The colosseum was enormous.
Not just big—alive, roaring, vibrating from the voices of tens of thousands of spectators.
Fifty thousand?
Sixty?
Maybe more—no one was counting anymore.
Flags, shouts, excitement.
On the arena floor—golden sand, above which traces of magic from previous battles still lingered.
— Entering the arena… ZENHALD HELVARD!!!
The crowd exploded.
Some screamed in delight.
Some—in fear.
Some stepped back from the edge of the stands, as if I might attack the spectators themselves.
I walked calmly.
Nothing in my hands.
An empty expression on my face.
— And against him… YAMURA SHTOTO!!!
A man in a long dark kimono stepped onto the arena, two katanas at his sides.
A cold gaze.
Precise movements.
Every step—like a ritual of ancient samurai tradition.
As he drew closer, his aura sliced the air—focused, compressed.
He nodded to me—as an equal.
I simply looked at him.
— Fight! — the judge announced.
And Yamura vanished.
No strike.
No dash.
No motion.
He disappeared.
Then reappeared in front of me—blade already at my throat.
A second—and another dash.
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Another.
Another.
The air whistled from dozens of slashes.
He shredded the space around me, searching for a weakness.
Every strike—precise.
Every step—calculated.
The audience gasped.
Some even stood—few had ever seen a swordsman that fast.
He whispered:
— You underestimate me, Helvard…
And in that moment I understood:
he thought I was a child he could overwhelm with speed.
I didn’t even raise my hand.
I just exhaled.
A light wave of air—barely noticeable—passed over the arena.
As if the wind had sighed.
And Yamura was thrown backward, as if struck by a charging cart.
He slammed into the edge of the arena, flipped… and landed in the stands, sitting in an empty row like a spectator.
The judge blinked.
— W-winner… ZENHALD HELVARD?!
The crowd couldn’t decide whether to fear or to scream.
? But this was only the beginning.
After dozens of bright battles, the name everyone had been waiting for finally rang out.
— Entering the arena… MIRA HELVARD!!!
The colosseum exploded—literally.
Shouts, whistles, roars—people climbed onto benches just to see her better.
Champion of last year’s Nurino Cup.
Heroine of the Firelands.
Queen of the Flaming Phoenixes.
And against her…
— GALVAD TORH!!!
Silence fell like a blade.
Everyone knew that name.
Everyone feared it.
A giant in black rune-covered armor stepped onto the arena like a beast.
An aura of fire around him tore at the air.
Mira stood calmly.
Just stood there.
Hands behind her back.
A slightly tired smile, as if she had come not to fight, but to check a student’s homework.
— Fight!
And the arena ignited completely.
Fire rose like a wall.
The sand melted into glass.
The wind howled.
Torh raised his hands—and began forming a sphere.
Not just a spell.
Not just fire.
It was a dense star, compressed between his palms.
A spell like that should have erased half the arena.
He held it for five minutes.
Five.
Whole.
Minutes.
The mages in the stands no longer hid their shock.
The sphere shone like a sun.
And Mira… yawned.
— That took a while, — she said quietly.
Torh roared:
— TAKE THIS, GIRL!!!
He hurled the sphere.
Mira simply raised her hand.
One motion.
One thin thread of mana.
And the fire sphere went out.
Like a candle in the wind.
The mages in the stands screamed in disbelief.
Torh stood there, mouth open.
— I-impossible…
Mira exhaled lazily:
— I dispersed your mana.
I almost feel sorry for how much effort you wasted.
She lifted into the air.
Torh lunged forward like a beast.
And slammed into a stone wall that appeared out of nowhere.
He was thrown back, struck the arena floor—and stayed there.
Unconscious.
— Winner… MIRA HELVARD!!!
The colosseum ERUPTED.
Her name was shouted so loudly the walls trembled.
And she smiled.
Easily.
Confidently.
And didn’t even break a sweat.
