Rheon’s gaze swept over both fighters, his piercing eyes assessing them with the precision of a seasoned warrior. The air around him seemed to hum with restrained power, a silent reminder of the authority he wielded. “Are you ready?” he asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge that sent a shiver through the crowd.


    Rhys answered with a confident smirk, his  eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and determination. “Always,” he replied, his tone relaxed, almost casual, as if this were just another day for him. Yet, something in his stance betrayed his true focus—the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed ever so slightly, ready to summon his Essentia at a moment’s notice. He wasn’t taking this lightly, and the subtle shift in his demeanor made that clear to anyone paying attention.


    Sylra, in contrast, gave only a firm nod. Her expression was as composed as ever, her silver hair catching the light as it framed her face. Her usual air of calm remained unshaken, but even she could tell—Rhys wasn’t just another opponent. There was a weight to his presence, a quiet intensity that demanded respect. Her fingers twitched slightly, a faint shimmer of Essentia flickering around her hands as she prepared herself. She didn’t need words to convey her readiness; her focus spoke volumes.


    Alira leaned in toward Towan and Elliot, her voice barely above a whisper as the tension in the arena thickened. “How strong is he? Can Sylra win?” she asked, her sharp eyes darting between the two fighters. Her usual confidence was tempered by a flicker of doubt, and her fingers tightened around the edge of the railing as if bracing herself for what was to come.


    Towan exhaled slowly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as his eyes remained locked on the two fighters. “Back then, he was already stronger than me and Elliot together,” he admitted, his voice low and tinged with a grudging respect. His jaw tightened as he recalled their past encounters with Rhys, the memories of defeat still fresh in his mind. “And that was before he trained under Eryndar,” he added, his tone darkening.


    Elliot nodded, his gaze sharpening as he studied Rhys with the analytical precision of a strategist. “He’s definitely gotten stronger,” he said, his voice steady but laced with concern. “Sylra’s strong, but Rhys… he’s on another level.”


    The moment Rheon signaled the start of the match, raising his hand and letting it fall with a decisive motion, the murmurs of the crowd faded into an almost eerie silence. The anticipation was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on the stadium as every eye remained fixed on the arena. The air itself seemed to crackle with energy, the tension so thick it felt like the world was holding its breath.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Sylra wasn’t widely known outside the academy, but her name carried weight. The Auren family was legendary, their mastery over wind Essentia feared and respected across the continent. Her techniques were said to be as swift and unpredictable as a storm, and her calm demeanor only added to her mystique. She stood tall, her presence commanding, her Essentia already beginning to swirl around her like a gentle breeze that promised to grow into a gale.


    Rhys, however, was just as renowned—if not more. He had carved his name into history by winning the previous Cross-Academy Trial, a feat that had earned him a place under Eryndar’s tutelage. His reputation was one of dominance, his battles marked by a relentless precision and an almost unnerving calm. Now, he stood as a testament to the strength that title demanded, his very presence a challenge to anyone who dared face him.


    And in the next instant, the battle began.


    Sylra wasted no time. With a swift motion, she lashed out, her Essentia surging as she sliced the air with a flurry of razor-sharp wind blades. Each arc curved unpredictably, their trajectories shifting mid-flight as if guided by an unseen force, seeking to cut down her opponent from every angle. The blades whistled through the air, their edges gleaming with a faint, silvery light, a testament to the precision and power behind her technique.


    But Rhys remained composed, his golden eyes tracking the incoming attacks with an almost unnerving calm. Shifting seamlessly into a defensive stance, he weaved through the storm with practiced ease—his movements fluid and deliberate. He raised his arms, Essentia flaring around him as he deflected some blades with quick, precise blocks, while sidestepping others with minimal effort. Each movement was calculated, efficient, designed to minimize damage and conserve energy. The crowd watched in awe as he navigated the onslaught, his composure unshaken.


    Then, in a single fluid motion, he closed the gap. His Essentia surged as he darted forward, his speed a blur of motion. His strikes came fast—precise jabs and straight punches aimed to break her guard, each one carrying the weight of his experience and training. The air around his fists shimmered with golden light, the force of his blows creating faint shockwaves that rippled through the arena.


    To his surprise, Sylra met him head-on. Her form adjusted instinctively, her years of training kicking in as she blocked his attacks with disciplined technique. Her movements were sharp and controlled, her Essentia flaring in bursts as she parried and countered, her silver hair whipping around her face. But even she knew this was not her fight to take up close. Rhys’s strength and skill in hand-to-hand combat were undeniable, and the pressure of his relentless assault was beginning to wear on her defenses.