Chapter 55: CLOSE CALLS
The morning’s cold still hung heavy in the competitors’ tunnel, clinging to everything like it didn’t want to let go. Dominic lingered back in the shadows, arms crossed, just watching as the roar from the arena above washed over them in another wave, third standing ovation already, and the day wasn’t even halfway done. Vance had just strolled off the platform, leaving Aldis crumpled there, blood still glistening where the Iron Maiden had done its brutal work. The crowd was still buzzing, trying to wrap their heads around it all.
Wobbly shifted on his shoulder, that familiar warm weight pressing in, and let out a soft little burble.
"Yeah, I know buddy," Dominic muttered, reaching up to give the little guy a gentle pat. "Two more fights before it’s our turn... feels like forever."
Lysandra stood quiet beside him, those new rods crossed against her back, the gold patterns catching faint glimmers from the tunnel lights. She hadn’t said much since their last talk, still somewhere in that in-between space, not fully switched over yet, eyes not flat and empty, but not the shy girl’s either. Just... waiting. Tense.
The crystal displays overhead flickered again, and the next matchup popped up. Doran versus Kellan.
***
Kellan waited right at the tunnel’s mouth, shadow-weave leathers hugging his frame tight. He kept touching his short blades, the grappling hook, those smoke pellets, checked them four, maybe five times now since they called his name. Like if he stopped, something might vanish.
"Scared?" Dominic asked, voice low.
Kellan let out a shaky breath, hands still fidgeting even if his words came out steady enough. "Yeah... terrified, honestly."
"Good. Means you’ll stay sharp out there. Just don’t let it lock you up completely, alright?"
Kellan gave a quick nod, swallowing hard.
Then Dorian Hale’s voice boomed through the tunnel, echoing off the stone. "Kellan, C-rank Scout, versus Doran, B-rank Spearman!"
Kellan stepped out, boots scraping on the floor as he headed for the platform.
Doran was already there waiting, solid as ever. That spear of his looked like it’d seen more real fights than most of these students would in years. Buckler strapped on, javelins ready across his back, whole stance just... patient, like this was just another day for him.
"Kellan," Doran said, calm but with a hint of that veteran respect. "You’ve come a long way. Saw your earlier matches, you’ve grown, You’re not the same kid who used to freeze up at the draws."
"If I’m being honest I’m still terrified," Kellan admitted, flashing a weak grin as he drew one blade. "Just... better now at pretending I’m not."
Doran chuckled softly. "That’s how it should be. There’s no fighter without some fear in them. Let’s see how sharp you’ve gotten."
The match kicked off with the bell.
Kellan shadow-stepped right away, body flickering left in a blur, leaving that afterimage hanging while he popped up behind Doran, blade already slashing. Doran spun fast, buckler ringing loud as it caught the strike. The spearman’s counter came whipping in, straight at his chest. Kellan flickered right again, the spear slicing through nothing but air.
"You are fast," Doran grunted, almost impressed. "But you can’t keep that up forever, show me something else!."
He was right. Each shadow-step chewed through stamina like crazy. Kellan figured he had maybe two solid ones left before his legs turned to jelly.
He chucked a smoke pellet, grey fog exploding thick and choking across the platform. Doran shut his eyes quick, trusting his ears instead. The scrape of a boot, gravel shifting... there, left side.
The spear thrust hard into the smoke. Hit nothing. Kellan had used the cover to reposition, shadow-stepping up onto one of the edge pillars. He crouched low, chest heaving, that third step draining him bad. One left, if he was lucky.
Smoke started thinning. Doran glanced up. Kellan hurled a short blade, not to hit, just to pull attention. Doran’s buckler flicked up, deflecting it with a clang, and Kellan moved, last desperate shadow-step, straight in front of the spearman.
His second blade sliced clean across Doran’s forearm. Blood welled up quick. The crowd gasped loud.
