Bowing slightly in each direction, Isaac straightened and declared, "The second segment of the tournament is about to begin. The rules are simple."

He paused deliberately, letting silence stretch just long enough to make the spectators bristle with anticipation, their patience thinning.

A smile curved his lips. "It will be a one-versus-one format. And yes, I know what you're all thinking—there are 55 participants, so someone must advance without a fight, right?"

The crowd murmured in agreement, leaning forward.

"Well," Isaac continued, "you're absolutely right. Student Thomas of Altura Academy has been assigned number 55 and, in theory, won't face an opponent in this round."

A wave of cheers swept through the stands. Many saw it as only natural. To them, Thomas was the strongest among the contenders—his bypass was less a stroke of luck and more a courtesy, sparing the others from early defeat.

But not everyone was pleased. Boos rang out from pockets of the crowd, voices raised in protest. Many felt the decision was unfair—why hadn't it been left to chance? If it had, maybe their friends or family members could've drawn number 55 and secured a spot in the final round.

The unrest began to ripple through the stands, growing louder by the second. Meanwhile, among the participants, low whispers turned into heated murmurs.

"This is ridiculous."

"So what? You think you could take him in a fight?"

"That's not the point. It didn't have to be a fight."

"If you don't believe you can win, then why did you even participate in this tournament?"

Isaac scanned the restless crowd, his expression unreadable. When it became clear the murmuring wouldn't fade on its own, he turned to the nearby staff and gave a subtle nod.

Receiving the signal, the staff—dozens, perhaps hundreds strong—moved swiftly through the stands, calming the unrest. It took several tense minutes, but eventually, the noise dwindled, and the stadium returned to an uneasy silence.

Isaac nodded in approval, then cleared his throat. "I understand why this might seem unfair," he began, his voice carrying through the quiet, "but you didn't let me finish."

He let his gaze sweep across the audience, his words hanging in the air.

"While Thomas has a free pass to the third and final segment, he may still be challenged at the end of the segment by the 27 defeated participants who believes they deserve his place. Whether he fights in this second segment is entirely up to you…"

His head turned slowly toward the participants' stand, where the 54 students sat in hushed anticipation while Thomas looked at everything as if he was a mere spectator and not the center of the topic.

"…the participants."

The crowd fell into a deeper silence. As much as they had hoped the advantage might fall to someone close to them, they also knew the truth: strength was what mattered here. If no one could defeat Thomas, then perhaps his free pass wasn't favoritism—but a mercy.

He let his words linger, the silence pressing down on the arena like a held breath. Then, with a crisp clap of his hands, Isaac spoke again.

"The staff will now approach the participants' stand with a box," he announced. "Inside are 27 numbered tokens—each number appears twice. Those who draw matching numbers will be paired in a one-on-one battle."

His voice remained calm. "You will lose if you're rendered unconscious or if you forfeit the match. I strongly advise forfeiting if you believe you're outmatched—better to walk away than risk unnecessary injury or worse."

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A sharp intake of breath swept through the crowd. The memory of past rounds—of bruised bodies, slashed limbs, and the cold clash of steel—flashed through their minds. These weren't practice bouts, they were as real as they could get.

Without delay, a staff member stepped forward carrying a small, black box and moved down the line of seated participants.

Elric reached in, his fingers brushing against the paper slips until he drew one. He slowly opened his hand, eyes narrowing as he read the number written on it.

Nine.

Turning his head, Elric scanned the other students, trying to spot whoever had drawn the same number. But no one was holding their token visibly, and even as he craned his neck, he couldn't catch a glimpse. With a quiet sigh, he leaned back in his seat.

Whatever. I'll find out soon enough.

Once everyone had drawn a number, Isaac gave a slight nod and continued, "Now, I'll introduce the two judges for the second segment. They will be responsible for monitoring each match and keeping time."

Two figures stepped forward and made their way to the edge of the arena, stopping just outside the ring. Both were dressed in sleek black uniforms, each bearing a polished plaque that simply read: Judge.

