The energy in Braggon Vale was almost unbearable.
The Obsidian Colosseum pulsed with magical anticipation. The skies shimmered as a dome of protective energy expanded above the arena, locking in the battlefield and shielding the spectators from stray attacks. Floating runes glowed in the air, humming with ancient power. Broad banners of each district flew high—Velmora's deep crimson and black among them.
The announcer's voice boomed with enchanted amplification. "Ladies and gentlemen! Citizens of Erevos! WELCOME… to the opening match of the National District Tournament!"
A sea of cheers erupted across the stadium like thunder. Crystal orbs zoomed around, projecting images onto massive illusion screens suspended in the sky.
"In this year's opening bout, we witness a clash of steel and will! Representing Draxil—the twin-blade tactician of the Eastern Wastes—Damon Cross!"
The crowd shifted as the camera zoomed to the right platform. Damon Cross stepped onto the battlefield with a slow, confident gait. Clad in midnight armor etched with blood-red sigils, he carried two blades across his back—each wrapped in leather soaked in wyrm-oil to resist magical corrosion. His dark silver hair flowed like quicksilver, and his eyes burned with cold focus.
The announcer continued, "And representing Velmora—master of wind, wielder of the Unbreakable Blade, the Sword Saint of Velmora Academy—Jaxon Pyre!"
A roar rose from the Velmora section of the stands. Jaxon walked out with calm grace, the wind already responding to his presence. His white jacket billowed slightly, and on his back, the legendary Windcleaver—a blade said to have never chipped, never dulled, and capable of nullifying any supernatural force it touched.
Kenneth leaned forward in the viewing chamber. Zarek sat beside him, arms folded, eyes narrowed. Aeron Vale, standing near the crystal glass, simply muttered, "This'll be over quickly."
Cassian smirked, "They should've saved this for the finals. Poor guy doesn't know who he's stepping into the ring with."
The horn blew. The platform lit up.
The match began.
Damon charged instantly, his twin blades a blur of motion. One glowed with a venom enchantment, the other with explosive fire. He was fast—razor-fast—but not faster than Jaxon's reflexes.
Jaxon unsheathed Aetherfang with one smooth, elegant draw. A flash of white wind erupted around him, scattering Damon's fire with a whirling shield of air.
CLANG!
Damon's first blade clashed against Jaxon's sword—and stopped dead. The moment metal met Aetherfang, Damon's fire enchantment died. No spark. No heat. Nothing.
"What the hell?" Damon muttered, spinning to strike with the venom blade. But again—CLANG! The moment it touched Windcleaver, the green shimmer along its edge vanished.
Jaxon's eyes were calm, his body perfectly balanced. He didn't even flinch.
"Magic won't help you here," Jaxon said, his voice smooth and cold. "I came to fight. Not to babysit gimmicks."
And then he moved.
A blur. A gust. Jaxon disappeared from Damon's line of sight and reappeared behind him, the wind howling with each swing. Damon barely blocked, his swords struggling against the sheer weight of force pressing down.
"He's not just skilled," Kenneth whispered, "he's... overwhelming."
Zarek nodded slowly. "Jaxon doesn't waste movement. Every strike is measured. And Windcleaver... it makes things unfair."
Back on the field, Damon launched a desperate counter—flipping through the air and igniting his swords again. This time, he activated a forbidden technique, pouring blood into his blade to amplify his strikes.
It worked—for a moment.
The air cracked as Damon launched a flame-and-venom combo, screaming toward Jaxon like a missile.
But Jaxon remained unmoved.
With a flick of his wrist, he swung Windcleaver in a perfect crescent arc—and split the attack down the center. The shockwave shredded the battlefield behind Damon, rocks and debris flying into the magical dome like hail.
Before Damon could recover, Jaxon appeared in front of him and drove a wind-charged kick into his chest, sending him flying across the platform.
Damon coughed blood, stunned but still standing. "I… won't fall that easy."
Jaxon's grip tightened on his blade. "You already have. You just haven't accepted it yet."
And with that, Jaxon moved one final time—spinning forward like a cyclone, blade slicing through the air. He stopped just beside Damon, who froze mid-swing.
Windcleaver rested at Damon's neck.
The crowd gasped.
Damon's blades fell to the ground with a clatter.
The announcer screamed, "AND THE WINNER OF THE FIRST MATCH—JAXON PYRE of VELMORA!"
Thunderous applause erupted.
From the Draxil tower, their team leader muttered, "He nullified every advantage Damon had. With ease."
Riven Skorn, watching from the Braggon Vale tower, smirked as he shifted his form slightly—his body momentarily glowing with the hint of Jaxon's silhouette. "Interesting… I'd like to try that sword myself."
Back in the Velmora tower, Kenneth smiled faintly. "He didn't even break a sweat."
Zarek added, "That's Jaxon. When he draws Windcleaver… there's no room for errors."
Cassian leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "Now that's how you start a tournament."
Even Aeron cracked a grin. "Efficient."
Jaxon walked back toward the exit, his face calm as ever, not acknowledging the cheers or the cameras zooming in on him. As he passed the boundary, the wind followed behind him like a loyal beast, swirling his cloak in perfect arcs.
As he stepped inside the Velmora tower, Kenneth clapped him on the back. "That was insane."
Jaxon gave a faint smirk. "It was a warm-up."
Zarek snorted. "Show-off."
But beneath the banter, the Velmora team felt it—the silent ripple in the crowd. Jaxon Pyre's victory had just sent a message not just to Draxil, but to the entire nation.
Velmora wasn't here to participate.
They were here to dominate.
And this… was only the beginning.