The courtyard of Warbringer Academy was a sea of movement and purpose as students streamed in from all directions, weapons gleaming in the morning sun and swathed in their leather armored uniform. The air buzzed with anticipation, the sharp hum of nerves and excitement blending into one palpable energy. Faculty members barked orders, herding the students into place as the academy prepared to march as one unit to the colosseum.

  Rows began to form—neat, disciplined platoons that stretched across the courtyard like lines drawn in a battle map. Banners bearing the crimson and black sigil of Warbringer Academy fluttered in the light breeze, a stark contrast to the stone walls that framed the grounds. In the center of it all, the academy’s symbol—a crossed pair of Niuweidao swords surrounded by an unyielding shield—hung high on a raised banner pole, casting its shadow like an omen of strength and duty.

  Sorin moved quickly through the crowd, the weight of his blades familiar across his back as he searched for his place. He spotted Tytus first, standing near the front of their assigned platoon with his usual swagger, arms crossed as though he were already imagining the cheers that would come his way. Jackson stood awkwardly beside him, fidgeting with the buckles of his uniform, his anxious muttering just audible over the hum of the crowd. Diego was there too, his posture ramrod straight, his sharp gaze scanning the assembled academy like a hawk. Torrid, standing in the back of their line, loomed like a mountain, his broad frame and stoic expression making him look like he belonged on a battlefield already.

  “There you are,” Tytus called when Sorin approached, a grin spreading across his face. “Took your time, didn’t you?”

  Sorin fell into his place beside them, adjusting his stance to match theirs at parade rest—feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back. “Had some things to take care of.”

  Jackson shot him a sideways glance. “I hope it wasn’t more trouble. I don’t think I can handle another ballroom fight before noon.”

  “Relax,” Sorin replied, though his thoughts lingered on Zane. “Just getting ready like the rest of you.”

  The line settled into stillness as the academy staff began final checks, walking between the platoons to ensure everything was in order. The clink of armor and the occasional snap of banners were the only sounds that punctuated the tense quiet as they waited. Sorin stood rigid, his thoughts drifting in and out of focus—constantly circling back to Zane’s office. The sight of Zane slumped at his desk, surrounded by bottles, lingered like a shadow on the edge of his mind.

  After what felt like an eternity, a hush swept over the courtyard. Heads turned instinctively toward the academy entrance, and Sorin followed their gaze.

  Zane Warbringer emerged from the double doors, his presence immediately commanding the attention of every student and faculty member present. He walked with the same unshakable confidence Sorin had come to know—his broad shoulders squared, his chin high, his armor polished to a dull sheen that somehow made him look even more imposing. The man who had seemed so broken only an hour ago now stood before them as the unflinching, dependable Headmaster of Warbringer Academy. It was as though nothing had happened.

  Zane strode to the front of the courtyard, taking his place at the raised platform reserved for the academy’s leadership. His sharp eyes swept over the assembled students; his expression set and unwavering. When he spoke, his voice boomed across the courtyard, strong and clear, cutting through the air like a blade.

  “Warbringers,” he began, his tone steady and measured, “you stand here today because you have proven yourselves worthy. You have bled, you have fought, and you have endured when others could not. The Ranking Tournament is not just a test of strength or skill—it is a crucible. It separates the pretenders from the true warriors. The weak from the strong. And every single one of you has earned your place here.”

  A murmur of pride rippled through the lines. Sorin’s spine straightened instinctively, Zane’s words cutting through his lingering doubts like sunlight through fog.

  “The challenges ahead will be greater than any you have faced before,” Zane continued, his gaze sharp as he scanned the platoons. “This stage of the tournament is where legends are made. Your names will be etched into the hearts of this city, whether in glory or failure—and the choice is yours. Do not fight for yourself alone. Fight for Warbringer Academy. Fight for the brothers and sisters beside you. Fight to show the world that we are unmatched.”

  A cheer erupted from some of the students at the back, the energy of Zane’s words igniting the crowd like sparks to dry kindling. Sorin felt the fire of inspiration stir in his chest, pushing back the fatigue and uncertainty that lingered there.

  Zane raised a fist, his voice rising in volume. “You have been forged in hardship and tempered in battle. Today, you will show this city what it means to carry the name Warbringer. Go now and make this academy proud!”

  The courtyard roared to life with cheers and shouts of affirmation. Sorin joined in, his voice blending with the rest of his peers as their war cry echoed against the walls.