Isaac gestured to the older of the two—a man with a stern expression and silver hair, likely in his seventies. "This is Judge Berto."

Then he motioned to the younger man beside him, who looked barely out of his teens, his short black hair neatly styled. "And this is Judge Ivan."

The two judges bowed slightly as their names were announced, then stood tall, their expressions unreadable.

Isaac took a steady breath before continuing, "Both of them possess time based abilities—limited, but precise enough to track every movement and moment during a match."

He paused for effect, then raised his voice slightly.

"With everything in place, the first round of the second segment will now begin!"

His voice rang out with authority as he called, "Numbers 1—on stage!"

He turned and calmly made his way back to the grandstand, taking his seat among the other officials as two young men stepped into the arena.

Excited murmurs immediately broke out among the crowd.

"Hey, that's Preston!"

"The second-ranked student from Quarath, huh? I thought only the dean's daughter was worth anything there. The rest are just filler."

"You call him filler, yet you know his name."

"Well, yeah. He's one of the few lunatics who fights with gauntlets."

In the arena, Preston stood still, slowly opening and closing his fists, the metallic clink of his gauntlets barely audible over the murmuring crowd. His eyes never leaving his opponent—a black-haired young man gripping a massive hammer with both hands.

Just outside the ring, Judge Berto raised a hand and calmly declared, "You may begin."

Preston smirked. "Why don't you just admit defeat now? You know you don't stand a chance."

His voice was casual, almost bored, as he stared down the young man before him.

The opponent tightened his grip on the hammer, his expression hardening. "I, Hugo, will never concede without a fight!"

With a powerful push of his legs, Hugo launched forward, closing the distance in a burst of speed. He stopped just in front of Preston, whose eyes remained locked on him, gleaming with amusement.

Ignoring the mockery in his gaze, Hugo planted his right foot and hurled his weight into a downward swing, bringing the hammer crashing toward where Preston stood.

A cloud of dust exploded into the air as Hugo's hammer shattered several of the arena's tiles, fragments scattering in every direction.

The spectators leaned forward, squinting through the haze, but the dust was too thick—no one could make out what had happened. The same uncertainty rippled through the participants' stand, whispers and guesses passing between them.

Hidden within the swirling dust, Preston stood calmly, a meter away from Hugo. He wore a smirk as he watched his opponent raise the hammer back into position.

"Is that all?" he asked coolly.

Startled, Hugo snapped his head toward the voice and swung his hammer in a wide arc, aiming to crush Preston's ribs with a decisive side blow.

But what came next, he never could've anticipated.

In one smooth motion, Preston leapt straight onto the head of the hammer mid-swing, using its momentum as a platform. With uncanny agility, he launched himself higher in a double-jump, twisting in mid-air. His right fist cocked back, charged as he prepared to strike from above—fast, brutal, and precise.

Stunned by Preston's sudden maneuver, Hugo instinctively tried to lift his hammer again—but it was no use. He had poured all his strength into the previous swing, and now, with gravity and Preston's momentum forcing it down, the weapon skidded on the ground once more—this time causing a semi-circle line to appear on the floor as his body pivoted carried by the hammer's strength, the sound grating at the ears.

The audience flinched at the sound, unaware that it had masked the dull, sickening thud of Preston's fist slamming into Hugo's chest.

The blow landed squarely, collapsing his sternum. Blood burst from Hugo's mouth as he was driven backward and crumpled to the ground, motionless.

Preston landed lightly, standing over his fallen opponent. He looked down coldly, anger simmering behind his smirk.

"This is what happens when you underestimate me," he muttered.

Without waiting for a reaction, he turned and strode through the dissipating dust, emerging into the light with an arrogant grin.

"I've won," he declared flatly.

The two judges watched in silence as the last of the dust cleared. There lay Hugo, still clutching his hammer in one hand, but his chest visibly sunken, his breathing shallow.

Judge Berto stepped forward, his voice firm.

"First round winner: Preston, of Quarath Academy!"

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