The opening match of the round of 32 had begun. Elandra Faelin faced off against Reguya Veynor. In the wake of a shocking rule change, Rogg had boldly challenged Thaldrim as his first opponent, shattering Thaldrim's carefully laid plans. He had hoped Rogg would face other knights first—but fate had other ideas.
Up on the arena platform, Reguya glared at Elandra, jaw clenched tight. The memory of his humiliating defeat at Robb's hands still haunted him. But this time, he swore he would not make the same mistakes.
"You can still surrender before we start," Elandra said coldly, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Her hawk-like eyes gleamed with unwavering confidence.
Reguya's fists tightened. "Never, Elandra. I am a knight of the Doliex tribe. I do not surrender before a fight!" he shouted, though the tension in his gaze betrayed him.
Elandra let out a quiet scoff. "Very well. Come at me."
Without waiting for another cue, Reguya lunged forward. His sword swept through the air, carving a trail of silvery light straight for Elandra's throat. But in the blink of an eye, she twisted aside with the grace of a dancer, evading the strike by mere inches.
CLANG!
Sparks burst into the air as Reguya's blade collided with Elandra's, who had already raised her sword in defense. He didn't relent—slashes came one after another, a storm of strikes from every direction. He thrust, cleaved, slashed—desperation fueling his ferocity.
Elandra weaved through the onslaught with terrifying precision, her movements so fluid it was as if she were dancing through blades of death. Still, Reguya didn't let up. He spun mid-strike and launched a powerful kick toward her.
THUD!
His boot slammed into her abdomen, sending her skidding back. Elandra dropped to one knee, her face unreadable even as her chest heaved from the clash.
Reguya allowed himself a brief smile, his eyes glinting at the satisfaction of landing the first blow. "Still think I'm beneath you, Elandra?"
She wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. "Not bad."
Without warning, she darted forward like a shadow. Her blade slashed upward, forcing Reguya to stagger back. But before he could recover, Elandra spun, her sword slicing toward his chest.
SHTING!
He blocked—partially. Her blade bit into his shoulder. Blood seeped through his tunic, but he gritted his teeth and held his ground. With a swift motion, he flipped his sword and counterattacked.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The clangor of steel-on-steel rang out relentlessly, their duel escalating to fever pitch. Reguya fought with raw tenacity, each swing fueled by sheer will. Elandra, meanwhile, remained calm and precise—every move calculated, every reaction unnervingly sharp.
The arena pulsed with energy as the audience roared and screamed, intoxicated by the deadly ballet unfolding before them.
Panting, Reguya leapt back, chest heaving. "You're… too fast," he gasped.
Elandra's eyes narrowed. "And you think too much."
She vanished from her spot, surging forward with lightning speed. Reguya tried to raise his sword, but she was already there.
SHHK!
A clean cut tore across his thigh. Reguya stumbled, balance lost. He dropped to one knee.
He tried to rise, but his body was giving out. Blood streamed from his wounds, sapping his strength. His gaze flicked to Elandra—still standing tall, barely winded.
A bitter smile curled on Reguya's lips. "You really are that strong, Elandra…"
And then he collapsed.
Cheers erupted. The first match of the round ended with a decisive victory—Elandra Faelin had triumphed.
She exhaled slowly and looked down at the fallen Reguya. Saying nothing, she turned and walked away, leaving behind the silent mark of her dominance.
Following the stunning battle between Elandra and Reguya, the round of 32 charged ahead, each match steeped in growing tension and fierce energy. Fight after fight unfolded, each one more intense than the last, bathing the arena in adrenaline.
Thaldrim's alliance, which had once seemed poised to dominate this round, began to crumble. Despite boasting seventeen elite fighters, including Thaldrim himself, the alliance was swept by an unexpected tide—one defeat after another crashing through like a sudden storm.
Top contenders like Vaedros, Pyres, Thyrex, Morgrim, Thyros, Zarkos, Drelthar, Orikhan—and even Reguya—fell one by one. Their downfall came not at the hands of seasoned veterans, but from the rise of independent warriors now hailed as the tournament's "dark horses."
