Juno's figure blurred no single step predictable, no motion lingering long enough for Braggen's sharpened senses to fully anchor on. Predator's Embrace rippled like a living thing, the Fifth Gate's raw surge warping it into something faster, hungrier, and far more dangerous. His strikes came from impossible angles one grazing Braggen's ribs before vanishing, another slashing air a hair's breadth from his throat.

Braggen's jaw tightened. His Vein Sense picked up each spark of intent, but by the time he committed to a counter, Juno's rhythm shifted again. It was like trying to grab smoke while it slashed at you with knives.

A whip-like feint cracked toward Braggen's face, but instead of pulling back, he stepped in thorns on his forearm flashing green as he batted the strike aside and countered with a crushing hook. Juno caught it with a crossed guard, but the sheer force ripped him from his stance, boots skidding deep grooves into the ground.

"Too slow." Braggen said, almost quietly.

The boy lunged again, aura flaring brighter, his Fifth Gate nearing its limit but Braggen's Shinrei spiked harder, each pulse syncing with the throb of his Vein Sense. He began predicting not the attack itself but the micro-shifts in Juno's body before each move.

Juno feinted left, but Braggen was already there.

He darted right, Braggen cut him off.

A downward strike caught in a vine-arm lock and wrenched aside.

And then Braggen's killing blow came. His left vine arm lashed out, thorns embedding into Juno's shoulder like spears, pinning him just enough for his right fist wrapped in hardened green Shinrei to slam square into Juno's chest. The impact thundered across the clearing, a deep, resonant boom that silenced even the rustling leaves.

Juno crumpled, breath torn from his lungs, the Fifth Gate snapping shut as his aura flickered out. He hit the dirt, coughing, but conscious enough to glare up at Braggen in pure defiance.

Braggen exhaled, releasing the vines, his stance loosening. "You made me fight for it, Juno. Don't lose that fire."

No one spoke at first every spectator, from Solen's amused smirk to Khael's unreadable gaze, was still processing what they'd just witnessed. The air was heavy with the clash's aftershock, the kind of fight that left the ground scarred and the audience in stunned silence.

The silence broke only when Solen chuckled low. "Yeah… that was worth watching."

Khael, snapping out of his awe, cleared his throat loudly. "Um… ahem… Braggen wins the fight!!" His tone was forced, as if trying to inject normalcy back into the arena.

Juno, breathing hard but standing tall, extended his hand toward Braggen. His palm still trembled from the clash. "Next time," he said with a faint grin, "I won't lose."

Braggen glanced at the hand, then took it with a firm shake. "Well… maybe." The corner of his mouth curled upward into that familiar, dangerous smirk.

Both of them smirked then two fighters already imagining their next collision.

Off to the side, Kirell's gaze drifted to the pale figure watching from the shadows: Therys Nolemire—The Bloom That Hungered. His porcelain skin seemed to drink in the dim light, and his smile was the sort that never reached the eyes.

Near him, a lean boy with curly black hair leaned lazily against a post—Sil Vorrun, the Whisperbloom. He let out a dry chuckle. "Heh… Braggen actually went all out against a mere kid."

Therys's lips twitched. "That 'mere kid' is thirteen years old—only three years younger than Braggen."

Kirell crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "Still… that kid is strong."

No one disagreed. The air still carried the echo of their blows, a lingering reminder that what they had just witnessed wasn't simply a fight, it was the start of something dangerous.

Ceyla stepped forward, brushing her hair back as her eyes locked onto Kirell. "Hey… my turn."

Kirell tilted her head, her gaze narrowing. "You're not ready to fight me."

Ceyla's smirk widened. "We won't know unless we try."

Around her, faint arcs of wind began to whip through the arena the telltale sign of her Nox Affinity: Storm.

Kirell Shadepetal stood still, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, the jagged scar across her forehead pulsing faintly with Shinrei energy. She held her silver dagger with casual familiarity, but her other hand curled slightly, calling upon her Bloom Affinity.

Ceyla's expression hardened. "Let's finish what we started…"

Khael sighed from the sidelines. "Ceyla… it's already—you know… perhaps we should—"

But she turned to him with a glare so sharp it sliced his sentence in half.

Khael gulped and instinctively looked toward Sensei Solen.

Solen only gave a lazy whistle. "Come on, Khael. Don't be a cheapskate—let her do what she wants. As long as it doesn't kill her."

Khael rubbed his temple. "You're really carefree, Sensei…"

Kirell stepped closer, her silver dagger glinting under the light. "Okay… but don't cry when I beat your ass, thirteen-year-old girl."

Ceyla's voice was steady. "I never cry."

Off to the side, Juno still catching his breath from his own fight—watched with a puzzled expression. (They're fighting?)

The wind around Ceyla swirled faster, slicing through the courtyard like invisible blades. Dust rose in spirals, caught in the storm she called forth. The scent of fresh rain lingered in the air, sharp and clean, while faint arcs of blue-white lightning danced along her forearms.

Across from her, Kirell's dagger hummed a silver fang in her gripits edge wrapped in shimmering petals of luminous green. The Bloom Affinity pulsed from her in gentle waves, but there was nothing gentle in her stance. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, locked onto Ceyla's every move.

The tension between them pressed against the crowd, thick and heavy—like the moments before a thunderstorm when even the birds go silent.

From the side, Lin, the mute girl, stepped closer to Khael. Her small hands glowed faintly with Shinrei glyphs that shimmered like water's surface in moonlight.

Khael's eyes softened as he read them. "So you want to watch the fight?" he asked, patting her gently on the head.

"You really are a kid who loves action."

(Well… in my world, there was someone like her too—always glued to action movies. Seems like this girl is cut from the same cloth.)

Khael's gaze shifted to the row of elders standing in quiet formation.

Elder Lao, head of the village, leaned on his gnarled staff, eyes half-lidded yet missing nothing.

Elder Twe, hunched but sharp-eyed, tilted his head just slightly toward the fighters.

Elder Loe, face veiled, her presence humming like wind threading through reeds, stood unmoving yet felt like she could vanish at any moment.

Elder Mia, draped in silver-blue, youngest of the council, kept her hands on prayer seals even now, lips moving in silent incantation.

(Seems like they want to watch too… how a true Veinwalker fights. Not like Juno—affinityless—but someone who can really wield it.)

In Elysera, such duels were never just about skill—they were a test of the Shinrei, the living flame of emotion each soul carried. Ceyla's storm was despair made manifest: erratic, merciless, lightning-swift. Kirell's bloom was hope: steady, adaptive, and unyielding.

They were opposite forces, and when they clashed, the courtyard itself would feel it.

Around the edges, the other spectators shifted.

Kirell's allies—Therys, pale as bone and smiling like a ghost; Sil Vorrun, the Whisperbloom, leaning lazily against a pillar; Braggen still catching his breath but watching intently—were all fixed on the match.

From the shadows, Ko and Li of the Shadow Guards kept their eyes half on Solen, half on the duel-to-be.

Both fighters stepped forward at the same time.

To be continue