The arena never truly empties. Even when a fight ends, the noise does not fall; it just changes shape. The screams become discussions. The discussions become bets. The bets become chants. Neutralis feels like a festival… but the smell of sun-heated stone and dried blood quickly reminds you what it really is. A place where people watch the young break apart.
I stay in the fighters' reserved area, slightly back. Brask walks in circles, like a trapped animal. Oryn, on the other hand, is motionless, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the arena as if he is already searching for the weakness of the next opponent.
"It's happening now," Brask murmurs.
"It's been happening since the moment we were chosen," Oryn replies.
I say nothing. The gong sounds again.
Match 3 — Therian Althyr (Compressed Air) VS Lioris Nerfoudre (Lightning)
Therian enters first. Slim, upright posture, calm, almost arrogant. The kind of calm that says: I know what I'm doing. His fingers move slightly, as if he were tuning something invisible. Lioris arrives next, more nervous. His lightning already crackles at times around his forearms. Not an impressive aura. More like impatience. An energy begging to come out.
The referee announces: "FIGHT!"
Lioris attacks immediately. A bolt of lightning shoots out, straight, fast. Therian doesn't even step back. He compresses the air in front of him. An invisible wall. The lightning strikes the pressure like it's hitting glass. The impact snaps, sparks explode, but the attack doesn't go through.
The crowd screams. Lioris grimaces, tries a second discharge, wider, dirtier. Same result. Therian advances. Not fast. Certain. He makes a simple gesture. The air tightens around Lioris' chest. Like a giant hand. Lioris coughs, loses his breath, his knees buckle. He tries to summon lightning in a circle, to free himself. But he doesn't have time.
Therian releases it suddenly. Lioris' body is thrown backward like a rag. He rolls, hits the stone, stops dead. A brief silence. Then the referee raises his hand.
"K.O.! Victory: Therian Althyr!"
The crowd applauds, impressed. Brask whistles. "Fuck… he shut him down."
Oryn doesn't even blink. "Superior control. Lioris was too direct."
Match 4 — Koren Ailesec (Air) VS Kaïr Thunderel (Lightning)
Koren looks younger than Therian. Less confident. But his eyes are sharp, attentive. He doesn't smile. He doesn't play the hero. Kaïr is the opposite: wide stance, chin high, mocking gaze. He cracks his fingers, and lightning clings to them immediately.
"I hope you're fast," he says.
Koren doesn't answer. "FIGHT!"
Kaïr almost disappears. A brutal acceleration. He appears in front of Koren and strikes. Koren pivots at the last moment. The fist passes within a breath of his face. You can feel the electricity in the air, even from our zone. Koren steps back, breathes, and does what people often forget: he doesn't try to dominate. He tries to survive.
He sends a cutting gust of air, simple, effective. Kaïr blocks it by reinforcing his forearm with electricity. It cracks. Kaïr laughs. "That's it?"
He attacks again, more violent. Several strikes, a fast, aggressive rhythm. Koren retreats, slides, gets grazed on the shoulder: the skin burns, the smell of heated flesh rises. Koren clenches his teeth, shifts his angle. He sends air beneath his feet. An impulse. He jumps higher than a human should be able to.
Kaïr raises his hand to strike mid-air. But Koren expels the air around him in one burst. A shockwave. Kaïr is pushed back a meter, loses his balance for an instant. One instant. Koren lands behind him and drives a sharp blow into his liver. Kaïr folds. Koren follows immediately with a compressed air strike to the back of his neck. Kaïr falls. Not unconscious… but his body refuses to respond for two seconds. Two seconds are enough.
"K.O.! Victory: Koren Ailesec!"
The crowd explodes, surprised. Kaïr gets back up furious, spits a little blood, but it's too late. Two fights. Two victories for Air. The looks in the stands are already changing.
Brask exhales. "Air… they're not joking."
"Nobody's joking," I say.
Match 5 — Brask Helor (Fire) VS Thalya Abyssel (Water)
When Brask enters the arena, he makes no grand gesture. No provocation. His step is heavy, steady. His gaze is straight, harder than before. He has changed. Not only in strength. In the way he exists. Thalya Abyssel appears. Calm. Beautiful in an almost aristocratic coldness. Her dark hair is tied back, her uniform impeccable. Around her, a subtle humidity forms, as if the air respected her.
Brask throws me a look from the center. No smile. Just a brief nod. I understand: he is serious. The referee announces the rules. "FIGHT!"
Thalya attacks first. A blade of water shoots out, fast, and Brask barely dodges. The ground is instantly covered with a thin slippery film. She wants to slow him down. Control him. Brask doesn't release his fire immediately. He runs. He closes the distance. Thalya steps back, surprised for a fraction of a second. She expected a projectile exchange. Not a charge.
She tries to push him back: a wall of water rises, compact. Brask slams into it with his shoulder. The impact pushes him back half a step, drenched, but he doesn't fall. He follows with a punch. Thalya barely dodges, feels the air pass.
"You're stupid," she breathes.
Brask answers at last. "Maybe."
