"No hard feelings when you don't," she replied.
He laughed. "Spunky. I like spunky."
"Good for you."
He drew an axe.
A big axe.
Almost too big for common training weapons.
Mavis frowned. "That was in the pile?"
"It was hidden under the pile."
"So you fish in the trash."
He grinned. "Helps me pick out the good stuff."
The Arena Master's voice cut through the tension.
"Ready… begin!"
The noble lunged first.
His axe carved a massive arc that ripped sand into the air. The force of it sent a gust of wind into Mavis's hair.
He was fast.
Too fast for someone his size.
She ducked the second swing, rolled beneath his arm, and slashed for his ribs.
He blocked with the handle of the axe and shoved her back with a brute's strength.
"Ha! Not bad."
Mavis lunged again.
He blocked.
She pivoted and struck low.
He jumped back.
He swung downward in a massive chop.
Mavis leapt aside—but the blast of wind the axe generated still hit her shoulder, numbing it.
He laughed. "This'll be quick."
Mavis darted in, aiming for his exposed side.
He twisted.
She barely dodged.
His axe dipped downward, and the blade slammed into the sand so hard the ground trembled beneath her feet.
A giant crater appeared.
"That's not regulation strength," she muttered.
"Training is about pushing limits," he said, raising the axe again.
She rolled—again—barely avoiding another sand-splitting smash.
"Stop moving!" he snapped.
"Stop trying to kill me!"
"That's how I fight!"
"It's illegal!"
"Only if you die!"
"That's the point—!"
His axe swung dangerously close.
She jumped back.
He charged toward her—shoulders forward—axe angled up for a massive uppercut.
She parried once.
Twice.
He shoved her blade aside and grinned.
He thought he won.
He didn't.
She sidestepped, twisted her wrist, and struck his exposed side with the flat of her blade. Hard enough to count but not enough to harm.
A clean strike.
The Arena Master shouted, "Victor: Contestant 217!"
The noble froze.
Then sighed. "Damn. Thought I had you."
"You almost did," she admitted.
He grinned. "Rematch someday?"
"Maybe."
He walked off, shaking his head.
Mavis stepped back, heart pounding, chest burning with exhaustion.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Alya screamed her name.
Even Jerry hissed proudly.
Mavis dared to glance at the stands.
Seraphina still watched her.
This time, Mavis didn't look away.
The next duels cycled through quickly.
Commoners fell.
Nobles rose.
The finalists narrowed.
Mavis sat to the side, forcing her breathing to steady as she watched other matches unfold. Jerry lay across her lap, flicking his tail smugly every time someone glanced their way.
A Castimonia swordswoman defeated a beastman with a magical technique involving redirecting momentum.
A Dolus trickster used sand and misdirection to defeat a stronger opponent.
A Fides trainee—Cassian's younger cousin—fought with movement so clean and disciplined it looked almost like dance.
Seraphina applauded politely for each.
Then—unexpectedly—Seraphina leaned toward Cassian and whispered something.
He turned stiff.
Then nodded.
Mavis frowned.
"What was that about?" she muttered.
Jerry coiled tighter. "The princess watches you too much."
"She watches the arena."
"She watches you."
"…Shut up."
She was still flushed when the Arena Master shouted the next lineup.
"Last duel of the evening—winner advances to the semi-finals! Contestant 217 versus…"
Mavis rose.
"…Contestant 44!"
A ripple of gasps spread.
She looked across the arena.
Contestant 44 stepped forward.
A tall figure.
Powerful build.
Dark eyes.
Sword strapped across his back.
Cassian.
The fiancé.
The future Duke.
The second strongest noble of his year.
Alya's voice shrieked from the stands, "MAVIS—RUN!!"
Jerry whispered, "You are doomed."
Mavis tightened her grip on her sword.
Cassian drew his blade with elegant ease.
He bowed—a perfect noble gesture.
"Mavis," he said, voice smooth and empty, "I look forward to our duel."
Mavis stared into the eyes of the man who would ruin her in five minutes if she blinked wrong.
"Yeah," she muttered. "Me too."
Cassian smiled without his eyes.
Seraphina watched from above—hazel eyes sharp.
Waiting.
The Arena Master looked between them.
"Ready—!"
Mavis inhaled.
"Begin!"
Cassian moved first.
And the world went white.