The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, pressing in from all sides as Rodrigo stepped onto the packed earth of the Grand Arena. The air was thick with anticipation, stray Essence, and the scent of roasted food from the festival stalls outside.
Opposite him, bathed in the fanfare of the crowd, stood Monti Fortuno.
He stretched lazily, deliberately projecting an air of bored confidence, a smirk playing on his lips as he adjusted the silver hilt of his rapier. He looked utterly at home under the lights, soaking in the energy of the thousands watching. Rodrigo, by contrast, stood still, planting his feet firmly, his machete held loosely at his side. He blocked out the noise, the stares, the whispers speculating about his volatile power.
His focus narrowed to the man across from him. There was some faint shimmer of Air Essence gathering around Monti like a nearly invisible cloak.
Avange was somewhere in those stands, Rodrigo knew. He'd seen him find a spot on the upper tiers before the gates opened. That knowledge was a small, solid anchor in the swirling chaos of the arena.
Master Juno's magically amplified voice boomed again, silencing the crowd. "Initiates, prepare yourselves! The final exhibition of Class 4! Let the spar commence!"
A sudden, expectant hush fell. The ambient hum of the city seemed distant. In the relative quiet, Monti's voice, though barely a whisper, carried clearly across the short distance separating them.
"Don't blink, token boy," he murmured, the smirk widening. "You might miss the lesson."
Before the echo of his words faded, Monti moved. It wasn't just speed; it was an explosion of motion, Air Essence flaring around his feet, propelling him forward in a near instantaneous dash.
He didn't lead with his rapier. Instead, he launched into a series of kicks and hand strikes.
Wh-pang! Wh-pang!
Each movement trailed slicing arcs of compressed wind, like tangible air blades that whistled as they cut towards Rodrigo. It was flashy, and clearly designed to overwhelm and intimidate.
Rodrigo didn't flinch. He brought the machete up, not swinging, but using the broad, flat side of the blade as a shield. The air blades impacted with sharp cracks, dissipating harmlessly against the steel.
Wind whipped around him, tugging at his tunic, but his stance held firm. His eyes tracked Monti's blurring movements, ignoring the distracting flourish, focusing on the core intent.
Monti flowed seamlessly from the air blade assault into a low sweep, aiming for Rodrigo's legs, then transitioned instantly into a powerful side-kick aimed at his ribs as Rodrigo adjusted.
Rodrigo blocked the sweep with the haft of his machete, deflecting the worst of it, but the kick landed solidly against his blocking forearm.
It wasn't enough force to break his guard, but the impact jarred him, forcing him back a step. A calculated blow, meant more to assert dominance than inflict real damage.
Monti landed lightly a few paces away, his smirk firmly back in place. "Is that it, Mundragon?" he taunted, his voice carrying easily to the now murmuring crowd. "I heard stories of explosive power, uncontrollable rage. Is that all that fiery temper's good for? Blocking?"
Rodrigo ignored the jibe. He felt the familiar heat stirring in his chest, as well as the Strength Essence responding to the impact. But Amelia's and Juno's words echoed in his mind.
Control. Raw power isn't enough.
He took a deep breath, deliberately calming the surge. He wouldn't be baited into a reckless display. Not again.
He lowered his stance, gripping the machete firmly in two hands. Then, he charged.
It wasn't the uncontrolled burst of his evaluation. He pushed the Essence forward, but consciously throttled it back, shaping it. A controlled stream of crimson flame trailed behind his blade as he lunged, not an explosion, but a focused, burning edge.
He was proving it to himself as much as to Monti. I can command this.
The move was simpler than Monti's acrobatics, more direct, but carried undeniable weight. Monti, perhaps expecting another purely defensive reaction or a wilder attack, seemed momentarily surprised by the controlled aggression.
He brought his rapier up to parry, Air Essence swirling around the thin blade.
Clangggg!!!