There was Brando. Vardrake. Kaelthorn of Clan Velary. Zepharoth and Dornak from the same bloodline. Ashwar, Korvath, Torgath, and of course, Elandra—the newest dark horse of Clan Faelin. Their names now thundered across the arena like war drums.
And now, the tenth battle began: Brisena versus Ragnir.
The arena rumbled—not just from anticipation, but from the weight of history between these two.
Ragnir, a shadow assassin who had long served as Thaldrim's most trusted weapon, stood silently at the far end. His body was solid, his stance razor-sharp, eyes void of emotion—honed by years of espionage and bloodshed in the name of the Empire. To him, Thaldrim's command was law. His missions were his lifeblood.
"Begin!" the arena referee shouted.
WUSSH! Ragnir moved like a living shadow. His curved blade sliced through the air, aimed with deadly accuracy. But Brisena—still not fully recovered from her previous wounds—showed no fear. With mesmerizing grace and flawless technique, she danced between each strike, every movement a death-defying performance.
Steel clashed in a chaotic symphony, each note drawing the crowd into a hush. Ragnir attacked like a soulless killer. But Brisena parried with finesse, turning the slightest openings into devastating chances.
Their battle stretched on and on. Sweat dripped, breathing grew ragged, and fresh wounds began to bloom across their skin and garments.
And then, just as Ragnir's blade came sweeping in low, Brisena leapt—twisting midair.
BRUK! Her knee crashed into Ragnir's chest, sending him staggering back—then, in a flash, her blade was at his throat. One inch more, and it would have been over.
Silence.
Ragnir dropped to his knees. "I... lost," he whispered.
The crowd exploded. Brisena had won. Their cheers soared to the sky.
From his seat, Thaldrim gritted his teeth. His face turned crimson with rage.
"Fools! All of you are pathetic! Defeated by nameless children!" he roared, slamming his fist against his chair.
Then his eyes turned toward a solitary figure clad in all black—Mendrova Covarthis, the reigning champion. Known as the Doliex tribe's silent shadow—swift, deadly, and undefeated. No one knew his true face beneath the hood, but everyone knew one thing: when Mendrova entered the arena, defeat was already a breath away.
"Mendrova," Thaldrim said, his voice low but thunderous, "this time, no matter what, you must win. I won't waste another drop of energy on failures."
Mendrova gave a slow nod. Silent. Cold. Lethal.
The Eleventh Match Began. Mendrova Covarthis versus Argento Mokio.
From the sidelines, Brisena, seated and having her wounds dressed by Rogg, whispered,"Argento... be careful. He's not someone you can take lightly."
"Argento," Rogg said firmly, "we need you—not just in this arena, but for a far greater battle ahead. Don't push yourself too hard."
"I understand, my lord," Argento replied, gripping his dual-bladed swords tightly. "But I'm also a father. And I want my child to know... his father never ran from a fight."
The arena rumbled once more. Argento struck first!Like an unstoppable storm, he launched a flurry of strikes, blades flashing from every direction.
But Mendrova... didn't move.He only shifted subtly, his body flowing with terrifying grace, evading every strike with inhuman precision. Not a single blow landed.
Cling! Clang! The clash of steel sparked flickers of fire, but within seconds, the difference in skill became painfully clear. Argento's breath grew ragged, his attacks losing sharpness.Mendrova, in contrast, remained cold, calm, flawless. His eyes revealed no emotion.
Argento stepped back, his breath heavy."I... yield," he declared, his voice resolute yet exhausted, letting his swords fall to the ground.
Silence. Mendrova said nothing. He simply stood there—like a shadowed statue awaiting his next prey.
Back in the master's gallery, Thaldrim roared again,"What kind of fight is this?! No blood! No wounds! No pride! This arena isn't a playground—it's where true power is forged! I'm sick of cowards like you!"
Yet the other masters only exchanged glances, and slowly, the crowd began to cheer—not for Thaldrim, but for the young warriors who had begun to etch their names into the legacy of the Smokeland Knight Arena.
Following his team's first victory, Thaldrim started to breathe easier.A twelfth win by Baltharos over Tzandrek, followed by Tarkhan's triumph against Ashborn in Match 13, and then an internal duel won by Azrakar against Xalvorn, gave his squad a firmer footing in the round of 32.