He ignites his fire. Not an explosion. A stable flame, dense, orange-red, controlled. He does what he learned: he doesn't spread it. He doesn't waste it. He saves his mana. Thalya smiles. She raises both hands. Water gathers around her like a serpent. Then she strikes. A rain of compressed, cutting water projectiles.
Brask takes the first on the shoulder, a clean gash, blood spilling. He grunts, but keeps going. He throws himself sideways, rolls, rises. The fire on his hands flickers, crushed by the water. He breathes. He focuses. And instead of fleeing… he advances again.
Thalya retreats. She begins to understand: Brask isn't trying to win fast. He's trying to tire her out. He forces the water to move, to reform, to adapt. Every shape costs mana. For her too. Thalya tries another technique. The ground dampens. Then freezes slightly by pressure, not true ice: a false slippery trap. Brask almost falls, catches himself, but his leg slides too far: pain.
Thalya takes advantage. She sends a wave that slams him into the ground. The crowd screams. Brask stays down for a second. I clench my teeth. He rises. Slowly. Blood runs from his temple.
"You're still standing?" Thalya asks, surprised.
"I'm not done."
He gathers his fire. This time, he doesn't throw it as a ball. He keeps it on his forearms, like burning gauntlets. He charges. Thalya tries to retreat, to raise a wall. But Brask strikes the wall dead center, and his concentrated fire instantly evaporates part of the water. Not all. But enough to create a breach.
He breaks through. He grabs Thalya's wrist. Her eyes widen, shocked. Brask twists, throws her to the ground. She tries to free herself with a surge of water. Brask takes it, but keeps the grip. He raises his fist. Thalya understands.
"I surrender!"
The fist stops inches from her face. Silence. Then the gong.
"Victory: Brask Helor!"
The crowd roars. Brask stands, trembling, breathing hard. He doesn't raise his arms. He just looks toward us. And in his eyes, I see something return. Not joy. Dignity.
Oryn exhales, almost inaudible. "He grew up."
Brask leaves the arena, barely drinks, wipes the blood. "You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah… yeah." He's still shaking. "I thought she was gonna drown me."
I nod. "But you won."
Brask looks at the arena. "Yeah."
Match 6 — Tharok of Granroc (Earth) VS Malek Rochesec (Earth)
Two fighters from the same kingdom. The spectators expect a technical duel. A demonstration. Malek enters first. Young, solid, determined expression. He salutes the stands. He looks nervous but ready. Then Tharok arrives. And the air tightens. He walks slowly. No salute. No respect. His gaze is empty. Not cold. Not calm. Empty.
He stops at the center of the arena and stares at Malek like you stare at something you're going to break. My stomach tightens. That look. That style. That way of not seeing an opponent… but a target. A déjà-vu hits me. Dirty. Wrong. Like a shadow rising from my childhood. I clench my fists without realizing.
"FIGHT!"
Malek tries to speak. "Tharok, we can do this clean—"
He doesn't have time to finish. Tharok stomps the ground. The earth responds as if it was waiting. A spike erupts beneath Malek, he jumps just in time, but already a wall rises behind him, blocking retreat. A trap. Malek retaliates with a barrage of stones. Tharok barely moves. The rocks shatter against a compact earth plate forming before him.
He advances. Slowly. Malek backs away, panicked. He tries to raise a barrier. Tharok makes a sharp gesture. The barrier turns against Malek. As if the earth belonged to Tharok, not him. Malek stumbles, drops to his knees. The crowd begins to scream. But these aren't screams of excitement. They are screams of fear.
Tharok grabs Malek by the throat. He lifts him with one hand, as if he weighed nothing. Malek struggles, tries to strike. Tharok doesn't react. He drives his other hand into the ground. And the earth comes alive. Spikes rise around Malek. Not to stop him. To tear him apart.
Malek screams. A long, animal scream. He tries to surrender, but his voice cuts off when Tharok squeezes harder. My blood boils. This isn't a fight. It's an execution.
"Stop…" someone murmurs in the stands.
Tharok smiles. A twisted smile. Then he does something simple. He crushes. Malek's throat cracks under his hand. A dry sound. Hideous. Malek drops to the ground like an empty body. But Tharok doesn't stop. He strikes again. A stone spike erupts and pierces the torso.
Blood bursts, dark in the light. The crowd explodes. Some cheer. Others scream in horror. The referee steps back, hesitates… then raises his hand, voice shaking: "…Victory. Tharok of Granroc."
Tharok remains still above the corpse. As if waiting for something else. As if killing wasn't enough. I stare at his movements. His posture. His gaze. And that feeling hits again. That style. That same contempt for life. That same murderous calm. I hate it. I hate that my body recognizes this kind of monster.
In the political stands, a man stands up. A Warrior Master, judging by the aura around him even while seated. He smiles. Not a proud smile. A proprietor's smile.
"That…" he says softly to the one beside him, "that is my son."
My jaw tightens. Brask has gone pale. Oryn looks… tense. Tharok leaves the arena without looking at anyone. Without celebrating. Without even breathing harder. The corpse stays there. A few healers arrive, too late, obviously.
The arena continues. But something has cracked. And I feel it. That look… that style… that way of killing… I've seen it before. Not here. Somewhere else. Before.
And that's what scares me. Not Tharok himself. But what he awakens.