The roar of the crowd had not faded since morning.

  Cheers rose like crashing waves, dust hanging thick in the air above the stone arena—an arena that had witnessed battle after battle, its ground now cracked, as if it carried the scars of rage itself.

  In the upper stands, Enzo sat.

  His back was straight.

  His gaze steady.

  His expression unnaturally calm, as though he existed outside the chaos surrounding him.

  He was not watching the crowd.

  He was not watching the king.

  He was watching the arena alone…

  As if something within him was waiting for its turn.

  On the royal platform stood King Frendeg, with the advisor Fyong at his side.

  The king raised his hand slowly, and silence began to spread across the stands.

  He spoke in a clear, deep voice:

  “This tournament is not a test.”

  “It is not entertainment.”

  He paused, then continued:

  “It is a mirror.”

  “A mirror that reveals who you truly are… when your masks are crushed.”

  His gaze swept over the competitors below.

  “Those who do not know their limits,

  and those who do not understand their own power,

  will fall here.”

  Then, with quiet finality, he said:

  “Begin.”

  Two men entered the arena.

  Ray stepped forward first.

  Barefoot.

  His body balanced, his breathing calm, his eyes clear—like the surface of still water.

  With every step, the ground beneath his feet seemed to respond to him.

  Opposite him stood Shikakarn.

  Large-bodied, broad-shouldered, his steps heavy yet steady.

  His grip around his sword was tight—no fear in it, only restrained tension.

  He looked at Ray and said:

  “Your fighting relies on movement.”

  “The arena does not forgive hesitation.”

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  Ray replied calmly:

  “And it does not forgive anger.”

  They moved.

  At first, the fight was purely physical.

  Shikakarn advanced with powerful strikes, his sword driven by raw physical strength.

  Ray evaded—his movements simple, unhurried.

  But Fyong noticed first.

  He said quietly:

  “Watch his feet.”

  As Ray moved, faint ripples formed beneath him.

  The water was not fully visible… but it was there.

  “Water element,” Fyong murmured.

  Ray was not forcing the element.

  He allowed it to follow his motion.

  When he threw a punch, a thin layer of water wrapped around his fist.

  When he jumped, water formed beneath his feet, softening his landing.

  Calm.

  Balanced.

  Like the sea before a storm.

  Shikakarn realized it.

  He planted his foot into the ground and lowered his stance.

  The arena trembled.

  Small stones began to shift around him.

  Not an explosion… but accumulation.

  The earth element began to surface.

  Fyong said:

  “He hasn’t mastered it yet… but he’s intelligent.”

  Shikakarn raised his sword, stone forming around the blade—not as projectiles, but as armor.

  He charged.

  The sword collided with a water barrier Ray formed at the last instant.

  Water shattered.

  Stone cracked.

  Both fighters were forced back.

  The battle escalated.

  Ray increased his speed.

  The water around him was no longer still.

  His movements became wave-like—

  advance… retreat… rotation.

  Shikakarn responded differently.

  He drove his sword into the ground, stone pillars rising before him to form a shield.

  Then he swung the blade, scattering fragments of rock—not lethal, but disruptive.

  Ray was struck.

  Once in the shoulder.

  Then in the thigh.

  His breathing changed.

  The water began to churn.

  In a single moment, Ray surged forward with all his strength.

  A wave of water propelled him.

  A direct strike.

  Shikakarn raised his arm, stone-coated.

  The impact was violent.

  The stone shattered.

  But Shikakarn did not fall.

  He staggered—

  then planted his foot firmly.

  He said, his voice tense:

  “I won’t fall that easily.”

  He gathered the earth around him—not into an attack, but into himself.

  His skin cracked, stone emerging beneath it.

  He moved slowly… but with immense weight.

  The final strike was not fast.

  It was heavy.

  Ray gathered everything he had left.

  Water exploded around him—not as a wave, but as crushing pressure.

  One single, focused strike—

  with his entire body.

  It struck the center of Shikakarn’s chest.

  The stone fractured.

  Shattered.

  Shikakarn fell to one knee.

  He was not dead.

  But he could no longer stand.

  Ray himself dropped to one knee, his body covered in wounds.

  The judge raised his hand:

  “The winner… Ray.”

  Fyong said:

  “Both are dangerous.”

  “But Ray understands his element more deeply.”

  The king replied:

  “Bring them both to me after they recover.”

  Fyong turned to him.

  “For the elite?”

  The king answered:

  “So I may understand…”

  “…what kind of future awaits this world.”

  Enzo left the stands without looking back.

  No anger showed on his face,

  but his chest tightened with every step.

  He had seen the fight.

  The blood.

  The way battles were decided by true power.

  And he reached a truth he could no longer deny:

  He was not there yet.

  He entered the forest alone.

  The noise vanished, leaving only the wind among the trees.

  He stopped in a small clearing and slowly drew the sword.

  He stared at it.

  Nothing.

  No aura.

  No resonance.

  No response.

  He tightened his grip.

  “…Is that all?”

  He tested a simple swing through the air.

  Nothing.

  His thoughts returned to the arena.

  To the power he did not possess.

  He whispered, broken:

  “If I were there…”

  “…I wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  The feeling of helplessness struck him—

  heavier than fear.

  He raised the sword again.

  He was not trying to fight…

  He was screaming from within.

  And in the moment he acknowledged his weakness—

  Anger erupted.

  Not hatred…

  But the anger of a man who knew he was behind.

  He struck the air.

  A silent cutting aura burst forth, tearing through the darkness and rising toward the sky like a wound carved into the night.

  No sound followed.

  No one noticed.

  No one—except him.

  Enzo froze.

  He stared at the sword.

  His breathing quickened.

  He whispered:

  “…You don’t respond to strength.”

  “…You respond to weakness.”

  He lowered the blade slowly.

  And within him, a new certainty was born—

  This sword

  would not grant him power freely.

  It would force him to earn it.

  And the next morning…

  The tournament prepared for a clash between two old friends—

  A battle far greater than anyone imagined.

  End of Chapter Three.