  But even as he cheered, Sorin couldn’t help but steal another glance at Zane, who stood tall and unshakable before them. The Headmaster’s face was the perfect mask of strength and resolve, but Sorin knew what lay behind it now. He knew the burden Zane carried, the cracks in his armor that no one else could see.

  How does he do it? Sorin wondered, his admiration tempered by concern. The man who had slumped over his desk that morning—broken, weary—was nowhere to be seen. This Zane Warbringer was an unyielding fortress, and yet Sorin couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before the cracks deepened.

  As the cheers began to settle and the lines prepared to march, Sorin tightened his fists at his sides, determination hardening within him. Whatever was going on with Zane, he couldn’t let it distract him. Zane had told him to focus on the tournament, and he would.

  But I won’t forget, Sorin thought. I’ll find a way to help him, no matter what it takes. Not just for Magnus but for Zane as well.

  —

  The students of Warbringer Academy moved forward as one; their disciplined ranks slowly funneled into the looming maw of the colosseum. Enforcers clad in dark, polished armor stood at every archway, barking orders with practiced authority as they divided the platoons and directed them into the depths of the stone giant.

  “Warbringer Academy, third platoon!” one Enforcer barked, his voice carrying over the din of boots against stone. “Stairwell six! Follow your line!”

  Sorin and his friends fell into step, their pace steady as they followed the flow of their assigned group. The stairwell they were directed to was wide and well-worn, its steps hollowed slightly from centuries of traffic. The torches along the walls cast flickering orange light, but the farther they ascended, the brighter the sunlight at the top of the passage became. The low murmur of the crowd above them swelled with every step—a deep, thunderous hum that grew louder and louder until it vibrated through the walls themselves.

  Finally, they emerged from the shadowed stairwell into the blinding brilliance of the colosseum’s interior. Sorin paused instinctively, blinking against the sudden sunlight, and when his vision cleared, the sheer scale of what lay before him stole his breath.

  The colosseum’s interior was a marvel of craftsmanship and scale, a monument to combat that dwarfed anything Sorin had ever seen. The arena floor stretched far below, a massive expanse of smooth, reddish-brown sand, its surface pristine and untouched—for now. The ground was surrounded by an imposing stone wall that separated it from the stands, and Sorin noted heavy iron gates set into the walls at each cardinal point—gateways for competitors or perhaps creatures to enter. Above each gate, the insignia of a God or Goddess from the Dark Pantheon was carved into the stone, their images weathered but still commanding.

  The stands themselves rose in tiers that seemed to touch the very sky, concentric rings of seating that wrapped entirely around the arena in an unbroken wave. Thousands of seats, already filled with excited spectators, climbed higher and higher, each row packed with nobles, mortals, and followers of the Gods from all walks of life. Vibrant banners hung from balconies and upper boxes, their colors rippling in the light breeze—scarlet, gold, silver, and black clashed against the pale stone, the crests of academies and Gods fluttering like battle standards.

  At the colosseum’s apex, perched above the highest rows, massive statues of the Gods loomed down, carved with such intricate detail that their expressions seemed almost lifelike. Vesperos, whose shadowed visage stretched an arm toward the sands below as if inviting chaos to unfold. Other Gods, like Malstrife of Destruction and Mysterium of Arcane Mysteries, claimed places of prominence, their visages unmistakable even from a distance.

  The noise of the crowd was deafening—an overwhelming, rolling wave of cheers, shouts, and chants. Vendors weaved between rows, hawking food, drinks, and trinkets emblazoned with academy crests, their calls blending seamlessly with the thunder of voices. The anticipation was palpable, the energy of thousands converging in one space and building like a storm waiting to break.

  Sorin took it all in, his heart hammering against his ribs as he scanned the immense arena. It was humbling, yet exhilarating—a monument to the glory and brutality of the battles that would unfold here. He had heard of the colosseum from his friends, but nothing could have prepared him for its sheer magnitude.

  “Gods above,” Jackson murmured beside him, craning his neck to take it all in. “You could fit an entire army in here.”

  “And it still wouldn’t feel crowded,” Diego added, his sharp gaze sweeping the stands with quiet calculation.

  Tytus whistled low, his usual bravado tempered slightly by awe. “Now, this is a stage worthy of us.”

  Torrid grunted approvingly, his eyes fixed on the arena floor like a predator sizing up its hunting ground. “Big. Good for fight.”

  “Let’s move,” Diego said, breaking the momentary spell. “We’re holding up the line.”

