The crescent stage still smoked faintly at both tips, the two magic brands dimmed to a low afterglow now that the match had run its course.
Light tore open the air above the northern side.
When it cleared, the South Delegation wasn't standing. They were stacked, one body draped over another, like some unfortunate tower of burger patties that had lost an argument with gravity. At the bottom of the pile, pinned beneath three grown men, was the masked man — Lv45, supposedly the delegation's ace, supposedly untouchable. All that level had bought him was the honor of being crushed last.
He groaned. Something in the pile popped.
On the southern tip, Lexel and Ria stepped through a seam in the air that closed behind them without wasting a spark. No wreckage, no pile, no comedy. Ria's light blue hair caught the last of the arena's glow, her expression flat and unimpressed.
"They practiced landing on each other," she said, "and somehow that's worse than not practicing at all."