Steel met steel with a ringing clang, but Rodrigo's follow through, empowered by the focused Strength Essence and the sheer momentum, was too much for the lighter rapier. The machete slid past Monti's parry, the trailing flame licking outwards. It wasn't the edge, but the flat, superheated side of the blade that connected squarely with Monti's shoulder.
Sssshhh!
Fabric sizzled. Monti cried out, a sharp gasp of pain, stumbling back several steps, clutching his shoulder. The confident smirk vanished, replaced by a mask of shocked agony. The crowd gasped.
Up in the stands, Avange let out a short, sharp cheer, with a wide grin spreading across his face. "LET'S GO RODRIGO! PUT THAT PEACOCK BACK TO THE ZOO!"
The people near his seat turned to him in disgust. These people were all supporters of Monti.
Rodrigo halted his advance, breathing steadily. The flame around his machete receded back into the steel. He felt the power, the satisfaction of landing a clean hit, but also the dangerous temptation to press the advantage, to unleash more.
Not yet, he thought, forcing himself to remain centered. Not like last time. Control was the objective.
Across the arena, Monti straightened up slowly, his face pale, his eyes narrowed now with genuine anger rather than just arrogance. The playful facade was gone. He rotated his injured shoulder carefully, his jaw tight. He had underestimated the raw power, even controlled. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
Rodrigo's glasses detected the sudden surge of power emanating across the ring.
Scanning… Monti Fortuno!
…
4500… 4750… 5000 Candellas!
Five thousand. His Essence increased by over more than a grand. Rodrigo froze in slight shock.
But Monti stopped smiling entirely. His stance shifted, becoming lower, more focused. The almost casual flair vanished and now replaced by cold precision. He began to move, not with explosive dashes, but with fluid, gliding steps, circling Rodrigo.
He wasn't launching wide gusts or flashy air blades anymore. Instead, subtle shifts in the air pressure began to manifest around Rodrigo.
It started as a faint distortion, a slight feeling of drag when Rodrigo moved to adjust his footing.
Then it intensified.
Monti wasn't attacking directly; he was manipulating the very air around his opponent.
Whooooosh!!!
Rodrigo felt a strange buoyancy, then a sudden heaviness, throwing his balance off. He swung the machete in a testing arc, but the blade seemed to cut through the thickened air, therefore slowing a bit.
He tried to step forward, but felt an invisible wall of pressure resist him.
Monti was weaving a cage of manipulated air, a localized field where gravity and momentum felt subtly wrong. Rodrigo found himself missing lunges by inches, his footing slipping unexpectedly like he was walking on slippery ice, and his swings feeling sluggish.
Monti flowed around him, landing quick, shallow cuts, enhanced by bursts of air that pushed Rodrigo further off balance. He was controlling the space, dictating the engagement, dissecting Rodrigo's simpler, power based style with tactical finesse.
"You're never reaching me, token boy. Never." Monti said, enough for Rodrigo to hear. Then, his smirked returned, and it irritated Rodrigo more than he'd expected.
"That's the Wind Slide!" Someone from the audience yelled. A technique that Monti had mastered. Manipulating the wind of the field, which can also maneuver the opponent's motion.
He heard it, and frustration began to build in Rodrigo's chest again, with it being hotter this time, stoked by the elusive nature of Monti's defense and the growing pressure. He growled, swinging the machete wide, trying to disrupt the air currents with sheer force.
Monti sidestepped effortlessly, using a precise pulse of air against the flat of Rodrigo's blade as it passed, twisting it unexpectedly in his grip. Rodrigo stumbled, his wrist wrenching, nearly dropping the heavy weapon.
He recovered his grip but was forced back several more steps. His defensive posture was broken.
The heat inside him spiked. The controlled ember wanted to become an inferno. He felt the machete in his hand buzz violently, with a dangerous orange red light that mirrored the frustrated anger within him.
Echoes of the evaluation chamber disaster flickered at the edge of his vision. The overwhelming surge, or the loss of self.
"Rodrigo! Stay with it!" Avange's voice cut through the shouts and support of the crowd, sharp and clear. A lifeline back to the present, a reminder of the stakes.