  Sorin shook off his daze, falling back into step as the Enforcers directed their platoon toward their designated section. They climbed up a short set of stairs before reaching a lower tier of seats that offered a clear, unobstructed view of the arena floor. The stone benches were smooth but cold, their edges worn from generations of spectators sitting where they now stood.

  Sorin and his friends settled into their spots, squeezing onto a long bench with other students from their platoon. Vestian fluttered off Sorin’s shoulder to perch on the back of the bench, scanning the crowd with sharp, golden eyes. Around them, the Warbringer students murmured with excitement or quiet focus, the weight of the tournament settling in their bones as they gazed at the arena below.

  Sorin let his gaze wander again, taking in the sheer volume of the crowd. Every seat was filling fast, and in the private balconies higher up, nobles and influential figures gathered, dressed in finery and surrounded by attendants. It was a spectacle unlike any other—one where thousands of eyes would watch their every move, judge every strike, and cheer or jeer at their victories and defeats.

  “See that?” Tytus nudged Sorin, grinning as he pointed to a section where a group of Silverblade Academy students sat. “Look at them all, sitting up straight, trying to look so superior. Wait until they see us in action.”

  Sorin smirked faintly, though his focus never strayed far from the arena. “Let’s hope we give them something worth watching.”

  He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared down at the pristine sands below. This was where it would happen. The battles that would make or break them, the moments that would define their names. His heart pounded in his chest, not with fear, but with anticipation.

  —

  As the last of the academies filed into their seats and the colosseum reached a crescendo of noise, Sorin took a deep breath and let the energy of the place wash over him. It was impossible to ignore the sheer scale of it—the arena, the crowd, the history of the place—but he refused to let it consume him. His focus was razor-sharp.

  I’ll make my mark here, he thought, his jaw tightening. No matter what it takes.

  Inside, the atmosphere was electric. The academies sat in their designated sections, their colorful banners contrasting against the darker hues of the common mortal crowd. Warbringer Academy’s platoons remained disciplined, though Sorin noticed his peers stealing glances at the swelling crowd, their own excitement barely contained. He felt it, too—a restless anticipation thrumming beneath his skin as he stared out at the vast expanse of the colosseum.

  Then, from the far end of the arena, movement drew every eye.

  The City Overlord and his daughter Celeste rose from their seats in a lavish private box positioned high above the arena floor. The Overlord’s imposing frame was clad in a tailored suit of deep black with silver accents, his every movement exuding command. Celeste stood gracefully at his side, her striking violet gown catching the light as she surveyed the arena with the sharp eyes of a hawk.

  The City Overlord raised a single hand, his fingers spread wide. The effect was instantaneous. The deafening roar of the crowd fell away, replaced by a silence so absolute it was as though the air itself had been sucked from the colosseum. Every eye turned to him, waiting.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Citizens of Cestead!” his voice boomed, carried across the vast arena by some unseen amplification. It was rich and resonant; each word was measured, and each syllable was a command. “Welcome to the second stage of the Ranking Tournament!”

  A cheer rippled through the stands, though it quickly died down as the Overlord raised his hand once more.

  “This arena,” he continued, his voice filled with gravitas, “has stood as a testament to the strength and resilience of this city for centuries. Before the founding of the academies, it was here that warriors fought for survival, for power, and for glory. The sands below you were once stained with the blood of countless challengers—mortals and followers alike—who sought to carve their names into history.”

  The crowd listened intently, the weight of his words settling over them like a heavy mantle. Even Sorin felt a chill as he gazed down at the pristine sands of the arena floor, imagining the echoes of ancient battles fought where he would soon stand.

  “But Cestead has grown,” the Overlord continued, his tone shifting subtly, becoming more reflective. “We are no longer a city of endless bloodshed. With the rise of the academies, this arena has transformed. What was once a place of chaos is now a crucible of discipline and skill, a stage where the youth of this city—our future—can test their mettle and prepare for the challenges to come.”

  He gestured to the rows of students seated around the colosseum, his gaze sweeping across the academies. “Today, we honor that tradition. The Ranking Tournament’s second stage begins here, under the eyes of the Gods, the academies, and you—the people of Cestead. This is where champions rise, and pretenders fall.”

  A wave of applause and cheers followed his words, though they quickly quieted as the Overlord raised his hand once more.

  “Let me explain the rules for the single-elimination bracket,” he said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “Each duel will be fought one-on-one. If you lose, you are eliminated from the tournament. Only the strongest will remain.”

  He paused for effect, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The final duel, however, will not be decided by a single match. It will be a best-of-three to ensure that victory is earned, not taken by chance.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but the Overlord’s commanding presence quickly silenced them. “Each participant will fight only once per day. There will be no exceptions. This ensures that every competitor fights at their full strength and does not fall prey to exhaustion.”

