The arena felt even larger from the ground.
Theo Mercer stood near the edge of the circular battlefield, rolling his shoulders as he looked across the scarred floor toward his opponent. Up above, the observation balconies loomed like cliffs, the rest of the class leaning over the railing to watch.
A faint hum vibrated through the air as the barrier systems activated.
Theo exhaled slowly.
Okay. First fight of the rankings.
Across the arena, Hana Okoye stood perfectly still.
She didn't look particularly threatening. She wasn't towering like Dante, nor did she carry the quiet intensity of someone like Aria or Seraphine. She simply stood with her feet planted and her arms relaxed at her sides.
Calm.
Unmoving.
Mrs. Phineas' voice echoed through the arena.
"First ranking match."
A beat passed.
"Begin."
Theo vanished.
A loud crack of displaced air snapped through the arena as he burst forward in a blur of motion, crossing half the battlefield in the blink of an eye.
Gasps erupted from the balcony.
"Whoa—!" Theo laughed as he streaked past Hana's side, skidding across the stone floor before stopping several meters behind her.
"That felt awesome!"
He turned, grinning.
Hana hadn't moved.
Theo tilted his head.
"…You're not gonna attack?"
Hana glanced over her shoulder.
"You're fast," she said calmly.
Then she turned fully to face him.
"But speed alone rarely decides a fight."
Theo smirked.
"Guess we'll find out."
He disappeared again.
This time he built momentum. Theo circled the arena in a widening blur, footsteps barely grazing the ground, wind spiraling around him as he accelerated. He wasn't just running — he was thinking. If I get fast enough, maybe I can create enough force to actually move her.
Up on the balcony, Dante grinned.
"Kid's quick."
Victor folded his arms.
"He's wasting energy."
Theo shot toward Hana like a missile, twisting at the last second to launch a kick aimed straight at her ribs.
Hana didn't dodge.
Instead, she braced.
The moment Theo's foot connected, a dull metallic thud echoed across the arena.
It felt like kicking a reinforced wall.
Hana barely shifted. But Theo felt it in his entire leg — a jarring, bone-deep impact that shot up through his hip. He bounced backward and landed in a crouch, teeth clenched.
"Ow."
Okay. Direct hits aren't working.
He changed approach.
Theo began circling her at full speed, tightening the loop with each pass. Wind whipped into a spiral around Hana, pulling at her uniform, forcing her to plant her feet harder just to stay upright. Theo watched her adjust.
There. He darted in from her blind side — a punch aimed at the back of her knee.
Hana shifted her weight half a second before impact, redirecting the blow just enough. The hit still connected, but the angle was wrong.
Theo danced back, shaking his hand.
Up on the balcony, Mira spoke quietly.
"Interesting. He's trying to use airflow as a weapon."
Elias leaned forward.
"Is it working?"
Mira watched for a moment.
"…Not enough."
Hana stepped forward.
For the first time in the match, the ground cracked beneath her foot as she launched herself toward him.
Theo's eyes widened.
"Oh—!"
He barely cleared the punch that cratered the stone floor where he'd been standing. Rock fragments sprayed across his shin. He zipped backward, breathing harder now, and stared at the impact mark.
That would have ended me.
Hana advanced steadily, forcing him to keep moving.
Theo gritted his teeth and rushed in again — a feint left, then a spinning strike from the right. His fastest combination yet.
Hana absorbed every single blow.
He threw everything he had. Different angles. Different rhythms. Strikes aimed at joints, pressure points, anywhere that might matter.
Nothing worked.
She just… takes it.
His legs were burning now. His breathing had gone ragged. Each burst of speed cost more than the last, and Hana looked exactly as fresh as when the match began.
She's not even trying to chase me, Theo realized. She's just waiting.
He glanced at Hana. At the calm, patient set of her expression.
He made one last decision.
Everything. All at once.
Theo pushed himself past the edge of his usual limit. The air around him cracked. He crossed the arena in less than a heartbeat and drove his shoulder into Hana's midsection with everything he had — every ounce of velocity, every last burst of acceleration.
For one single moment, Hana actually skidded backward.
One foot. Maybe two.
Gasps from the balcony.
Then her feet found the ground again.
Her hand closed around his wrist.
Theo looked up.
Hana lifted him off the ground.
Then she slammed him into the arena floor.
The impact echoed like thunder. The stone cracked beneath him. Stars exploded across his vision and every thought in his head simply stopped for a moment.
Hana stepped back.
Mrs. Phineas' voice rang out.
"Theo Mercer is unable to continue."
A pause.
"Winner: Hana Okoye."
Theo lay flat on the stone, staring up at the open dome above him. His ribs ached. His legs felt like wet paper. He had hit her at full speed more times than he could count.
He had moved her two feet.
A shadow fell over him.
Hana stood above him, hand extended.
He stared at it for a moment. Then laughed — short, breathless, genuinely surprised.
"…You weren't even breathing hard, were you?"
Hana said nothing. But something almost like a smile crossed her face.
Theo took her hand.
"Good fight."
They stepped onto the elevator platform as it rose back toward the balcony.
Dante clapped loudly.
"Nice! That slam was brutal!"
Theo collapsed against the railing once they returned.
"I think my spine is in three pieces."
Victor smirked slightly.
"Your mistake was assuming speed meant victory."
Theo pointed at him.
"You fight her then."
Victor shrugged.
"I might."
The arena screen shifted again.
New names appeared.
DANTE REYES
IVY SERRANO
Dante's grin widened.
"Speak of the devil."
He stepped forward, cracking his knuckles as he headed toward the platform.
Across the balcony, Ivy brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear and followed calmly.
The elevator descended once more.
The moment the platform touched the arena floor, Dante rolled his neck and cracked his knuckles.
"Alright," he said. "Let's make this fun."
Across from him, Ivy Serrano knelt and pressed her palm flat against the stone.
She didn't say anything.
She never looked up.
Mrs. Phineas' voice echoed through the arena.
"Second ranking match."
A pause.
"Begin."
Dante charged.
Every footstep cracked the stone as he surged forward, his Spark flooding through his muscles. He crossed the distance between them in seconds, fist cocked back for a hit that could have punched through a wall.
The ground split open in front of him.
Vines erupted in a violent wave of green — thick, fast, spiraling upward like living rope. Dante smashed straight through the first cluster without slowing. Stems snapped. Leaves scattered. He tore through a second wave with a roar and kept going.
"Nice try!"
He broke through the third cluster.
And stopped.
His legs were wrapped.
While he had been tearing through the vines in front of him, others had crept silently from below, coiling around his ankles, his calves, tightening slowly.
Dante looked down.
Then he flexed.
The vines snapped.
He burst forward again — but in the second it took him to clear his legs, the battlefield had changed. Roots and stems had forced their way through every crack in the stone, splitting the arena floor, transforming it into a tangle of living obstacles. The flat battlefield was becoming a maze.
She's not trying to stop me, he realized. She's changing the ground.
Up on the balcony, Jun watched quietly.
"Smart."
Dante leapt over a rising cluster, landed on a root, and used it as a launch point to close the distance again. His fist slammed into the ground where Ivy had been standing.
She had already moved.
Three steps backward.
Calm as ever.
Vines erupted from behind him this time — wrapping his arms, his shoulders, pulling in opposite directions. Dante roared and tore free again, spinning to rip the last tendril off his forearm.
He was breathing hard.
Across from him, Ivy raised both hands.
The entire arena responded.
Every vine, every root, every tendril — all of it surged at once. Dante swung in massive arcs, tearing through cluster after cluster, but for every one he cleared, three more took its place. They wrapped his arms. His waist. His legs again.
He strained with everything he had.
The vines actually tore.
All of them, simultaneously.
Dante surged forward with a roar, completely free for one explosive moment — and for the first time, something flickered across Ivy's expression. Not fear. Something faster. Recalibration.
She dropped to one knee and pressed both palms against the ground.
The entire arena floor split open beneath Dante's feet.
He stumbled.
It was only a half-step. But it was enough.
The vines came back thicker. Denser. Not the rapid spiraling tangles from before — these moved with deliberate, crushing weight, wrapping his legs, his arms, his chest, pulling him down toward the ground inch by inch.
Dante strained. Muscles swelling, teeth clenched, he fought for every centimeter.
He stopped gaining.
The vines tightened one final time.
His knees hit the stone.
The arena went quiet.
Dante exhaled — long and slow — as the last of his resistance bled out of him.
"…Alright."
He looked up at Ivy across the battlefield.
"You got me."
Ivy slowly lowered her hands. The vines loosened. Dante sat back on the cracked stone, forearms resting on his knees, and looked around at what the arena had become — a fractured jungle of roots and torn greenery.
"That was kinda awesome," he admitted.
Ivy brushed stone dust from her palms.
"You were stronger than I expected," she said quietly. "You actually broke the second bind."
Dante looked at her.
She smiled.
"I even had to use the floor."
Mrs. Phineas' voice echoed above them.
"Winner: Ivy Serrano."
The vines loosened instantly.
Dante fell backward onto the arena floor, staring up at the sky above the dome.
"…That was kinda awesome," he admitted.
Ivy smiled faintly.
Back on the balcony, the screen flickered again.
Two new names appeared.
VICTOR HALE
LILA MONROE
Victor pushed himself off the railing.
"Well," he said calmly.
"My turn."