The quarterfinals came faster than I expected.
I woke that morning with a strange pressure in my chest—not from the Arcana Core, but something quieter. Heavier. Nerves, maybe. Or knowing that every cadet left in the ring had already proven something.
The mist curled around the edges of the arena like it didn't want to leave. The crowd was smaller than before, but the tension? Denser. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
I stood alone.
Flynn was somewhere behind me, sword strapped across his back, posture straight and measured. Lisa stood still as stone, arms loose at her sides, face unreadable.
And then there was Nora.
She didn't speak. Never did. But people noticed her all the same.
Most cadets had a place they came from—families, mentors, home villages. Nora? She had none of that. No last name. No crest. Just a pair of calm eyes and a sword with no inscription.
<-Nora>
I walked toward the stage alone.
Unlike most of the other cadets, I had no one. Nothing to cling to except the lessons of a tired old man who found me three days after my parents died. Cerin taught me to fight—but more than that, he taught me to listen. To watch. To survive.
That was all I carried with me now.
Griff was already in the ring when they called my name.
He stood tall—broad shoulders, thick arms, confidence rolling off him like heat. His sword looked as brutal as the man holding it: jagged, serrated, the kind used to leave marks that don't fade.
"You're the quiet one, huh?" he called out, smirking. "Let's see what that silence hides."
I said nothing.
I never do.
The bell rang.
Griff came in fast. No hesitation, just raw force—swinging hard, sharp angles, a low kick meant to unbalance me, followed by a spinning elbow. His technique was messy, but it was meant to overwhelm.
It didn't.
I stepped through it. Every movement I made was measured. Precise. My blade didn't need power—just timing. Just presence. It met his strikes at the perfect moment, cutting through momentum like stillness in a storm.
The first slash cut across his thigh. The second nicked his forearm. The third—a shallow line across his side—was enough to slow him.
Griff stumbled back, eyes wide.
"Stand still!" he barked.
But I didn't need to stand still. I just had to see.
I watched his stance. The twitch of his jaw. The way he dropped his weight just before moving. I could feel it—a beat before it happened. The intention behind the strike. The echo before the sound.
He was all thunder.
I was still air.
"You think this makes you better?" he spat, blood soaking through his sleeve. "You think moving like a ghost makes you strong?"
I lowered my sword. Took one step forward.
Met his eyes.
The blade dropped from his hand with a dull clang.
"I yield," he whispered, chest rising and falling like he'd run for miles.
The crowd clapped.
I didn't hear them.
I turned. Walked away. Blade low. Back straight.
It wasn't victory. It wasn't glory.
It was just another silence.
And I was still listening.
<-Flynn>
Across from me stood Set—a prodigy from Group Two. The kind of cadet people whispered about before the matches began. Focused. Controlled. His sword barely moved, but the ground always answered him.
As soon as the bell rang, the arena shifted. I could feel the tremors ripple beneath my boots—subtle at first, then sharp, like the arena itself was trying to throw me off.
But I didn't fight it.
I moved with it.
Every quake, every pulse, I flowed through like wind bending around stone. Where others stumbled, I stepped light. Where most froze, I found space.
Set didn't speak—just pressed forward, trying to box me in. His sword stayed rooted in the soil, channeling force with every drag. Dust curled around his feet. Pebbles danced with each wave.
But I kept moving.
Fast enough to slip past his pressure, slow enough to wait for the moment that mattered.
And it came.
He stepped too far—just a little—and his weight shifted forward.
I was already there.
One clean stroke across his shoulder. Light. Precise.
He froze.
Then slowly, he knelt.
"You win," he said, voice steady, gaze never dropping.
I reached out my hand.
He looked at it for a second, then took it without hesitation.
There was no anger in his grip. No bruised pride.
Just respect.
That's the kind of fighter Set was.
And me?
I didn't smile. I didn't soak in the crowd or wait for applause.
I just nodded.
And walked off the stage like I'd done a hundred times in my head.
<-Lisa>
The arena floor is stone beneath my boots. Cool. Still. Reiner and I was already on this stage waiting for the bell.He is taller chocolate skinned and huge for a 12 year old. He's wearing twice the standard training weight. Brute force in cadet form.
Good.
The bell rings.
He charges like a beast, no time wasted—swinging with everything he has, trying to crush me early.
I meet him head-on.
No shouting. No flair. Just steel against steel. My blade finds his—not to block, but to guide. I don't stop his strength. I redirect it. Turn every heavy strike into a stumble. Every wild swing into a gap.
He grunts, tries again. Louder this time.
He wants a fight that echoes.
I give him silence.
Every parry is clean. Every step, calculated. I don't move more than I need to. I don't waste energy.
I break him down piece by piece.
He starts breathing heavier. Footwork sloppy. Blade dragging.
That's when I press.
Two steps. A pivot.
His sword's gone.
My blade touches the hollow just beneath his jaw.
He freezes ,yielded afterwards.
I lower my sword and walk off the stage without looking back.
The fight is over.
I don't need to celebrate it.
I just need to win.
<-Kael>
Then… it was my turn.
Mirae stood across from me—twin daggers in her hands, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.
She was fast. Unreasonably fast. She moved in circles, drawing patterns in the dirt with her feet like a dancer preparing her final performance.
"I heard you were different," she said, flipping a dagger in one hand. "Let's find out."
The bell rang.
And she vanished into motion.
I struggled to follow at first. Her blades came from strange angles, slipping through gaps I didn't even know I left open. I would've been torn apart—if not for the Core.
It didn't protect me, not exactly.
It guided me.
I felt her before she moved. The tiniest flickers—intentions, not actions. The pulse inside me synced with the tempo of her rhythm, the quiet beat behind her twirls.
I waited.
She stepped wide—too wide—and her left dagger hung just a second longer than it should have.
I moved.
Steel met wrist. Her weapon fell.
My sword touched her collar.
She blinked, then smiled wide. "You're not what I expected, Kael."
"Neither are you," I said, lowering my blade.
We shook hands.
And I exhaled.
---
By day's end, four names remained:
Nora, the girl with no name.
Lisa, the blade with no voice.
Flynn, the shadow turned swordsman.
And me— well...
We didn't say it aloud, but we all felt it in the way we stared across the arena:
This wasn't just the end of a tournament.
It was the beginning of something much harder.
Out of sixty-five cadets, only four stood.
Now, only two would advance.
And only one would win.
But the truth?
That didn't scare me.