  He turned his gaze toward the students now, his expression stern and unyielding. “The Acolytes will fight first, testing their limits and proving their worth. Once their matches are complete, the Disciples will take the stage. Every duel is a test of skill, endurance, and strategy.”

  Another pause, and then his voice dropped, becoming colder. “All weapons are legal. All powers are legal. You will fight with everything at your disposal. However—” his gaze sharpened, and a ripple of tension spread through the colosseum “—there will be no killing, to the best of your capabilities. Accidents happen, yes. But deliberate murder will not be tolerated. Neither will the unnecessary torture of an opponent who can no longer fight or surrender.”

  The weight of his warning hung heavy in the air. Sorin felt it settle in his chest, the gravity of the matches ahead sinking in.

  “These duels will be overseen by Vice Commander Dorian of the Enforcers,” the Overlord said, gesturing to a figure standing near the edge of the arena floor. The Vice Commander, clad in gleaming black armor trimmed with silver, stepped forward and raised a hand in acknowledgment. His presence radiated authority, his expression stern and unyielding.

  “With Dorian’s guidance,” the Overlord concluded, “this tournament will proceed with honor. Now, let the duels begin. May the Gods watch over us all.”

  The colosseum erupted into thunderous applause and cheers as the Overlord and Celeste returned to their seats. Sorin clapped along with his peers though his mind was racing. The rules were clear, and the stakes immense. He felt the pressure of it all but also the thrill.

  Even as the crowd roared, Sorin stole a glance at his friends. Tytus grinned ear to ear, his excitement barely contained, while Diego sat stoic, his sharp gaze locked on the arena floor. Torrid’s hands were clenched into fists, his jaw set as if he were already envisioning his first opponent. Jackson, meanwhile, looked pale but determined, his expression a mix of nerves and resolve.

  The thunderous applause and cheers began to die down as Vice Commander Dorian stepped forward, his imposing frame cutting a stark figure against the bright sands of the colosseum floor. The Enforcer's black and silver armor gleamed like obsidian in the sunlight, and his sharp gaze swept over the crowd with the precision of a man accustomed to commanding attention. A hush fell over the arena as he raised a gauntleted hand, the echoing clamor of voices dwindling to nothing.

  “Competitors,” Dorian began, his voice a deep, resonant boom that carried effortlessly across the vast space. “Today, you stand on the threshold of proving yourselves. The duels ahead will test your strength, your skill, and your resolve. You carry the pride of your academies, and the eyes of this city are upon you.”

  He paused, letting his words settle over the crowd. Sorin watched the man intently, noting how every movement, every syllable, was measured and deliberate. Dorian had the presence of someone who could crush you with a glare alone.

  “These matches are not just for glory,” Dorian continued, his voice unwavering. “They are for growth—for shaping you into warriors worthy of the Gods' favor. Do not forget the rules that have been laid out. Fight with all your might. Use your weapons, your powers, and your wits, but remember: the goal is victory, not bloodshed. The sands of this arena will bear witness to your efforts, and accidents will not be tolerated.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, a shared breath of anticipation. Sorin shifted in his seat, his muscles already tense with the quiet hum of impending battle. Around him, the others were equally focused—each processing the weight of the day ahead.

  Dorian reached into his armored breastplate and pulled out a scroll, the parchment gleaming faintly in the sunlight. “The pairings for today’s duels have been decided,” he declared, unfurling the scroll with a snap. “Listen closely. Your names will be called, and you will enter the arena when summoned. Acolytes will fight first, and the order of combat will announced after the pairings.”

  The crowd held its breath, the tension mounting as Dorian began to read aloud.

  “Torrid Gunther of Warbringer Academy versus Ryven Erenholt of Stormhold Academy.”

  Sorin glanced over at Torrid, whose expression broke into a toothy grin. The massive student cracked his knuckles and let out a satisfied grunt. “Torrid crush.”

  “Please don’t break the poor kid in half,” Jackson muttered under his breath, though his tone carried a hint of relief that it wasn’t his name being called first.

  Dorian continued. “Jackson Hughes of Warbringer Academy versus Delvin Harlow of Valoria Academy.”

  Jackson visibly paled. “Oh, come on,” he groaned, slumping forward and covering his face with his hands. “Delvin Harlow? That guy’s a brute!”

  Tytus snorted. “Maybe you can use that ‘tactical screaming’ of yours again. Worked for you last time.”