Now came Match 15: Nyx Faelin versus Gorath Covarthis.
Nyx—an assassin swift and lethal—was Brisena's left hand in countless high-risk missions. Where Elandra was the calm within the storm, Nyx was the storm—wild, fast, and impossible to predict.
"Nyx, remember. Finish this quickly. We're running out of time," Brisena said quietly but firmly.
Nyx offered a sly smile. "Don't worry. I'll make Thaldrim regret ever trusting his pathetic little army."
His opponent, Gorath Covarthis, was young, energetic... and far too confident."Senior Nyx! I've admired you since my first day at the academy! You're my idol—right after Vuuxi!" he shouted. "I didn't get the chance to face Vuuxi, but now—I have you!"
Nyx raised an eyebrow, amused, then smiled kindly. "Alright, kid. Think of this as training. Just remember—you're on the other side. So don't blame your senior if this gets... rough."
"I know I'm young and not expected to win... but I've completed tons of missions! I—Gorath—am part of the Dark Legion!" he declared proudly. "The Empire's deadliest shadow force!"
"Oh, Dark Legion, is it?" Nyx squinted. "You're a bit too loud for someone from the shadows."
The battle began.Whoosh! Gorath lunged forward, twirling his two-meter twin-bladed spear with full force. It sliced through the air like a dragon's whip.
Nyx darted aside, a blur in the wind. The spear missed his shoulder by inches.
"You're fast," Gorath muttered, sweat forming on his brow.
"You haven't seen anything yet, kid," Nyx replied, spinning his short sword with deadly finesse.
The sound of clashing metal cracked like thunder. Kiinng! Claaang!Their duel was swift, brutal, and electrifying. The audience held its breath, afraid to blink.
"Stop dodging and fight back, Senior!" Gorath barked, frustrated.
"Oh? You want to feel pressure?" Nyx's smirk turned razor-sharp. "Fine."
In a heartbeat, Nyx lunged forward!His blade danced in close quarters. Gorath, with his long weapon, struggled—backpedaling, cornered, overwhelmed by Nyx's unreadable rhythm.
Thud! A strike to his wrist loosened his grip. His breath quickened. His hand trembled.'He's too fast... too calm... I can't even tell where he'll strike next…'
Nyx leapt back, giving pause. "Want to keep going?"
Gorath gritted his teeth, staggering upright. "I... I won't give up..."
But deep down, he knew—it was no longer a fair fight. The gap was too wide.
Seconds later, Nyx's flurry knocked his weapon clear from the arena. Gorath collapsed, clutching his aching chest.
"Enough..." he finally gasped, his voice hoarse. "I... accept defeat..."
The arena erupted in applause. From afar, Brisena watched, pride shimmering in her eyes.
Nyx walked over and helped Gorath up."You've got potential. But don't let pride blind your path. Remember that."
From the noble stands, Thaldrim clenched his jaw. His team had gained no ground, and the mounting defeats of the Dark Legion stoked his fury.
Gorath panted, blood trickling from his temple. His spear lay broken. He looked at Nyx—eyes that once burned with fire, now dimmed with new awareness.
"I... I understand now," he whispered bitterly. "Your level... it's not something I can reach overnight."
Nyx stood firm, inhaled slowly, and sheathed his sword."You've got potential, Gorath. But it'll all go to waste if you keep trying to impress men like Thaldrim."
Gorath fell silent. His wounds were many, but none as deep as the doubt now gnawing at his heart.
"Senior..." he murmured. "Why didn't you hurt me, even though you could've?"
"Because we're not just fighting bodies, Gorath," Nyx replied sharply. "We're fighting ignorance. Arrogance. Despair. You can kill a body—but those grow back. Touch a heart, though... it might just change. Someday, we'll need you."
A trumpet blared. The match was declared over. Gorath dropped to his knees."I... surrender."
Cheers thundered throughout the arena. Nyx had won—not just with skill, but with a grace that cut deeper than blades.
Thaldrim slowly rose from the tribune, his face darkening. His fists clenched tight."Gorath... worthless coward," he hissed.
But not far from him, Mendrova smiled faintly. He knew—The one strength that can't be stolen or taught... is the courage to know when to lose—and to change.