"First blood!" Dorian Hale shouted, voice cracking with excitement. "Kellan draws first blood!"
No time to soak it in. Kellan was spent, no more steps, no more smoke, nothing left in the bag. He flung the flash-bang capsule anyway.
It went off at Doran’s feet, blinding white, earsplitting crack. The veteran staggered, eyes squeezed shut, ringing in his head. Kellan charged in, blade high. This was it, the opening he’d fought for, the one that could flip everything.
But Doran’s spear found him first. That wind-parting thrust, impossibly fast, sucking Kellan forward into the vacuum. He tried twisting away. No good. The spear punched through his shoulder, lifting him clean off his feet before slamming him down hard on the stone. Blood spread fast across his leathers.
Doran stood over him, blinking through the flash aftereffects, ears still ringing. Blood dripped steady from his own arm cut. He looked down, face caught between respect and something like regret.
"I yield... I surrender, alright?" Kellan gasped out, voice cracking a bit as he let his blade clatter to the stone, hands raising slow while his shoulder burned and the crowd’s roar pressed in from all sides.
"You almost had me there," Doran said, voice rough. "One more shadow-step, maybe another second... could’ve gone the other way."
Kellan tried laughing but it came out as a wet cough. "Almost... doesn’t win, does it?"
"No. But damn, that was better than I thought you’d do" Doran pulled the spear free slow, more blood following. "Get some rest, scout. You earned every bit of it."
Healers rushed in. Kellan couldn’t stand, so he just raised a weak hand for a thumbs-up as they hauled him off.
Dominic caught up with him back in the tunnel. Kellan was on the stretcher, shoulder all bandaged, face pale but still trying to grin through it.
"I almost had him," Kellan muttered.
"You really did, man."
"If only I was little stronger..."
Dominic squeezed his good shoulder. "Then you train till you’ve gotten as strong as you want. You did good."
Kellan nodded, the grin fading just a touch. "Your fight’s up soon. After Greer."
"I know."
"Make it count, yeah?"
"I will."
***
The crystal displays flickered. The next match appeared. Victor Harwick versus Greer.
The crowd stirred. They knew the history. They’d seen Greer freeze against Reyes. They’d watched him let Seira die, then sit alone in the dark while his team fought without him. The rest day had come and gone, and no one knew if he’d show up at all. Now the bracket had given him Victor.
Greer walked into the arena with his axe in both hands. His jaw was locked. His eyes were fixed on the man across from him. He’d drilled the battle-hymn until the rhythm lived in his bones. He’d spent his last coin on a charm against mental interference, a small silver disc pressed against his chest under the armor. He was ready. Or trying to be.
Victor stood at the center of the platform, his blade already drawn, golden light flickering along the steel. His easy smile was in place. He looked at Greer the way he’d always looked at Greer, like he was a tool that had briefly been misplaced.
"Greer," Victor said. His voice carried across the silent arena. "I supported you in this academy. I gave you everything you needed to succeed. And this is how you thank me? You point your weapon at me."
The words hit the battle-hymn and slid off. Greer felt them, distant, like rain on a window. They couldn’t get in. His heart was steady. His axe felt light in his grip.
"I’m not pointing it at you," Greer said. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "I just don’t see any reason to kiss ass."
Victor’s smile flickered. "You’ve been spending too much time with Kane. He’s filled your head with nonsense."
"He didn’t fill my head with anything. I watched. I saw, he wasn’t what you made him to be and you weren’t what I wanted to believe you were."
"Then forfeit." Victor spread his arms. "Prove your loyalty. It’s not like you can beat me. You know that. Surrender now, and I’ll forget this whole thing. You can come back. Nothing has to change."
Greer was quiet for a long moment. The crowd leaned forward. Even the healers at the edge of the platform had gone still.
"I can’t beat you," Greer said. "I know that. But I’m not going to surrender. Not to you. Not anymore."
