Down in the arena, the next match began—two second-years, both fast, both confident, both clearly not recovering from being smashed through pillars.

Fate yelled,

"AND LOOK AT THAT SPEED! CLEAN! EFFICIENT! NOTICE HOW NEITHER OF THEM LOOKS LIKE THEY NEED THREE DAYS OF MEDICAL LEAVE!"

Rhys muttered,

"I swear he wakes up every day just to insult me…"

Dreamer nodded.

"That is correct."

Rhys blinked.

"That was a joke."

"Oh."

Puddle tugged his sleeve.

"Master, look! They are using proper footwork. Not… whatever you do."

"I HAVE FOOTWORK!"

Puddle tilted her head.

"Yes. Chaotic footwork. Very unique. Like duck on slippery floor."

"WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS—"

A loud explosion rocked the arena as one fighter launched a fireball barrage. The other dodged and countered with a spinning kick infused with wind magic.

The crowd gasped.

Rhys squinted.

"…Okay, that spin was clean. I need to learn that. And that dodge. And that breathing pattern. And—"

Puddle poked him.

"Master. Calm. You cannot learn forty things at same time. That is how explosions happen."

Rhys sighed.

"…Fair enough."

Up above, Fate kept commentating like his life depended on it:

"BEAUTIFUL TECHNIQUE! NOT A HINT OF PANIC! UNLIKE RHYS, WHO FIGHTS LIKE HE'S IN A HORROR MOVIE AND THE MONSTER IS HIMSELF!"

Rhys shouted,

"WHY DO YOU HATE ME PERSONALLY?!"

Dreamer replied,

"He does not hate you. You are entertaining."

"That's WORSE."

The match ended with a clean takedown. No broken bones. No unconscious screaming. No flaming craters.

The crowd cheered loudly.

Rhys exhaled.

He felt that familiar burn in his chest—not fear, not shame… motivation.

He leaned forward.

"…I want that level of control."

Puddle nodded.

"You will get it. And then you will crush your enemies like soft fruit."

"Please don't phrase it like that—"

"Squish."

"STOP."

But he was smiling again.

He looked down at the arena, watching the fighters bow respectfully.

He pictured himself there—standing tall, confident, not wobbling like a dying scarecrow.

He imagined using his skills properly:

Mana Shield without cracking his wrist

Water Blade without accidentally trimming his own hair

Fireball without blowing a tree sideways

Swift Cut without tripping over someone's foot

He wanted it.

He was ready for it.

And for once, the idea of fighting didn't scare him.

It excited him.

He whispered to himself,

"…Next time, I'll be prepared. I'll make sure of it."

Puddle pumped her tiny fists.

"Yes! Master will shine so bright that even Zenith needs sunglasses!"

Rhys groaned.

"That's not how strength works—"

"SHINE BRIGHT LIKE DISCOUNT STAR!!"

"STOP—"

But he couldn't hide the grin on his face anymore.

The arena roared again with the next announcement.

And this time, Rhys didn't shrink back or slouch or sigh.

He straightened his back, shoulders firm, eyes forward.

He was done being the "barely survives" guy.

He was going to be someone worth cheering for.

And Puddle, hugging his arm, nodded proudly.

"Master will roar very loudly."

Rhys nodded.

"Yeah."

He tightened his fist again.

"I will."

The announcer's bell rang, and the arena lights shifted for the next match. The crowd buzzed with excitement.

Rhys kept watching closely, eyes sharp.

Puddle leaned forward too, tail flicking.

Down below, Aristea stepped into the arena—calm, focused, glowing faintly with light energy. Her opponent was a tall boy with thick armor and earth magic.

Fate immediately screamed,

"AND HERE WE GO! LIGHT VS EARTH! A CLASSIC MATCH-UP! LET'S HOPE NO ONE GETS TURNED INTO SAND OR BLINDED FOR LIFE!"

Dreamer added,

"Aristea has the advantage. Earth is durable, but light is faster."

Rhys nodded to himself.

"…Yeah. Her casting speed is insane."

Puddle pointed at Aristea's stance.

"Master, see? Straight spine. Balanced feet. Not duck-like."

"That was ONE TIME—"

"Multiple times."

Rhys glared.

"I'm ignoring that."

The fight started with a blast—Aristea fired three Light Spears, clean and precise. The armored boy raised an Earth Wall, blocking them smoothly.

Then he pushed forward, the ground shifting under his feet as he charged.

Fate shouted,

"AMAZING DEFENSE! IF RHYS HAD THIS KIND OF ARMOR, HE MIGHT SURVIVE MORE THAN ONE HIT PER MONTH!"

Rhys snapped his head up.

"I SWEAR I WILL FIND YOU AFTER THIS TOURNAMENT."

Dreamer responded,

"Please do not threaten the announcer."

"I'M NOT THREATENING, I'M EDUCATING."

Back in the arena, Aristea slid sideways, her movements crisp. Light gathered around her hands as she unleashed another skill—Radiant Burst—a flash of light that stunned her opponent for just half a second.

But she only needed half a second.

She dashed forward and delivered a clean strike to the chest plate.

BOOM.

The armored boy skidded backward, hitting the ground.

The match ended.

The audience erupted with cheers.

Rhys watched silently, impressed.

"…She's strong. Really strong."

Puddle nodded.

"Yes. But Master will be strong too. Stronger. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But maybe day after tomorrow."

"That's… oddly specific."

"Yes."

Rhys leaned forward again, elbows on his knees.

Inside, something clicked.

A goal.

A promise to himself.

He whispered,

"…Next year, I want to stand on that stage with no fear. No wobbling. No panic."

Puddle raised a hand dramatically.

"Master will fight with grace. And elegance. And less screaming."

"I don't scream that much."

"You scream every fight."

"That's—okay, maybe true."

Up above, Fate got loud again:

"AND WHAT A MATCH! ARISTEA ADVANCES TO THE FINAL FOUR! RHYS, PLEASE TAKE NOTES—THIS IS HOW YOU FIGHT WITHOUT DESTROYING HALF THE ARENA!"

Rhys sighed.

"I'm starting to think he has my name written on a dartboard."

Dreamer replied,

"He does."

"…What."

But Rhys wasn't actually upset.

He felt fired up again.

Focused.

More alive than he had felt since the Zenith fight.

He straightened up, relaxing his shoulders.

"…Someday, I'll fight like that. Strong. Fluid. Without looking like a survival attempt."

Puddle grinned.

"Yes. Master will amaze everyone. Then they will gasp and go 'Wow, he is not pancake today.'"

"I'M NEVER GOING TO ESCAPE THAT, AM I?"

"No."

Rhys laughed—tired, but real.

The next round was announced.

The crowd cheered again.

And Rhys kept watching, determined eyes never leaving the arena.

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