Both the audience and the participants could sense the air getting heavier as they watched Judge Berto's demeanor. Though none of them knew the full extent of what had happened, a silent unease spread through the crowd, fueling hushed speculation.

Judge Berto rose slowly to his feet and cleared his throat—a single gesture that silenced the sea of spectators. Even the grandstand fell still, barely a whisper among them.

When he finally spoke, his words struck everyone like a truck.

"Participant Lazrin of Tritus Academy… is dead."

Time itself seemed to halt. The words hung in the air, cold, stunning the entire stadium into silence.

Everyone—spectators, instructors, staff, and the ones in the grandstand—had known that death was a possibility in this inaugural tournament. But knowing it and witnessing it were entirely different things.

There was no reliable way to guarantee the safety of the participants. Technological advancements simply hadn't kept pace with the explosive growth in human strength. In a tournament where students wielded real weapons, possessed fists capable of shattering concrete, and moved at speeds once unimaginable on Earth, safety protocols were little more than formalities.

For the spectators, the risk of death had always seemed like a distant, theoretical disclaimer—something the government mentioned just in case. But for the participants, the reality was far more visceral. The fear was now real. This was no longer just a "friendly" tournament—it was a battleground.

Many participants stood frozen in place, cold sweat trailing down their backs, their eyes darting from one opponent to another. The same unspoken question haunted each of them:

Will you be the one to kill me?

In the span of a single minute, the way they viewed the tournament had changed completely.

These students had braved the portals—fought through them, survived them, and emerged stronger, rewarded with power and treasures beyond imagination. To now risk dying over something as shallow as glory felt like a cruel joke—an insult to everything they had endured.

Judge Berto's voice rang out once more "Participant Dareth of Tritus Academy is hereby disqualified from the tournament. An investigation will follow to determine whether his actions were intentional or not."

A sharp crack echoed through on a part of the stadium, drawing the nearby stands' attention to the Tritus Academy's seating area—specifically, to the chair beneath the Head Instructor, now visibly splintered beneath a clenched fist.

"This damned brat is causing trouble even in death," the Head Instructor muttered, his voice low and cold. Rage flickered in his eyes as his grip tightened around the armrest, splintering it further. "It wasn't enough for him to ruin our plan—now he wants to drag Dareth down with him."

Had he known it would come to this, he would've killed Lazrin himself before the round even began.

The instructors nearby remained silent, their heads bowed, pretending not to hear as curses spilled from his lips. Fortunately, the surrounding area was filled with Tritus Academy personnel—no outsiders were close enough to catch his words.

In the grandstand, Caelan's usual calm smile had vanished, replaced by a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he endured the subtle, judgmental glances from his peers.

"Caelan."

The sound of his name sent a small jolt through his body. Straightening in his seat, he responded, "President?"

Jonathan's voice remained composed, though laced with quiet authority. "What do you have to say?"

He had already steeled himself for the possibility that a student might die in this tournament, but that didn't make it easier.

Clearing his throat in an attempt to ease the tension, Caelan replied in the calmest tone he could manage, "The fault lies with me. I failed to properly discipline my students. I'll conduct a thorough investigation and submit a full report by tomorrow."

Jonathan turned his gaze toward the Tritus Academy's dean, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, he said, "I trust your judgment."

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But then his tone dropped, this time it was cold.

"Don't make me regret this."

"I'll take care of everything, President," Caelan said, offering a slight bow in Jonathan's direction.

Jonathan gave a curt nod before returning his gaze to the arena.

What did those fools do this time… Caelan thought, his jaw tightening as tension rippled through his body.

The medical team swiftly carried Lazrin's lifeless body off the stage, while Dareth was escorted away by several staff members—out of the arena and into the depths of the stadium.

"Numbers 19, please make your way to the stage," announced Judge Berto. Though composed, his voice still carried the heaviness of what had just transpired.

Two students stood up from opposite ends of the seating area, their movements slow and hesitant. As they approached the arena, their eyes flicked between each other and the silent crowd. Their hands trembled ever so slightly—each unsure if the person across from them might snap, just as Dareth had.

