The world had narrowed.
The cheers were long gone. Even the professors, even the Emperor watching from the imperial suite, had fallen silent.
Only the sound of ragged breaths echoed now—harsh and painful, scraping against battered throats.
Lucien stood, blood running down his temple, one arm trembling violently at his side. His robes were torn. Mana flickered around him in waves, unstable and erratic—yet still burning with a terrifying majesty.
Kael wasn't better off.
Half of his shirt was gone. One eye swollen shut. His left leg barely supported him. But his aura—still violet, still pulsing—refused to fade. It wrapped around his body like shattered glass and smoke, forming flickers of a blade that no longer fully existed, and armor that cracked every time he breathed.
Neither moved.
Until Lucien spoke.
"…Fine," he muttered hoarsely. "Let's end it."
Kael didn't reply with words. He just nodded, slow and steady.
They both knew.
One final blow. All or nothing.
Lucien closed his eyes. His hand rose—shaking—and the entire arena reacted.
The sky itself dimmed.
Above, a miniature sun began to bloom.
Burning gold fire gathered from every direction, devouring light and space and color. Glyphs spun around it—dozens, then hundreds—layered with ancient imperial runes passed down only to the royal line.
The spectators flinched from the sheer heat.
Selene covered her mouth in shock. The Empress stood.
Even the headmaster was on his feet, ready to intervene.
"…Solar Judicium," Lucien whispered. "Divine casting."
A spell so powerful it drained every single drop of mana from the caster. Forbidden in duels. Forgotten by most.
Lucien poured everything into it.
Below, Kael breathed out once. Then again. Slower.
He stepped forward.
His violet aura surged—not wildly, but with focus. Not like fire, but like a sword being drawn from within his soul.
It coiled around him, every last particle he had remaining.
He gripped the invisible handle of something only he could see. A blade not forged by steel, but will. A final strike born from everything he'd learned, everything he endured.
"—Crimson Arc."
A single slash.
Not toward Lucien—but toward the sky.
The moment the two attacks met—
The sun fell. The arc rose.
And the world went white.
A soundless explosion consumed the arena's barrier. Magic shields shattered. Every protective ward groaned under pressure. The stands trembled. Buildings miles away felt the ripple of force.
And when the light faded—
The entire stage was ruined.
Stone torn apart. Craters scorched into the earth. Mana hung thick in the air, swirling like ash after a wildfire.
In the middle of that devastation stood two figures.
Barely.
Kael was hunched forward, arm dangling, aura gone. Lucien stood upright only because of sheer habit, eyes unfocused, face pale, lips trembling from mana exhaustion.
They looked at each other.
One step.
Then another.
Their fists met—weak, slow, sloppy.
Kael missed and hit Lucien's shoulder.
Lucien responded with a tired slap that didn't even sting.
Another punch. Another dodge. A trip. A lean. Another swing so pathetic it made the audience want to laugh and cry at once.
Yet neither stopped.
They couldn't.
It wasn't about winning anymore.
It was about not giving up.
For an hour—yes, an actual hour—they fought with limp punches, half-hearted shoves, heads too heavy to hold straight, blood drying on cracked skin.
Each time one nearly collapsed, the other would catch them—not out of kindness, but because they refused to fall alone.
Until finally—
"Enough!" the referee roared, stepping in as the imperial emergency sigil activated.
He held both of them up, and they slumped in his arms.
Lucien looked to Kael.
Kael looked back.
And both of them—
Smiled.
Then passed out, side by side.
The coliseum went wild.
The crowd screamed. Some in shock. Some in awe. Some in tears.
And in the middle of it all, medics rushed in.
"Heal them. Both," a voice said firmly.
It was the Emperor himself.
"These two… are not to die."