Cheers rained down, not for him, but for Monti Fortuno. Rodrigo remained kneeling on the packed earth, sweat dripping from his brow, mixing with the dust. His side throbbed rhythmically, each gasp for air sending jolts of pain through his ribs. The heat in his chest, the volatile power of the machete, had retreated, leaving behind only exhaustion and the bitter taste of defeat.
He could feel hundreds, maybe thousands, of eyes on him. He pushed himself slowly, stiffly, back to his feet, ignoring the concerned hand Avange offered from just outside the shimmering arena barrier.
He wouldn't show weakness, not more than he already had.
But as Monti exited the arena with a cool nod to the cheering spectators, the crowd's energy shifted. The cheers for the victor faded, replaced by something uglier, directed at the loser. Laughter, sharp and pointed, echoed from the stands.
"Look at him! Big Class 4 couldn't even land a real hit!"
"Fire with no flame!"
Someone closer yelled, "That rusty blade should've stayed buried wherever he dug it up!"
Another voice, dripping with scorn, cut through the noise. "Golden Boy versus Token Boy! Guess we know which one Blissford actually values!"
The insults washed over him, each one a small barb finding its mark. It wasn't Monti's victory speech; it was this, the faceless judgment of the crowd, the casual cruelty of those who only saw the surface, the rank, the win or the loss. Monti's quick, professional exit almost made it worse. He hadn't needed to gloat; because the spectators were doing it for him.
Avange finally stepped past the now receding barrier, his face grim. "Alright, that's enough," he muttered, putting a steadying hand on Rodrigo's arm. "Come on. Let's get out of here. Forget this shit."
Rodrigo swayed slightly, leaning on Avange's support more than he wanted to admit. His body ached. Leaving now, retreating to the sterile quiet of the Initiate Quarters, felt deeply tempting. He could nurse his wounds, physical and mental, away from these prying eyes.
He took a step towards the exit gate… then stopped.
He looked back at the brightly lit arena floor, at the expectant faces in the crowd already turning away from him, anticipating the next spectacle.
He thought of Monti's controlled precision, the way he'd manipulated the very air. He thought of the seventy thousand Candellas trapped within his own blade, a power he couldn't understand, let alone wield effectively.
"No," Rodrigo said, his voice rough but firm. He straightened up, gently shrugging off Avange's hand, though he stayed close. "No, I'm staying."
Avange frowned. "Rodrigo, you heard them. This isn't—"
"I heard them," Rodrigo cut him off, his gaze fixed on the arena. "I need to see this. What real mastery looks like." He finally turned to meet Avange's concerned eyes. "If I leave now, licking my wounds, I'll forget. I'll forget what it feels like to be hungry for something more than just survival."
Avange studied him for a long moment, saw the stubborn set of his jaw, the fire that hadn't been extinguished, merely banked. He sighed quietly, then nodded. "Alright man. Your call. But we're watching from the back this time."
They found seats high up in the stands, away from the densest part of the crowd, where the shadows were deeper and the roar slightly muffled. Rodrigo settled onto the cool stone bench, every muscle protesting. He rested his forearms on his knees, his gaze locked onto the empty arena floor below, ignoring the lingering whispers and pointed looks from nearby spectators.
Just as the last remnants of the booing faded, Master Juno stepped back onto the central platform. His presence alone commanded attention. With a simple gesture, his voice boomed across the arena once more, imbued with Essence, cutting through the lingering chatter.
"Enough, everyone." Juno stated, with his tone carrying an edge that silenced the remaining hecklers instantly. "That was an exhibition bout, a preliminary assessment. Victories and defeats at this stage are merely data points on the path to true mastery." He paused, letting his gaze sweep the stands. "But what comes now… this is a different league entirely."
A palpable buzz went through the crowd. Juno gestured towards the arena gates.
"Prepare yourselves! For our first official Class 5 spar of the festival! A clash between two of Blissford's most promising adepts!"
He raised his hands dramatically. "Representing the fluid power of Water, wielding the Guardian Staff, Initiate Theo De Amore!"
From one gate emerged a young man who moved with extraordinary grace. He wore flowing blue robes, and a long, carved staff rested lightly in his hands.
Water seemed to shimmer around him, and it was dispersing with his movements. He offered a calm, serene bow to the cheering crowd. Rodrigo couldn't use the glasses from this distance, but the sheer control radiating from Theo was obvious.
This was far beyond the Class 1, 2, 3, or 4 fighters.
"And his opponent," Juno continued, his voice rising, "a wielder of ferocious Fire, master of the Blazing Mace, an Initiate who has recently ascended to Class 5… Amada!"
The name sent a jolt through Rodrigo. Amada. His partner from that disastrous first evaluation.
He emerged from the opposite gate, and the difference was stark. Gone was the slightly bored, relaxed posture. He stood taller, his dark eyes burning with intensity. He carried a heavy, brutal looking mace, its head crafted from dark, heat resistant metal.
And the Essence… Rodrigo could feel it even from the upper tiers, a powerful, contained inferno pulsing beneath Amada's skin.
