Battle Three – Shadowthorn vs. Mirror Saint (Elite Duel)
The atmosphere shifted, becoming thick with anticipation. Even the air felt heavier, as if nature itself held its breath. The crowd, typically raucous and boisterous, sensed the weight of what was about to unfold. The arena seemed to hum with a subtle energy, a vibration that only those attuned to the highest forms of combat could perceive.
"Now presenting a Harbinger-ranked duel… Shadowthorn vs. the Mirror Saint!"
The announcer's voice rang out, crisp and clear. But this time, there was no cheering, no drunken shouts or rowdy banter. Even the rowdiest of spectators went silent, their eyes wide with reverence. This wasn't just another fight—it was an event that transcended mere sport. It was a battle between elites, a clash of titans that demanded not only skill but an unshakable will.
From the farthest end of the arena, Shadowthorn emerged—not through the customary gates, but as though summoned by the very shadows themselves. His figure seemed to materialize from the gloom, a dark wraith of twisted steel and malevolent grace. His obsidian armor shimmered beneath the sunlight, casting off a strange, violet glow, the jagged contours resembling thorned vines that had been forged into an unyielding shell. In his hands, he held two curved daggers—black as the void between stars, the blades wrapped in shifting, serpentine tendrils of smoke that seemed alive, hungry for blood.
And then, the air shifted again.
A blinding radiance began to take form, a presence so pure and commanding that it seemed to distort the very light around it. The Mirror Saint entered the arena in silence, every step measured and deliberate, his every movement calculated. His silver-white plate armor glowed with a supernatural sheen, refracting light in a thousand directions, creating an illusion of multiple figures, shimmering like the reflection in a still pond. In his hands, he bore no weapon—only a massive reflective shield, engraved with ancient runes that pulsed with a rhythmic, steady light, as though it held the heartbeat of the cosmos within it. The shield was not just a tool of defense—it was a symbol, an embodiment of divine grace.
The two combatants stood facing each other, their eyes meeting with an unspoken understanding. No words were exchanged, for none were needed. The arena was silent. The crowd waited, knowing that the next moments would define them as witnesses to something far beyond a simple contest.
Both warriors bowed.
And then—
They were gone.
To the untrained eye, it was as if the world itself had cracked in two.
Shadowthorn materialized behind the Mirror Saint in the blink of an eye. The sound of steel crashing against the shield rang out, a violent clash that sent ripples through the air, not of fire, but of light and shadow colliding in a violent symphony. The space around them twisted as though the fabric of reality itself was bending under the force of their blows. Shadowthorn's daggers cut through the air, seeking weakness, but Mirror Saint's shield moved with divine precision, deflecting each strike with a grace that seemed impossible.
The Mirror Saint didn't merely defend—he redirected. With a subtle shift of his stance, he sent Shadowthorn sliding back with the force of a divine gale. Then, in a heartbeat, the shield flared, sending out a wave of illusory copies—phantoms that scattered in every direction. Each reflection danced and shifted through the arena, creating an almost hypnotic disorientation, each one reflecting different angles of the real knight, each one a mirror of his divine power.
Shadowthorn growled low, his eyes narrowing as he adjusted his stance. His foot twisted, and with a flick of his wrist, he hurled his daggers into the fray. They flew like comets, splitting into shadow clones as they sought to strike down the illusions. But one—one of those shadowy blades found its mark. It embedded deep into the mirror-like shield, and for a moment, the brilliance of the Mirror Saint dimmed, as if the very soul of the knight had been pierced.
The Mirror Saint staggered, his shield flickering weakly, but he recovered instantly. With a surge of radiant energy, he lifted his shield high, its pulse steadying with renewed vigor. He moved with a fluidity that was both deadly and graceful, his every movement painting the air with the light of the divine.
Shadowthorn was relentless. With a predatory grin, he dashed forward, kicking off the arena walls, his movements a blur of shadows and malice. His daggers flashed in the light, and in an instant, he was above his opponent, blades descending in a deadly arc. But Mirror Saint was ready. He spun with the force of a celestial wind, catching the blow with the edge of his shield. A radiant flare erupted from the impact, a blinding burst of light that sent a wave of heat cascading through the arena, briefly blinding those seated in the lower rows.
They fought up the walls, each movement leaving afterimages in their wake. The battle was an endless dance, a storm of parries and strikes, each more intricate than the last. Shadowthorn's strikes were sharp, his daggers darkened with a venomous glow, while Mirror Saint's shield pulsed with divine light, each collision a thunderous symphony of light and shadow. Their speed was such that the crowd could barely track their movements—every dodge, every counter, a testament to the mastery of both warriors.
The clash grew more intense. Each strike threatened to shatter the very air itself. Every dodge sent a ripple of energy through the stands. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, gasping at the ferocity, the sheer will behind every blow. Even Shawn, in the stands, felt the weight of it—the crushing intensity that hung in the air. The very atmosphere felt charged, as if the duel was pulling the world around them into its gravitational pull.
And then, in a moment that seemed to stretch forever, the two warriors collided in a single, perfect strike. A crescendo of energy, light, and shadow, as the full force of their power met in the center of the arena.
For a moment, there was silence. A ringing stillness that seemed to swallow everything.
Then, with a heavy thud, both fighters hit the ground—one knee first, breath ragged. And then the other followed, collapsing in a slow, graceful descent.
Their heads hung, their breaths heavy, the exhaustion of their battle written in the lines of their faces. Neither moved to strike again. Neither spoke.
No victor was announced.
The arena was still, the crowd holding its collective breath. And then, as if on cue, the realization struck: it was a draw.
And that result… it shook the crowd to its very core. The tension, the anticipation, the weight of everything that had been put into that fight—yet no one emerged victorious. It wasn't a loss, but it wasn't a win, either. It was something deeper, something far more unsettling.
For in the silence that followed, the true meaning of the battle became clear. These were no mere warriors. These were forces of nature—immovable, unstoppable, and yet… even they could reach a limit.
The crowd's hushed murmur spread like wildfire, the hum of disbelief growing louder as they realized the gravity of what they had just witnessed. A draw. A rare, almost mythical outcome.
And somehow, that result shook them harder than a victory ever could.
The battle between the Harbingers was not just a battle, it was a clash between forces. Luckily the energy domes to prevent the pressure from inside was present, otherwise, most people would have passed out, well expect from the Captain and Lynne, Shawn's mom, and maybe some other elite figures amidst the crowd.
But even though there were no winners, the shouts and cries heard were far more wild than the previous two battles, people jumping up and down, but the colosseum beared the full weight of the people without shaking.