They exchanged one last look, a brief, silent moment of understanding. Their eyes locked, conveying everything they needed to say. Damien gave a subtle nod, his lips curving into a smirk, and whispered, "Good luck," before turning to head toward his designated arena.
The weight of the match ahead pressed down on him, but he couldn't afford to dwell on it now. The time for talk was over.
Damien stepped onto the blue mat, which had once been a frozen tundra. Now, it had returned to its original state, its surface flat and unmarred. Across from him, Jeremiah did the same, his heavy footsteps sending vibrations through the ground.
Damien studied his opponent intently, his eyes narrowing. Jerimiah was a mountain of a man—easily between six-foot-six and six-foot-eight. His sheer size was intimidating, and his arms looked like they could crush boulders, even without an ability. The thought made Damien's spine tighten in unease. But it was Jeremiah's eyes that truly unsettled him—calm, steady, and assured. This wasn't someone who fought recklessly; this was someone who fought smart, who was as much a thinker as a brawler. Someone strong. Maybe just as strong as Damien. And that pissed him off.
Damien had earned his spot as the top-ranked unawakened fighter in his class, meaning he should've had an easier first match—one that would let him showcase his strength without too much trouble. But that wasn't the case. Instead, because he and Jeremiah were the only two guaranteed to awaken after their fight, they were forced to face each other in the first round.
A slow smirk crept onto Damien's lips, his expression shifting into something wilder—something that reminded him of Luka. He could feel the familiar heat of determination igniting in his chest.
Whatever. This just means I'll impress the captains even more.
For thirty long seconds, the two men stood locked in an intense staring match, the silence between them thick enough to cut through with a knife. Neither moved. Neither blinked. They waited for the referee to step in.
Finally, the referee broke the tension, stepping onto the mat with a deliberate air. He raised his hand in a quick wave, signaling the fighters to prepare.
"You both know the rules," he said, his voice carrying easily across the arena. "The fight ends when one of you can't continue or yields. I'll step in if necessary to prevent serious injury or death. If I stop the match, it means I've judged one of you unfit to continue. Understood?"
Damien and Jerimiah both nodded in agreement, their gazes still fixed on each other.
A small grin tugged at the corners of the referee's lips. He seemed just as eager to watch the match as the captains seated above. Damien had built quite a reputation at the academy, ranking fourth in his class without an ability. If Jeremiah had been chosen to face him, it meant that he, too, had a reputation of his own.
"Alright then," the referee continued. "Return to your sides, choose your weapons, and wait for the geoshaper to adjust the terrain. The match begins when you're both ready."
Damien exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he turned and walked to his side of the mat. His fingers itched with anticipation, his mind racing through strategies.
Showtime.
Before the fight could begin, Damien had to choose his weapon. He was proficient with a wide variety of them—the academy had made sure of that. But after years of fighting and honing his skills, he'd discovered where his true talent lay. It was the sword. And today, that was exactly what he would wield.
He walked with purpose to the weapon rack, his eyes scanning the rows of blades. A short sword was out of the question—against someone like Jerimiah, with his immense size, reach was everything. A longsword, on the other hand, never felt right in his grip. It was too unwieldy, too slow.
Then, his eyes landed on it.
A knightly sword. A single-edged blade, roughly thirty inches long. The balance was perfect, and its weight was comfortable in his hands. He gave it a few practice swings, feeling the fluid motion as the blade sliced through the air. It was swift, sturdy enough to block heavy blows, and sharp enough to take advantage of his quick reflexes.
Perfect.
Damien turned toward the referee, a thumbs-up signaling that he was ready. Across the mat, Jerimiah did the same, his weapon of choice already in hand—a spear.
Damien wasn't surprised by Jeremiah's choice. It suited his opponent's build perfectly. The reach alone would make him a nightmare to deal with. Jerimiah would keep Damien at a distance, forcing him to fight at close range, where his own speed and agility would be less effective.
This is going to be annoying.
The referee clapped his hands together, clearly eager to get the fight underway. "Alright! Since you're both ready, let's see what terrain you'll fight on."
With that, he stepped to the center of the mat and placed the geoshaper at his feet, a small remote clutched in his hand. He stepped back, anticipation flashing in his eyes. The captains and lieutenants in the private viewing boxes shifted in their seats, their attention laser-focused on the fighters below.
A moment later, the geoshaper shot into the air, spinning with dizzying speed. Damien's head followed the motion, his eyes squinting against the blur. It moved so fast that he almost felt a wave of vertigo. Then, suddenly—
Boom!
The geoshaper exploded with an earth-shaking shockwave, sending a ripple of energy across the entire arena. The change was immediate.
The blue mats beneath Damien's feet softened, transforming into thick, wet mud that clung to his boots like quicksand. Towering trees shot up from the ground, their gnarled roots twisting around each other. A shallow pool of murky water now lay between him and Jerimiah, while a dense fog spread across the arena like creeping fingers, obscuring his vision.
Damien lifted his foot experimentally, feeling the sticky mud try to suck him down. It took a sharp tug to free himself. His expression darkened.
This is not good.
The swamp terrain was the worst possible environment for him. His speed—his greatest advantage—was severely hindered. Every movement now felt sluggish. Meanwhile, Jeremiah's fighting style, which likely relied on raw strength rather than agility, would be almost unaffected by the thick mud.
Damn it.
Damien exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. He had no choice now but to adapt. The fight had just become a lot harder.
And Jeremiah knew it, too.
The brute smirked across the arena, slamming the butt of his spear into the mud with a heavy thud. The sound echoed across the swamp-like terrain, the message clear:
You're in my domain now.
Damien's jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.
We'll see about that.
The referee gave both fighters one last look, then blew his whistle.
"Fight!"