  Jackson shot him a glare, but he didn’t argue.

  “Diego Fenton of Warbringer Academy versus Lirien Vexa of Darkplight Institute,” Dorian intoned, his voice unwavering. Dorian continued to list off pairings.

  Sorin turned to Diego, who simply gave a sharp nod, his expression calm and unreadable. Lirien was a name Sorin recognized—one of Darkplight’s most disciplined Acolytes, known for her precision with dagger and spirit usage alike. If Diego was intimidated, he didn’t show it.

  “Tytus Guvester of Warbringer Academy versus Wren Hollis of Darkplight Institute.”

  Tytus let out a low whistle, a gleam of excitement flashing in his eyes. “Darkplight, huh? I’ve always wanted to see how shadow magic handles a little lightning. This should be fun.”

  Sorin couldn’t help but smirk, though the anticipation in his chest tightened with each passing name. He knew his turn was coming.

  “Sorin Vesloma of Warbringer Academy versus Valdrak Steelblood of Silverblade Academy,” Dorian announced.

  The name struck Sorin like a match to dry tinder. Valdrak Steelblood. He knew the name well—one of Silverblade’s rising stars, a massive brute with the raw power and speed to match his academy’s reputation. Sorin had information on him from Carcose the Rat. Valdrak Steelblood had a massive warhammer that he moved with ease to overpower his opponents.

  “Another Silverblade golden boy,” Tytus muttered, nudging Sorin’s shoulder with a grin. “Think you can handle him?”

  Sorin’s lips curled into a faint smirk, though inside, his focus sharpened. “We’ll see soon enough.”

  Dorian finished reading through the pairings, his scroll rolling closed with a soft snap. “Competitors, prepare yourselves. You will be summoned when your matches are called. To the citizens of Cestead and to the Gods who watch above, I give you this day of combat. May it inspire awe and forge champions. Let the duels begin!”

  A wave of applause erupted through the colosseum, the roar of excitement surging back to life like a living force. Sorin leaned back slightly, his eyes still fixed on the arena floor as Enforcers began preparing for the first duel. Torrid was already rolling his shoulders, practically vibrating with anticipation for his match. Jackson sat frozen, muttering his misfortunes under his breath, while Diego remained a picture of quiet readiness.

  Sorin, though, kept his gaze on the sands. His heart thumped steadily as the crowd’s energy washed over him. Valdrak Steelblood, he thought again, the name sparking a flicker of determination deep in his chest. He would fight his hardest. He would win.

  Dorian raised his hand, silencing the crowd again, and announced the first set of duels. The crowd erupted into renewed chatter as the first pairing was announced, the excitement palpable as the students called to action stood and began making their way down toward the arena entrances. Torrid cracked his knuckles loudly, his broad grin spreading as he turned to his friends.

  “Torrid called,” he rumbled, rising from the bench with a hulking grace that belied his size. “Easy fight.”

  Sorin smirked. “Don’t crush him too badly. Killing him would disqualify you.”

  “Torrid crush, if he die, he die,” Torrid replied with a toothy grin before lumbering toward the stairwell leading to the staging area.

  The rest of the group settled back into their seats. Sorin leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he watched the activity below with growing anticipation.

  —

  The first duel began with the sound of a sharp horn blast that echoed across the colosseum. Two Acolytes stepped onto the sand, their postures tense but determined. Sorin recognized one of them immediately—Lysara of Valoria Academy, a wiry girl with a shock of red hair and a spear tipped with a glowing crystal. Her opponent, a tall boy clad in the blue and silver of Stormhold Academy, carried a pair of daggers crackling with arcs of lightning.

  The fight began with explosive intensity. Lysara used the reach of her spear to keep her opponent at bay, weaving patterns of spirit-infused light into her attacks that left dazzling trails in the air. The Stormhold fighter countered with bursts of raw speed, his daggers a blur as he closed the distance again and again, forcing Lysara onto the defensive. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed, and the crowd roared with every near miss and narrow dodge.

  “She’s quick,” Diego murmured, his eyes narrowing as he studied the fight. “But she needs to control the tempo. If he gets inside her guard, it’s over.”

  Sorin nodded, watching as Lysara managed to land a stunning blow with the butt of her spear, sending her opponent skidding backward. She didn’t give him a chance to recover, lunging forward with a flurry of precise strikes that forced him to retreat. The match ended moments later as Lysara’s glowing spearhead struck true, disarming the Stormhold fighter with a final, decisive sweep.