Victor’s smile vanished. "Then you’re a fool."
"Maybe. But I’m not your fool."
He threw his axe.
The heavy blade spun end over end through the air. Victor sidestepped it without blinking. He’d seen Greer fight. He knew the axe throw was coming. His blade came around in a golden arc, and Greer barely got his axe up in time. The impact rattled his teeth, drove him back three steps. Victor didn’t let him reset. A second strike, a third, each one faster than the last. Greer parried. Dodged. Took a hit to the shoulder that split leather and drew blood. The crowd winced.
"You’re slower than I remember," Victor said. His voice was light, casual, the voice of someone who wasn’t trying. "All that fighting with Kane, and you’re still the same fighter, maybe even worse."
Greer didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The battle-hymn filled his head, a wall of rhythm, and Victor’s words were just noise. He swung his axe in a wide arc, forcing Victor to step back. The Magic Swordsman stepped back two paces, then three, and Greer pressed. He knew he couldn’t win a defensive fight. Victor was too fast, too precise. If he stayed on the back foot, he’d bleed out in pieces. He had to attack. He had to keep Victor moving.
He swung again. Victor parried. Again. Victor sidestepped. Again. Victor’s blade caught his axe mid-swing and twisted, and suddenly Greer’s weapon was trapped, the two blades locked between them. Victor’s face was inches from his.
"Forfeit," Victor said. "Last chance. You walk away, I forget this happened."
"No," Greer said. His voice was rough, scraped raw from the battle-hymn. "I won’t."
He let go of the axe.
Victor’s eyes widened. In three years of training together, Greer had never let go of his weapon. It was the one constant, the one thing everyone knew about him. Greer held his ground. Greer anchored. Greer never, ever dropped his axe.
His fist caught Victor across the jaw.
It wasn’t a trained punch. It was ugly, desperate, all his weight behind it. Victor’s head snapped back. He stumbled, his grip on the trapped axe loosening, and Greer grabbed the haft and ripped it free. He brought it around in a brutal arc aimed at Victor’s neck. The crowd screamed.
Victor blinked.
The short-range teleport. The card he’d been saving for the later rounds, the thing no one outside his family had ever seen. He vanished from the axe’s path and reappeared three feet to the left, his chest heaving, his jaw already swelling where Greer’s fist had connected. His easy smile was gone. His eyes were hard.
"You," Victor said, "just made a very serious mistake."
He stopped holding back.
His blade shifted. Gold gave way to crackling electricity, lightning crawling up the steel in bright, angry arcs. The first strike was too fast to follow. It caught Greer across the chest, splitting his armor, sending him stumbling back. Blood sprayed. The second strike hit his shoulder, the third his leg. Greer went down on one knee, his axe still raised, still swinging at the air where Victor had been a heartbeat ago. Victor hit him again. And again. Each strike precise, brutal, the Magic Swordsman not bothering to hide his power anymore.
Greer didn’t surrender. He kept trying to rise until the final strike took him down. His axe clattered to the stone beside him. Blood pooled under his body. The healers were already running.
Victor stood over him, breathing hard. His pauldron was still cracked from the earlier exchange. His jaw was swelling. His blade still crackled with dying electricity. He looked down at Greer’s body, at the axe on the stone, and for a moment his expression was unreadable. Then he turned and walked off without a word.
The healers rushed the platform. Greer wasn’t moving. They loaded him onto a stretcher, his armor cut away, bandages already soaking through. His eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow. He’d taken everything Victor had and kept swinging until his body gave out.
Dominic met the stretcher in the tunnel. The healers paused just long enough for him to look down at Greer’s face, pale, bloodied, barely conscious. Greer’s eyes flickered open. They were hollow, exhausted, but his jaw was still set.
"You did good," Dominic said quietly.
Greer couldn’t speak. Couldn’t nod. But his eyes held Dominic’s for a moment before the healers carried him toward the infirmary. That was enough.