When they finally reached the center of the stage and stood face-to-face, locking eyes, the haunting memory of the previous match clawed at their minds. Doubt crept in, and with it, fear. Their once-solid resolve began to crack.

Judge Berto raised a hand.

"You may begin."

Even seconds after Judge Berto's announcement, the two contestants remained frozen in place. This time, the audience didn't react with confusion or impatience—they watched in tense silence, what happened in the last match still fresh in their minds.

A full minute passed before one of the two—a young man clad in white—finally spoke, his voice quiet but clear.

"I surrender."

The words struck the arena like a hammer blow. The other participant stared at him in disbelief, struggling to process what he'd just heard.

Had he really advanced just by standing still? By doing nothing and letting his opponent's nerves unravel before his own? Mere moments ago, he too had been on the verge of surrender. The idea that inaction had earned him victory felt utterly surreal.

The crowd was no less stunned. They'd seen fear before, but never like this. Both contestants had clearly been shaken, paralyzed by the thought of death. And yet, one had made it through—not by fighting, but by keeping his fear just barely contained. Perhaps his terror had been even greater, so overwhelming that he couldn't bring himself to speak.

And somehow, that silence had carried him to victory.

Judge Berto stepped onto the stage, his expression unreadable.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

The young man who had surrendered nodded quickly, his body tense with the overwhelming desire to leave the arena and return to the safety of his academy.

"Very well," the judge replied, before raising his voice to the crowd.

"The winner of this round is Ian from Univara Academy!"

Ian, still in a daze, managed a slight bow before making his way back to the participants' stand. A few hesitant claps echoed from the audience, but the reaction was subdued.

The once-spirited atmosphere of the tournament had soured—heavy with tension, shaken by death, and haunted by fear. No one was enjoying it anymore apart from a few who liked this so called show.

The first forfeit sparked a chain reaction. Match after match, participants bowed out before a single blow was exchanged. Deep down, they knew how the battles would end—especially when the stage was taken by the top fighters of each academy. There was no point in risking their lives against opponents they had no hope of defeating.

When the 20th round was announced, anticipation stirred in the arena. Stepping onto the stage was Troy, clad in blue, with short black hair and a calm, focused gaze. He was the current top-ranked student of Univara Academy—and a name everyone knew.

The audience erupted in cheers, expecting a thrilling display of power. But the excitement vanished just as quickly.

As soon as Troy's opponent saw him enter the arena, mace in hand, he raised a hand and surrendered without hesitation.

A wave of disappointment swept through the crowd. What was supposed to be an electrifying moment had become yet another reminder of how fear now ruled the tournament.

"The winner of this round is Troy from Univara Academy!" Judge Berto announced, his voice steady but tinged with resignation.

Judge Ivan sighed quietly, his job of taking times was now useless. There was no need for a lengthy match—Troy's opponent had forfeited immediately, propelling Troy up the rankings to second place, tying with Ian, just below Thomas.

The 21st round passed in the blink of an eye. Roland, known as the Sword Genius of Altura Academy, emerged victorious with a swift and precise display. His opponent had initially intended to forfeit but held on, unwilling to surrender so easily out of pride.

Roland's victory took a mere ten seconds—one of the fastest matches of the second segment.

The 22nd and 23rd rounds were nothing but swift forfeits. The crowd's excitement flared the moment the two contestants stepped onto the stage—only to be extinguished almost immediately.

Clara, clad in black with medium-length blonde hair and a sword sheathed at her side, was the top-ranked student from Tritus Academy. She didn't even have time to unsheathe her blade before her opponent raised a hand in surrender.

Wesley, the first-ranked student from Altura Academy, fared no better. Before he could even draw his halberd, his opponent had already conceded defeat.

The wave of forfeits sent ripples through the crowd and the academy instructors alike. They had come expecting fierce competition—a chance to showcase just how well they'd trained their students. But after that incident, it felt like everything was going awry, their hopes and pride going up in smoke.

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