Capítulo 9: The Duel Above, The Demon Below
The Duel Arena was alive.
Students filled every seat. Some clung to balcony rails; others hovered mid-air on flight glyphs. The air thrummed with mana and anticipation. Even instructors lined the edges, silent and watchful.
Two figures stepped onto the obsidian-tiled battlefield.
Leron Valis Aerion—First Imperial Prince—glided forward like dawn incarnate. His golden robes shimmered with embedded mana filaments, the imperial crest glowing on his chest. Silver-gold eyes scanned the crowd, unreadable.
Opposite him stood Freya Von Drakelle.
Short. Barefoot. Cloaked in silk dark as void. Midnight-black hair framed a face carved in stillness; amethyst eyes gleamed with quiet frost. Darkness clung to her like breath.
The stadium dimmed. The central crystal flared.
"Match Start in 3... 2... 1—"
The bell rang.
Freya vanished.
No flare. No rush of wind.
Just absence.
Leron raised his hand.
A thread of fire formed between his fingers—dense, narrow, spinning once like a blade.
Then he moved.
CRACK.
Tile exploded beneath him as he blinked forward mid-air. Below, spiked tendrils of shadow erupted upward—aimed for his legs, throat, heart.
Freya reappeared mid-motion, gliding through her own shadows. A dagger of night extended from her palm.
She struck.
CLANG—
Light collided with darkness. The resulting scream of mana shattered the closest ward wall. Shards of containment magic fizzed through the stands.
Instructors raised barriers. Students shrieked.
Leron floated above, encased in a radiant sphere of flame.
"You're aggressive today," he said.
Freya offered no reply. Shadows launched her upward.
SLASH. DODGE. STRIKE. TELEPORT.
Faster than thought, they moved—a blur of twin crescents, rotating flame, collapsing space.
Freya curved twin blades toward his flanks.
Leron spiraled through the air, flame propelling him like a comet. He collided with her mid-arc.
BOOM!
The arena ruptured. Sigils shattered. Wards failed.
Freya rolled, bleeding, upright.
Leron emerged from the crater, unburnt.
He raised a hand.
The air shimmered.
Freya froze—not in ice, but in momentum. Her magic reacted: decoys scattered into mist.
"Spatial Lock," someone whispered. "Five-meter radius."
Freya reformed behind him.
"Wrong angle," she said—and stabbed.
Her blade pierced his robe.
Light surged beneath.
Leron turned.
"You're too slow."
BOOOOM—
An eruption of divine fire swallowed the platform. Gold-white flame burst through the arena, breaking the outer shield.
When it cleared, Freya stood inside a cocoon of living shadow.
Barely.
Blood streaked her arm. Her cloak was torn.
But she stood.
Leron lowered his hand.
"Yield."
Freya's smile was small. Not gentle. Feral.
She whispered—and the world turned black.
Not dim.
Void.
No stars. No torches. No light.
Just silence.
Only Leron still glowed.
"You think darkness hides you," he said. "But I am the sun."
And light answered.
Pure. Total. Blinding.
A nova split the darkness. The stadium pulsed with unbearable brilliance. Even the audience winced behind barriers.
Shadows screamed.
Freya dropped, tangled in silver flame.
Still.
Her cocoon disintegrated to ash.
Silence.
Then:
"Match Over! Victory: Leron Valis Aerion."
Applause thundered. Names were shouted. Mana echoed across the walls.
Freya stood slowly. Bowed.
Leron bowed back.
They exited without a word.
***
High above, in the tower balcony, Rael'Zhur watched.
No one saw his eyes flicker red.
"Let the stars burn," he whispered. "I only need their ashes."
He watched as divine flame lingered.
Not the light.
The cracks.
Subtle. Deep.
Even brilliance had fault lines.
Rael turned. Vanished into shadow. His cloak folded into nothing.
Below, the crowd screamed.
No one saw what he saw.
Not the instructors.
Not the nobles.
Not the duelists.
Beneath the arena tiles, beneath the shattered sigils, something pulsed.
Dull red.
A hidden mark.
Old. Forbidden.
A demon glyph, inked not in magic—but blood.
Freya's backlash had awakened it.
Just enough.
Rael descended the inner tower steps. Silence reigned.
Walls bore no torchlight.
The Rift Core beat below.
Thrum. Thrum.
He smiled.
"Let them crown their champions. Whisper their names. Worship gold and glory."
He fingered the hidden crystal in his robe.
"This was rehearsal."
A pause.
"The curtain rises soon."
He vanished beneath the stone.
***
Far above, the academy roared.
But below—beneath ancient wards, forgotten tunnels, and sleeping magic—something shifted.
In silence.
In shadow.
Rael tapped the wall.
Once.
A pulse answered from the deep.
A ripple.
The first breath of a storm.
Let the stars shine.
Let the world cheer.
He would be waiting when they fell.
***
Moments Later – Just Outside the Arena
Freya sat alone on the steps behind the southern spire, cloak draped over her shoulders like ash. Her arm still bled faintly, but she hadn't healed it. She didn't win—but she hadn't lost on her knees either.
A familiar presence approached. She didn't look up.
"You held back," said a voice—calm, clipped.
It was Headmaster Karrin. Old, grey-robed, eyes like molten glass.
Freya shrugged.
"I lost."
"You tested him," Karrin said. "Measured his reach. And yours."
Silence.
Then: "What did you see?"
Freya's fingers brushed her wrist where the last of Leron's fire had scorched her skin. She didn't flinch.
"His light bends," she whispered. "It isn't infinite. Just… layered."
The headmaster studied her, expression unreadable.
"And the shadows?"
"They remember."
She stood, slowly. Darkness curled faintly around her ankles, like fog reluctant to leave.
Karrin nodded. "Then be ready. The Trial approaches. And your name won't be forgotten next time."
As he walked away, Freya looked up toward the sky—blue and calm.
Too calm.
She could still feel something pulsing beneath the arena.
Something old.
***
Elsewhere, That Same Night — In the Quiet Wing of the Library
Cael Valeon flipped through a tattered record on barrier mechanics, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The noise from the duel still rang faintly through the walls.
His Logic flickered—mapping patterns, comparing heat signatures, pressure arcs, delay timings.
Leron's final explosion had distorted the mana grid for a full thirteen seconds.
"Too much," he murmured. "Even for a divine-tier prodigy."
He closed the book.
The lines didn't match.
And the numbers?
Wrong.
Something else had triggered near the end of that duel—something hidden.
He stood.
It was time Team 17 stopped training and started preparing.
Not just for the Trial.
For what came after.
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder