The arena had transformed into chaos incarnate. Dust swirled in the air, pillars of stone rose and fell, and the walls cracked under the force of the ongoing battles. Leon's lungs burned from exertion, sweat trickled down his brow, and yet every nerve in his body screamed for more.
The armored man before him—towering, relentless, a walking mountain of raw strength—pressed forward. Every strike from him carried the weight of centuries of mastery, yet Leon had adapted, using momentum, angles, and sheer instinct to keep the duel from tipping against him.
"…You're stubborn," the man grunted, parrying Leon's rising strike. "…But clever."
Leon smirked. "…Takes one to know one."
He spun, ducking under the man's next horizontal swing, and drove a counter-blow upward. Sparks erupted, stone cracked beneath their feet, and the reverberation echoed across the shifting corridors of the arena.
Out of the shadows, the lone figure—the wild card—finally moved. His appearance had been nearly imperceptible, but his presence now made itself known. He flowed through the arena's broken pathways like a phantom, silent and precise, watching the dueling pairs carefully.
Leon caught a glimpse of the shadowed figure as he slipped behind a fallen pillar, eyes glowing faintly under the hood of his cloak. "…That one," Leon muttered under his breath, "…he's not here to play around."
The armored man noticed as well, pausing for a fraction of a second. "…Another factor," he muttered. "Interesting."
Vael's battle with the crimson-eyed woman had escalated to its own climax. She moved like liquid steel, twisting around his strikes, forcing him to counter in ways that kept his full strength in check. Vael's dual blades sang through the air, each strike precise, yet fluid, designed to draw her defenses and expose her weaknesses.
"…You've improved," she hissed, her eyes narrowing as she pivoted, evading a particularly aggressive strike.
Vael grinned. "…So have you. But I'm not here to admire your skill."
With a swift motion, he shifted his weight, landing a precise cut that grazed her arm, drawing the first streak of blood in their duel. She recoiled slightly, giving Vael the opening he needed to press forward, maintaining pressure without overcommitting.
Back to Leon, the armored man surged forward again, forcing Leon to retreat—but this time, Leon did not merely step back. He pivoted along the wall of a broken pillar, using the terrain to redirect the man's momentum. Then, with a sudden burst of strength, he attacked.
CLANG!
Blades collided with a shockwave that rattled the arena. Leon pressed forward, striking again and again, feeling the rhythm of his opponent and adjusting with each clash.
The wild card moved closer, positioning himself strategically, waiting for the perfect moment to interfere. His aura was like ice—calm, lethal, precise. Leon could sense it, and he knew that if he didn't end his duel swiftly, this shadowed figure could tip the balance in a single strike.
"…I see you," Leon whispered, eyes narrowing. "…And I don't plan to lose to you either."
The armored man feinted, then swung downward with a force so immense it could have cleaved a pillar in half. Leon rolled to the side, but the strike's tip grazed his shoulder, tearing through fabric and drawing blood.
"…Alright," Leon muttered, tasting iron on his tongue. "…Time to end this."
He tightened his grip, calling upon every ounce of strength, speed, and precision he had. With a calculated step, he twisted under another swing, slipped past the armored man's guard, and thrust upward with a strike aimed for the exposed seam in his armor.
The man's eyes widened slightly, the first sign of real surprise in the duel. He staggered back, struggling to adjust, and Leon followed with a flurry of rapid, decisive strikes that left no time for recovery.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The armored man blocked, twisted, shifted—but Leon's persistence, combined with his growing skill, forced the larger warrior to step back. One final strike—a precise horizontal slash—caught him on the side of his armor, leaving a deep gouge and sending him stumbling to the ground.
Leon exhaled heavily, gripping his sword tightly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "…First round," he muttered. "…Survived."
High above, Caelus Aurelion observed, silent, as he always did. "…Potential realized," he murmured softly. "…But the true test has only begun."
The shadowed figure—silent, observant—stepped fully into view now. The wild card had chosen his moment. His aura surged like a coiled spring, and his eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Leon.
"…Interesting," the figure murmured, almost to himself. "…The one who stands in the eye of the storm."
Leon's gaze sharpened. "…Finally," he muttered. "…Let's see what you've got."
From a distance, Vael and the crimson-eyed woman paused their duel, both sensing the shift in the battlefield as the wild card prepared to intervene. The air itself seemed to tighten around Leon, charged with anticipation and the unspoken promise of danger.
The arena had become a chessboard, and now the final moves were about to begin.