He remembered Amada's 13,000 Candella reading during the evaluation. He must have broken through significantly since then to reach Class 5.
As the two fighters took their positions, the arena floor beneath them began to shift and transform. On Theo's side, the earth dissolved, replaced by a deep pool of water with swirling currents. On Amada's side, the ground cracked, venting heat and faint smoke, turning it into a hazardous, fire-scorched landscape.
A dual element battlefield, designed to test adaptability.
The signal was given, and the fight exploded into motion.
Theo moved like a dancer, his staff an extension of his limbs. He didn't attack directly at first, instead manipulating the water around him, sending waves crashing towards Amada, creating slick patches underfoot, weaving tendrils of water like liquid whips. Spirit Essence was what Theo used.
Every movement was fluid, efficient, a beautiful yet dangerous display of Water Essence control, vastly different from Monti's sharp air pressure or Lira's whip strikes.
Amada, however, was a force of nature. He met the waves head on, his mace trailing arcs of concentrated fire. This wasn't the wild sputtering Rodrigo produced, nor the contained flickers Amada had shown in the evaluation room.
This was controlled aggression. Strength Essence, similar to Rodrigo's, but in a smoother manner.
Fire flowed from the mace like a liquid blade, shearing through water, boiling it instantly into steam. He moved with heavy, powerful steps, each footfall sending tremors through the fire warped ground, launching himself forward through the steam clouds, swinging the mace in devastating arcs.
Rodrigo recognized the raw power of Strength Essence, but now it was guided, focused, terrifyingly effective.
The crowd was mesmerized. This wasn't just a brawl; it was a high speed chess match played with elemental fury. Theo would trap Amada in swirling vortexes of water, trying to drown his flames, only for Amada to channel intense heat through his mace, vaporizing the water around him in explosive bursts of steam.
Theo, anticipating a charge, would suddenly freeze a section of the water, creating razor sharp barriers of ice or reflective shields that sent Amada's fire blasts careening back towards him.
Amada, relentless, smashed through ice barriers with sheer force, the heat from his mace melting tunnels through Theo's defenses. At one point, Theo managed to ensnare Amada completely, dragging him under the swirling water in a powerful whirlpool trap. For a moment, it looked like Amada's flames would be extinguished.
But then the water around him began to boil violently, erupting upwards in a massive geyser of steam as Amada unleashed a pulse of pure heat, staggering Theo back but clearly draining his own reserves. The air crackled with spent Essence.
They were both tiring since the relentless pace and massive energy expenditure took their toll. Theo, ever graceful, created a distance, weaving intricate patterns with his staff, preparing a final, complex water technique.
Amada, seeing his chance, roared, planting his feet firmly on the scorched earth. Fire gathered around him, coiling up his body, engulfing his mace until it glowed white hot.
"Phoenix Climb!"
Amada leapt high into the air, spinning like a fiery comet before bringing the blazing mace down in a devastating overhead slam.
Theo raised his staff, a complex shield of water forming just in time.
Boom!
The impact was deafening. Steam exploded outwards, momentarily obscuring the fighters. When it cleared, Theo was on the ground just outside the arena boundary, with his shield shattered and his staff cracked.
Amada stood in the center, breathing heavily, steam rising from his body, his mace still radiating intense heat, but now… victorious.
The arena exploded. The roar was deafening, genuine applause and shouts of admiration raining down on both fighters, but especially Amada. He had faced elegant control with overwhelming, yet directed, power and barely emerged the victor.
He raised his mace, acknowledging the cheers, a look of fierce exhaustion and triumph on his face.
High in the stands, Rodrigo watched the aftermath, and his own aches momentarily forgotten. He hadn't moved. His hands rested loosely on his knees as his gaze was locked on Amada.
He saw the fatigue, the cost of wielding such power, but also the control. Amada hadn't flared wildly; he had channeled immense fire with purpose, with technique honed through relentless effort.
Avange glanced over at him, perhaps expecting to see bitterness, envy, or deeper despair after witnessing such a high level fight immediately following his own public loss.
Instead, he saw Rodrigo smile.
It wasn't a wide grin, just a small, almost imperceptible flicker at the corners of his mouth. A spark of understanding in his eyes.
"So that's what it becomes, huh?" Rodrigo murmured, almost to himself.
Avange leaned closer. "What becomes what?"
Rodrigo finally turned his head, his eyes bright with a newfound clarity, a fierce determination replacing the earlier frustration. "The fire," he said, his voice quiet but intense. "Strength Essence. When you don't just let it burn you up. When you learn to aim it. When you really learn how to burn."
He looked back towards the celebrating Amada, then down at his own hands, clenching them slowly into fists. Losing to Monti hadn't crushed him. It had shown him the gap.
Watching Amada hadn't discouraged him; it had shown him the goal. He was leagues behind, yes. His power was raw, tangled with a weapon he didn't understand. But now, he saw the path. He'd barely scratched the surface of what Essence could be, what he could be.
Losing wasn't the end. It was fuel.
It was the beginning of a hunger he hadn't felt so keenly since the early days of the war. He had seen what real Infusers, what real strength guided by will, looked like.
And he wanted it. More than anything.