CHAPTER 43: BEFORE THE NEXT STRIKE

The final round of the first phase played out with fierce intensity. Magic clashed in brilliant tangos, a gravity caster folding space to slam his foe into the barrier, an ice student crystallizing a rainstorm mid-air, even a small girl with pollen magic weaving sedative clouds so intricate they immobilized her opponent without a fight. It was chaotic, beautiful, brutal.

Darius watched each duel with growing intensity. He saw classmates he’d spoken with on the quad—smiling friends—trailing from the ring, arms wrapped around each other, limping but determined. Others collapsed quietly as the magical pressure overwhelmed them. A handful couldn’t return, their names called as "withdrawn." One by one, they filed out, their faces drawn and distant.

A pair of girls in the front rows wept quietly, their hands clasped around one another, tears falling for a third friend who hadn’t returned. A boy, arms folded, glared across the ring at the student who had knocked out his own brother, chest heaving with silent rage. And here and there, cheers echoed—joyful, electrifying—when someone pulled off a surprise victory.

Darius’s pulse quickened. He’d drafted the story arc with clean brackets, simple progressions. But this—this was messy. Real. Emotional. Human. No amount of drafting could have prepared him for the surge of empathy as he watched someone he didn’t recognize embrace a fallen opponent. Or suppress a curse as their rival lay unconscious.

"This is what it means to fight," he thought, staring down into the glowing wards lining the ring’s edge. "Not just winning. Living through the consequences."

The tension held until the last name was called. The final fight of the round—a brutal dance between a sound mage and another earth mage—ended in a narrow win.

The arena floor rippled with magical energy, then lay still, battered and etched with scars from hundreds of duels.

A hush settled. Students looked to one another, some wide-eyed as they registered the toll: faculty pacing the sidelines, spectators leaning forward, parents gripping their hands. The crackling ring sent low echoes of unspent power through the grave silence.

Then, above the haze of mana and exhaustion, came a sound like thunder crackling.

CRACK.

The stone of the arena fractured, jagged red lines spreading across the surface. A fissure opened, glowing molten light seeping through like magma. The roar of shifting stone perfumed the air with heated dust and expectation.

From the molten crack, Silas Vaunt rose.

Flames didn’t swirl around him this time. Instead, he stood in a spiral of golden and crimson embers—softly electric, warm, yet subdued. His robes snapped behind him on an unseen breeze. His face, lined and authoritative, bore a gentle smile that carried the weight of years and the fire of leadership.

Students sat up, transfixed.

He lowered his gaze on them.

"Brilliant," he began, voice warm but resonant, reaching to the farthest benches without the slightest strain. "Brilliant all of you—for stepping into the ring today. For standing tall in the face of pressure, fear, even pain."

He glanced at those who would advance.

"And to those who will continue—know something: today was not about finishing. It was about proving you belong here. And you did."

The embers around him coalesced into the shape of rising wings, flaming and graceful. He nodded toward those no longer competing.

"To those who leave this ring tonight: do not grieve what lies behind you. Your talent did not go unseen. There are those this evening—Visionaries, champions, and masters—who may reach out. Tonight, your future may be rewritten in ways you cannot yet imagine. You have shown heart. That matters more than you know."

A hush followed—and then applause, respectful, bittersweet.

He raised a hand.

"But for those still moving forward...the stage before you has changed." The earth cracked louder beneath him. "Higher-tier combat awaits. This is no longer a test of spirit. It is a testament to what you are willing to do. Do you step forward?"

A chorus of nods and resolute looks answered him.

Vaunt continued, voice steady. "The ring you have conquered must now be rebuilt to withstand what lies ahead. The next phase will push you beyond—speeds, strengths, precision, endurance. So you will have your chance to repair, to recover, and to prepare."

He gestured. The molten fissure resealed, stone swirling back into place as if the ring itself had exhaled. The embers around him drifted outward, dissipating into warm motes.

"And so," he said, softer now, but no less powerful, "for the next hour, you are all dismissed to receive healing, restoration—and, yes, reflection."

He cast his gaze across the stands, stopping for a moment on the trio—the noble with the counter-wand, the light swordfighter, the rough-tongued earth brawler.

"Professor Saelira and her healing division await you. Accept their help. Replenish your mana. Tend your wounds. And when the hour passes... return stronger."

With a final warming smile, he turned on his embers and strode off, leaving the arena in transformative silence.

The barrier around the ring blossomed outward, shifting from transparent to opalescent. The air inside wavered, as if heavy with magic recalibrations. Students began filing out, talking quietly. The few still at the top picked their way down with reverence—or stubborn pride.

Darius, Aiden, and Kai came together at the base of the stands.

Aiden rubbed the back of his head, still glowing faintly from his lightning fight.

Kai flexed his fingers, grinning. "Hopefully I’m not put against you two."

Aiden shook his head, eyes bright. "I want to heal first. But I’m ready."

Darius looked at them both. He felt heavier, steadier. The weight of the day.

He touched the wand at his belt. "Let’s go heal before they pair us up."