  The crowd erupted into applause as the fighters saluted each other and left the field.

  The second duel followed quickly, featuring a brutish fighter from Darkplight Institute wielding a massive flail against a Silverblade student armed with a slender rapier. The contrast in styles was striking—the Darkplight fighter relied on overwhelming power, his flail tearing great gouges in the sand, while the Silverblade duelist danced around him, her blade flashing like a needle. In the end, precision won out, and the Silverblade student landed a series of strikes that forced her opponent to yield.

  As the horn signaled the next duel, Sorin and the others leaned forward in their seats, watching as Torrid’s massive frame emerged onto the sands of the colosseum to a wave of applause and cheers from the Warbringer Academy section. Torrid had already activated his Obsidian Armor spell and was cloaked from head to toe in dark, impenetrable armor.

  At the opposite end of the arena, his opponent stepped into view. Ryven Erenholt of Stormhold Academy was everything Torrid wasn’t—lean, quick, and deadly precise. Dressed in a sleek azure and silver uniform with small armor plates covering his vitals, Ryven carried a trident that glimmered with elemental energy, its tines sparking faintly. His piercing gray eyes scanned Torrid with a calculating intensity, and a confident smirk tugged at his lips.

  “Ryven has a reputation for ruthlessness,” Diego murmured, crossing his arms. “This should be interesting.”

  The horn blasted, and the duel began.

  Ryven was the first to act. He lunged forward with a Tidal Surge, his trident leaving a shimmering wake of water as he dashed across the sand. The crowd gasped at the speed of the move, but Torrid didn’t flinch. As Ryven struck, Torrid raised his shield, activating Impenetrable Guard. The trident’s electric charge crackled against the obsidian shield harmlessly, and Torrid shoved Ryven back with a grunt of effort.

  “Torrid stronger,” the Warbringer fighter muttered, taking a step forward and swinging his massive sword in a wide arc. The strike had immense force behind it, forcing Ryven to leap back.

  Ryven’s smirk faltered slightly, but he spun his trident in response, summoning an Aqua Barrier around himself. The swirling water distorted Torrid’s next swing, deflecting the force of the blow. With a quick counter, Ryven unleashed a Thunderous Strike, bolts of lightning arcing from his trident to Torrid’s shield.

  The electricity surged harmlessly across Torrid’s obsidian armor, a byproduct of his Obsidian Armor spell, which he had equipped earlier. The crowd roared as the two fighters locked eyes, the clash of brute strength against agility and precision mesmerizing the spectators.

  Ryven switched tactics, slamming his trident into the ground to conjure Crashing Deluge. A sudden downpour slicked the sand around Torrid, reducing his footing and forcing the Warbringer giant to slow his movements. Ryven darted in, spinning his trident in a dazzling display as he aimed for Torrid’s exposed flank.

  Torrid roared, planting his feet and activating Obsidian’s Wrath. His sword glowed faintly with dark purple spirit as he swung with incredible force, catching the trident mid-strike. The impact sent a shockwave through the air, and Ryven stumbled back, his confident smirk now replaced with grim determination.

  “Surrender,” Torrid growled, raising his sword high.

  Ryven refused, spinning his trident to summon his final power—Riptide Fury. A swirling vortex of water erupted from the ground around Torrid, pulling at him with immense force. For a moment, it seemed as though Ryven’s control of the battlefield might turn the tide of the match.

  But Torrid had had enough. With a guttural roar, he activated Colossal Slam. He lifted his massive sword high above his head and brought it down with earth-shattering force. The impact created a shockwave that obliterated the vortex and sent Ryven sprawling to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers as the arena trembled from the force of the blow.

  Ryven struggled to his feet, drenched and breathing heavily, his trident barely steady in his hands. Torrid didn’t give him another chance. He charged forward with Bull Rush, plowing into Ryven with his shield and sending him flying across the arena. The Stormhold fighter hit the ground hard, his trident skidding out of reach. He raised a hand weakly in surrender.

  The horn blared, signaling Torrid’s victory. The Warbringer section of the stands erupted into deafening applause and cheers as Torrid raised his sword high in triumph.

  “Torrid strong!” the giant bellowed, his voice echoing across the colosseum.

  “Damn right, you are!” Jackson shouted, his voice hoarse from cheering.

  Diego allowed himself a small smile, nodding in approval. “He’s unstoppable when he gets going.”

  Sorin clapped along with the crowd, his grin wide. “That’s a win for Warbringer,” he said, his chest swelling with pride. Torrid had proven, once again, why he was a force to be reckoned with.