Chapter 91: Old Bullies

A wild attack. A vortex that left him exposed. The woman struck. A jet of water—high pressure, sharp as a blade—sliced across his chest. Caelum screamed. Staggered back.

The woman attacked again. A wave of water that knocked him off his feet. He hit the ground. Rolled. Tried to rise.

She was already there. Water gathered at her fingertips. A blade of ice.

"Yield," she said.

Caelum stared at her. His face was white. His hands trembled.

"I yield," he whispered.

The crowd gasped.

Caelum Vaelthorne had lost.

Emeric watched.

He didn’t smile. But something in his chest eased.

The fourth match.

The fifth.

He watched them all. Studied them. Learned their patterns.

Then the announcer’s voice echoed across the arena.

"Next match! Lyra Vaelthorne of House Vaelthorne! Against—the Mistwalker!"

Emeric leaned forward.

Lyra walked into the arena.

She was beautiful. Silver-haired. Cold-eyed. She moved like water—graceful, fluid, untouchable. She carried no weapon. She didn’t need one.

Across from her stood the Mistwalker—a woman in grey, her face hidden behind a veil of mist.

The signal sounded.

Lyra attacked first.

Ice erupted from her hands—a wave of frost that spread across the arena. The Mistwalker vanished into the fog. The ice hit nothing.

Lyra frowned. Attacked again. Another wave. Another miss.

The Mistwalker appeared behind her. A blade of mist sliced through the air. Lyra dodged. Barely. She spun. Threw a spike of ice. The Mistwalker dissolved into fog.

Over and over.

Lyra was powerful. Precise. Deadly. But the Mistwalker was elusive. Untouchable.

The fight dragged on.

Then Lyra made a mistake.

She overextended. A wild attack. The Mistwalker saw it. Took it. Her blade found Lyra’s shoulder. The elf screamed. Staggered back.

The Mistwalker attacked again. A flurry of strikes. Lyra couldn’t keep up. She was bleeding. Exhausted. Desperate.

The mistwalker cornered her and knocked her unconscious with a heavy strike.

The crowd cheered.

The Mistwalker bowed. Walked off the arena.

Lyra lay there. Alone. Humiliated.

Emeric watched.

He left the stands.

He walked through the tunnels beneath the arena. His footsteps echoed against the stone. He was thinking about the matches. About Vespera. About the elves.

He didn’t notice the figure standing in his path until it was too late.

"Hello, Emeric."

He stopped.

Aerion Vaelthorne stood before him. His robes were immaculate. His silver hair was perfect. His cold eyes were fixed on Emeric.

"You’ve grown," Aerion said. "I barely recognized you."

Emeric said nothing.

"I saw your matches. The qualifiers. The rounds. You’re... competent." He paused. "For a human."

Emeric met his gaze.

"What do you want?"

"To talk." Aerion smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. "We have history, you and I. I thought we should... catch up."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"No?" Aerion tilted his head. "Not even about the academy? All the things I did to you? The days you cried in the courtyard?"

Emeric’s jaw tightened.

"I didn’t cry."

"You wanted to." Aerion laughed. "I remember. You were pathetic. A weak little human who couldn’t cast a single spell. And now look at you." He gestured at Emeric. "A competitor in the Trials. A killer of Wyverns. How the world has changed."

Emeric said nothing.

"I heard you married the Storm Mage." Aerion’s smile widened. "The cripple. The one who lost everything. How... fitting. Two failures, bound together."

Emeric’s hands clenched.

"Careful," he said quietly.

"Or what?" Aerion stepped closer. "You’ll fight me? Here? In the tunnels? That would be... unwise."

He paused.

"But we will fight. Sooner or later. In the arena. And when we do—" He leaned in. "I’ll remind you of your place. Just like old times."

He turned and walked away.

Emeric stood there. His heart pounded. His hands trembled.

He didn’t move for a long time.

He returned to the inn.

Fileria was behind the counter. She looked up when he entered.

"My lord. Welcome. Can I get you anything?"

"No. Thank you."

He climbed the stairs. Found his room. Sat on the bed.

He thought about Aerion. About the academy. They had humiliated him back then. A part of him wanted to revenge or get back at them in the slightest but that was not what he was here for.

He thought about Isolde. About what Aerion had called her.

His hands clenched.

He would see Aerion again. In the arena. And when he did—

He would remind him of his place.

He had also won his match today. It was nothing he couldn’t handle.

--

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]

[QUARTER-FINALS — COMPLETE]

[STATUS: ADVANCED TO SEMI-FINALS]

[TIER PROGRESS: 38% → 42%]

Emeric read the notification. Closed it.

He lay on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.

The competition was thinning. This was fast becoming a collection of rivals and people who wanted him to suffer.

Quarter Final

The arena was louder than it had ever been.

Emeric stood in the tunnel beneath the stands. The roar of the crowd filtered down—muffled, distant, like the sound of the ocean. He could feel the vibration through the stone. The anticipation. The hunger.

He had fought four matches. Four victories. He had not unsheathed his sword once.

Today would be different.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the tunnel.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The Quarter-Finals continue! First to the arena—a warrior from the burning sands of Zarrak! A master of the blade! A champion of a hundred battles! Kaelor the Crimson!"

The crowd roared.

Emeric stepped forward.

"And his opponent! The Unblessed one! The winner of the Hunt! Emeric Halden!"

Another roar. Louder this time.

He walked into the light.

The arena was the same as before. But it felt different now.

Across the arena, his opponent waited.

Kaelor the Crimson.

He was tall. Broad. Dressed in armor of red steel—scarred, dented, but polished to a mirror shine. His face was hidden behind a helm shaped like a snarling beast. He carried a greatsword—a massive blade, nearly as long as Emeric was tall.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there.

Waiting.

The signal sounded. The battle had begun

His greatsword cut through the air like a falling star—a blazing arc of red steel aimed at Emeric’s head.

Emeric dodged. Barely. The blade passed close enough to stir his hair. He rolled. Came up in a crouch.

Kaelor was already there.

A second strike. A third. A fourth. The greatsword moved like a living thing—relentless, merciless. Emeric gave ground. Step by step. Parrying with his forearms. Dodging. Rolling.

The crowd gasped.

Emeric came up in a crouch again. His arms ached. His breath came in ragged gasps.

Kaelor paused. Tilted his head.

"You’re fast," he said. His voice was deep. Distorted by the helm. "But speed won’t save you."

He attacked again.