Aiden laughed. Kai punched him lightly.

Darius only smirked as the three of them started walking toward the healing area. The energy around the arena was different now—quieter, no less tense, but filled with a kind of collective breath-holding. With the barrier around the dueling floor clouded over, the audience thinned. Some filtered out for food. Some stayed glued to the rising monitors, speculating who would advance. But the remaining competitors—all the ones still standing—walked with a different posture now.

They weren’t simply prospective students anymore.

They were contenders for number one.

The hallway that led toward the healing wing was carved with glowing threads of gold. The sigils overhead pulsed gently, not quite humming but carrying a rhythm that seemed to make every breath easier, every ache slightly duller. Light magic—soft and healing.

The three of them passed through the archway at the end of the corridor, greeted immediately by a soft floral scent and a young girl in loose robes, holding a silver tray with corked vials and packets of gel. Her hands trembled slightly as she smiled.

"Welcome," she said, dipping into a bow. "You’re here for restoration?"

Kai raised a brow, already flexing his wrist again. "Yeah, you got something for soreness and internal bruising?"

The girl’s smile grew a little more confident. "More than something."

The girl bowed again and motioned toward the softly glowing seats lining the far wall. "Please, sit anywhere. Professor Saelira will come by shortly. For now, these vials will begin the stabilization process. You may feel some tingling."

They took the vials—slender glass containers with a thick, swirling silver liquid inside—and each downed one in a single gulp.

It was cold at first. Then warm.

Then—weightless.

Darius blinked as the ache in his shoulder seemed to pull itself inward and vanish. Aiden rolled his neck. Kai exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes.

"Okay," Kai murmured, "I get it now. I forgive everything that’s ever happened to me."

The girl giggled nervously and turned away to fetch something else.

Soft lamps lit the space in golden layers. It was almost too quiet. You could hear the slow rise and fall of breath from other students stretched across mats, some bandaged, some asleep. A healing apprentice passed behind them, whispering runes onto a student’s chest as a second tightened glowing bindings over his ribs.

Professor Saelira entered shortly after—flowing robes of emerald and cream, silver hair coiled back beneath a veil. Her presence calmed the room just by entering. She smiled at the three of them.

"You three held your own," she said, stepping forward with a warmth that felt like spring sunlight. "Especially you, Darius Wycliffe. I had to check my eyes were working right when I saw those abominations you summoned. You certainly weren’t holding back."

Darius flushed slightly and gave a quiet nod.

She handed him a thick blue balm and a pair of threaded silver cuffs. "This will mend residual strain in your elemental channels. And these—these are to keep you from overusing your wind magic. You’ve been burning more than you know."

He accepted them with both hands, grateful. "Thank you."

To Kai, she gave a bottle of mineral-enriched fluid—"To harden what you softened." And to Aiden, a pair of silk-lined gloves laced with soft light glyphs to soak into his knuckles.

They sat quietly afterward, letting the balm soak, letting the cuffs hum faintly against their skin. No words needed. Just calm.

After nearly half an hour, Saelira gave a soft call to the room, letting the recovered students know they were free to rest elsewhere or return to the stands. Healing sessions were concluding.

Kai stood first, stretching. "Alright. Now I’m ready to fight both of you."

Aiden scoffed. "I’d dodge the first punch and you’d fall over from momentum."

Kai grinned. "Exactly why I’ll aim the second one lower."

Darius chuckled and pushed himself to his feet. "Let’s not get too cocky until we know who we’re facing."

They stepped out of the healing wing, now bathed in the purple-orange hues of a low sun. The arena grounds had begun their shifting process—masses of earth floating through arcane lifts, metal circles aligning overhead to slowly lower into place. A construct of floating rings was being drawn together, midair, humming like a thunderstorm trying to form.

It was beautiful. And ominous.

Aiden and Kai started to walk ahead, arguing over who had the better footwork. Darius lingered at the edge of the steps, watching the horizon, letting the wind tickle the ends of his coat.

Then he felt it.

Not a touch.

Not a presence.

An aura.

Pressure.

Heavy.

Not like Ignatius’s stormy gaze or Professor Quen’s magnetic aura—this was worse. Like being crushed by memory. Like every part of him remembered something it had no name for.

The wind stilled.

Darius didn’t move.

Even the other students in the square slowed. Conversations faded. Someone looked around and stepped back.

And then Darius heard the footsteps.

Light. Careful. Not rushed.

Boots.

He turned just slightly.

A figure stood on the walkway—slim, upright, and calm. Their face was half-shadowed beneath a short hood. But the aura poured from them like smoke from a furnace, choking the air without heat.

Darius stared.

His fingers twitched near the wand at his belt.

The figure stepped closer.

Then stopped.

Silence stretched—until the man raised his head slightly, just enough for Darius to see his face.

He was young.

Older than Darius, but not by much. His eyes were sharp, too sharp. His smile didn’t quite reach them.

And then he spoke.

His voice wasn’t cold. Wasn’t warm either.

It was calm.

And final.

"Brother."