Chapter 93: Intense Battle

Aerion flew backward. Hit the ground. Rolled. Came up in a crouch. His robes were torn. His lip was bleeding.

He smiled.

"You’re strong," he said. "Stronger than I expected."

Garrick didn’t answer. He charged again.

The fight continued.

Aerion was fast. Faster than Garrick. He moved like the wind—untouchable, untraceable. Every time Garrick attacked, he was somewhere else. Every time Garrick swung, he hit nothing.

But Garrick was relentless. He didn’t stop. He didn’t tire. He just kept coming.

Aerion threw fire. Garrick charged through it. Aerion threw ice. Garrick shattered it. Aerion threw lightning. Garrick took it. His body smoked. His skin blistered. But he kept coming.

The crowd was on their feet.

Aerion was breathing hard now. His magic was powerful. But it was draining him. He couldn’t keep this up forever.

He needed to end it.

Aerion raised both hands.

The air around him shimmered. Crackled. The temperature dropped. The ground frosted. The crowd gasped.

He was summoning something. Something big.

Garrick charged. He knew he had to stop it. He couldn’t let the elf finish.

Aerion smiled.

A storm erupted.

Ice and fire and wind and lightning—all of it swirling together. A maelstrom of elemental fury. It roared across the arena. It hit Garrick like a physical blow. He flew backward. Hit the wall. Slid down.

He didn’t move.

The crowd was silent.

Aerion lowered his hands. He was exhausted. His face was pale. His robes were destroyed. But he was standing.

Garrick didn’t rise.

The announcer was counting down but he didn’t answer. He was unconscious.

The crowd erupted.

Aerion raised his arms. Soaked in the applause. His smile was cold. Victorious.

Emeric watched and somehow Aerion’s eyes found him in the stands.

He studied Aerion. The way he moved. The way he fought. The way he used his magic.

He was powerful and no one knew that better than Emeric.

Later, in the tunnels.

Emeric was walking. His body still ached. His mind was racing.

He heard footsteps behind him.

He turned.

Aerion stood there.

The elf was still in his torn robes. His silver hair was disheveled. But his smile was intact. Arrogant. Superior.

"You watched my fight," Aerion said.

"I did."

"Impressed?"

Emeric said nothing.

Aerion laughed. "I don’t need your approval, human. I don’t need anyone’s." He stepped closer. "Do you know why I’m here? In this tournament?"

Emeric waited.

"I’m a prince of the Elven Court. I have wealth. Power. Status. I don’t need a title. I don’t need land. I don’t need gold." He paused. "I entered the Trials because I wanted to fight. To dominate. To remind the humans that they are beneath us."

He looked at Emeric.

"And I have. I’ve crushed every opponent they’ve put in front of me. Knights. Paladins. Champions." He smiled. "And now I’ve beaten their S-rank."

Emeric met his gaze.

"Are you done?"

Aerion’s smile faltered.

"You have spirit. I’ll give you that. But spirit won’t save you." He leaned in. "When we meet in the arena—and we will meet—I’ll remind you of your place. Just like old times."

He turned and walked away.

Emeric stood there.

His hands were clenched. His heart was pounding.

He would see Aerion again.

And when he did—

He returned to the inn.

There was conversation about the match he had just witnessed already.

"Who won?" A man asked me

"Aerion. The elf."

"I heard. The whole city is talking about it. An elf defeating an S-rank Vessel. It’s... unprecedented."

He walked to the counter, ignoring them.

Emeric said nothing.

Fileria studied him. "You’re fighting him next?"

She said, referring to the person her customers had just been talking about.

Maybe it was his expression or something else.

"Maybe."

"You’ll win."

He looked at her.

"How do you know?"

She smiled. It was a small thing. But it was real.

"Because you’re still standing."

He climbed the stairs.

He found his room. Sat on the bed.

He unsheathed his sword. Looked at it. The dark steel. The silver veins. The pulsing blue gem.

He lay on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.

---

The Semi-Finals

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.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the tunnel.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The Semi-Finals continue! First to the arena—a warrior from the frozen wastes of Norvald! A berserker! A killer of a hundred men! Sigrun the Ice-Blooded!"

The crowd roared.

Emeric stepped forward.

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

Another roar. Louder this time.

He walked into the light.

Across the arena, his opponent waited.

Sigrun the Ice-Blooded.

She was tall. Broad. Dressed in furs and leather, her arms bare despite the cold. Her skin was pale—almost blue—and her hair was white as snow. She carried a massive axe in each hand, their blades chipped and stained.

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

Waiting.

The signal sounded and he used phantom step. He was in her space. He used the butt of his sword to attack her, sending a strike to her torso area.

The furs absorbed the impact. Sigrun grunted. She didn’t fly backward. She didn’t stagger.

She smiled.

"Good," she said. "You have spirit."

She headbutted him.

Emeric’s vision exploded.

He flew backward. Hit the ground. Rolled. Came up in a crouch. His nose was bleeding. His head was ringing.

Sigrun was already there.

She kicked him.

The impact lifted him off the ground. He flew across the arena. Hit the wall. Slid down.

The crowd gasped.

Emeric pushed himself up. His ribs screamed. His vision blurred. He spat blood.

Sigrun walked toward him. Slow. Deliberate. Her axes gleamed in the sunlight.

"Yield," she said. "And I’ll let you live."

Emeric didn’t answer.

He reached for his belt.

He unsheathed his sword.

She raised her axes. Crossed them. And then she screamed.

The sound was primal. Animal. It echoed off the walls, bounced off the stands, and slammed into Emeric like a physical blow. His ears rang. His vision blurred. He stumbled back a step.

Then the ice came.

Frost exploded from her body—a wave of cold that swept across the arena. The sand beneath her feet turned to ice. The air itself crystallized. Emeric felt the cold bite into his skin, into his bones.