Rodrigo clenched his jaw, fighting for control. He saw Monti circling again, preparing another precise, debilitating attack.
No. He wouldn't be picked apart like this. He wouldn't lose because he was afraid to use his strength. He just needed one solid hit.
Gathering his resolve, ignoring the warning signs from the pulsing blade, Rodrigo poured his frustration and determination into one final, decisive blow. He lunged forward, swinging the machete in a powerful, rising arc. It was brighter, hotter, less controlled than before, but undeniably fast and potent. A desperate gamble.
Win or lose.
For a split second, it looked like it might connect. Monti's eyes widened slightly at the sheer force and speed.
But Monti was Air. He was speed. He didn't meet the force; he evaded it. Ducking incredibly low, almost skimming the ground, he let the fiery arc of the machete pass harmlessly overhead.
Whoosh!
As Rodrigo overextended slightly from the force of his own swing, Monti used a focused gust of wind from his free hand to launch himself upwards and inwards, pivoting behind Rodrigo in a display of aerial agility.
Before Rodrigo could fully turn, before he could bring the heavy machete back around, Monti struck. No rapier this time. He channeled his Air Essence into his fist, driving a spiraling vortex of wind directly into Rodrigo's exposed side, just below the ribs.
B-bang!
The impact felt like being hit by a solid wall.
Air exploded from Rodrigo's lungs. Stars burst behind his eyes. The force lifted him momentarily, then slammed him down onto the packed earth. He landed hard, skidding slightly, the wind knocked out of him.
He gasped, trying to draw breath. He pushed himself up onto one knee, and his vision was swimming. The machete felt so damn heavy in his hand, like someone put more weight into it. Its fiery glow sputtered, then extinguished completely, leaving only dull steel.
He tried to rise further, to regain his footing, but his legs wouldn't help him.
A hush fell over the arena, followed by the clear voice of the nearest instructor acting as referee. "Incapacitation! Victory, Monti Fortuno!"
The crowd erupted. Cheers for Monti, surprised murmurs about Rodrigo's power and sudden defeat, analysis flying thick and fast. Monti stood over the center of the arena, breathing only slightly harder than usual, accepting the adulation with a triumphant smirk. He slowly sheathed his rapier.
As attendants moved forward, presumably to check on Rodrigo, Monti walked past his fallen opponent. He paused, looking down at Rodrigo kneeling on the ground, struggling for breath. The earlier animosity seemed replaced by a cool, appraising look.
"You have weak spots, token boy," Monti said, almost instructing. "You got plenty of it. Fire's only dangerous when it knows where to burn."
He didn't wait for a response, turning and striding towards the victor's gate, leaving Rodrigo kneeling in the dust and the roar of the Blissford crowd.
A moment later, a familiar hand rested gently on Rodrigo's shoulder.
Avange.
He had somehow made his way down from the stands, ignoring the attendants. He offered no words, or a lecture. He just knelt beside Rodrigo, offering some silent support as he finally managed to get his breathing under control.
Rodrigo pushed himself stiffly to his feet, with Avange steadying him. His side was throbbing in pain, but pride stung more.
He hated losing. Hated it more than anything. But even through the frustration, a cold clarity asserted itself. He knew why he'd lost.
He'd let Monti's pressure, his own frustration, break his focus. He'd gambled on raw power instead of maintaining the control he'd struggled so hard to achieve. Monti hadn't just beaten him with skill; he'd beaten him with discipline.
His gaze fell to the machete still clutched in his hand. It felt motionless now, being cool and still heavy. But as he looked at the familiar patterns that were etched into the steel, he felt a strange sensation, and a distinct one at that.
It felt like the blade was… watching him. Waiting. Judging his failure, perhaps? Or waiting for him to finally learn the lesson Monti had just delivered. Fire was only dangerous when it knew where to burn.
And he, Rodrigo Mundragon, still had no idea how to truly direct the inferno tied to his soul.