The hall felt different that day. Not loud in the usual way. Not restless. The energy sat heavy, like something waiting to happen. People leaned forward, eyes fixed on the arena, but not everyone shared the same excitement.
Some stayed quiet. Too quiet. Tom nudged the boy beside him. "Hey Jack, why are you so quiet today?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. His eyes were still on the arena, but there was no hunger in them. No thrill.
Just something tired. "How can I be happy," he said slowly, "knowing someone will soon die, and one day, it might be me dying."
Tom blinked. For a second, the words settled in. You could almost see it in his face. That brief moment where the truth slips through the cracks.
Then he shook his head, brushing it off like dust.
"Remember the words of the supreme master," Tom replied, forcing a small grin. "Those who are destined to die will die. But those who are destined to live will live."
Jack didn't respond. He just looked back at the arena. Down there, Samuel stood with his sword drawn.
Across from him, Maxwell. The space between them felt thin. Like anything could snap it at any second.
"One of us is going to die today," Maxwell said, his voice calm, almost casual.
Then he smiled. "I promise it isn't going to be me." Samuel's lips curved slightly. "That was what Gregory said," he replied, "before Newton pierced his sword into his heart."
Something changed. Not loudly. Not visibly to everyone, but it hit.
Maxwell's smile faded just a little. His grip on the sword tightened. His shoulders stiffened.
"I will kill you," he said, the words coming out heavier now.
Samuel nodded once. "And I will have my revenge on you for killing Stella."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then:
"Fight!"
The master's voice cut through the air like a blade.
Maxwell moved first. Fast, too fast for hesitation. He lunged forward, his sword slicing toward Samuel with precision that came from experience, not emotion.
Samuel didn't meet it head-on. He shifted. A slight turn. A small step. The blade passed him. He answered with a strike of his own, aiming clean and direct.
Maxwell blocked it instantly. Steel clashed into stell. The sound rang sharp and clear.
Samuel moved again. Another dodge. Another shift. Maxwell pressed forward, attacking again, then again, his strikes coming in quick succession, each one calculated, each one meant to break through.
Samuel bent, twisted, slipped past them in ways that didn't look natural.
At times, it almost felt like his body had no bones. He didn't waste energy on unnecessary movement. He didn't chase, he waited.
Newton watched from where he sat. His vision was still blurred, shapes barely holding together, but he didn't need perfect sight to follow the fight.
He could hear it. He could feel it. The rhythm of steel. The shift of feet. The tension in every movement.
Maxwell kept attacking. Samuel kept avoiding it.
Again, and again, and again. It began to show. Not on Samuel, but on Maxwell. His patience thinned with every missed strike.
"Face me, coward!" he roared, his voice echoing through the arena.
Samuel didn't answer. He didn't react. He just moved. That silence, it got under Maxwell's skin.
Each dodge felt like an insult. Each miss, a challenge. "You won't fight!" Maxwell shouted, his voice rising. "You are a coward!"
Then he rushed forward. This time, there was no control, no patience, just force. His strikes came faster, heavier, but less precise.
Samuel saw it. Felt it. He stepped back, then flipped away, his body lifting off the ground in a smooth back-flip as Maxwell's blade cut through empty space.
Maxwell landed his strike, but it met nothing. Before he could recover, Samuel moved quick, and clean. His sword drove forward and pierced into Maxwell's shoulder.
The impact stopped everything. The hall gasped as one. Maxwell's body jerked. For a second, he didn't seem to understand what had happened.
Samuel pulled the blade out. Maxwell's voice broke through the silence, sharp and raw as the pain finally registered.
He dropped to one knee. The sand beneath him darkened as blood began to flow. Samuel didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, raising his sword to finish it.
But Maxwell shifted. Even wounded, his reflexes didn't fail him. Samuel's strike missed its mark, cutting into the ground instead.
Maxwell's hand slammed against the floor as he pushed himself up. Blood ran down his arm. But his eyes burned.
The pain didn't slow him. It fueled him. He attacked again. This time, sharper, and faster.
More focused.
Samuel adjusted quickly, raising his sword to defend once more. The clash resumed. But it wasn't the same anymore. Maxwell was no longer testing. No longer pacing himself.
He was coming in hard, each strike carrying weight, intent, and something darker beneath it.
Samuel kept defending. He kept moving. But the pace had changed. Maxwell was faster now. More brutal.
The pressure built.
Samuel's movements slowed, just slightly. Barely noticeable at first. Then more. A step late. A turn not as sharp. His breathing grew heavier.
Maxwell saw it. And he pressed harder. Their swords met again, then separated. Then came again, faster than before. Samuel dodged one strike, but his footing slipped just enough.
Just enough. Maxwell didn't miss it. He struck again. The blade drove into Samuel's side.
"Aaaah!"
The sound tore out of him as his body twisted from the impact. Maxwell pulled the sword out. And struck again. Samuel bent, trying to avoid it, but it wasn't enough. The blade cut into his chest.
His body gave in. He fell down hard. The sound of his body hitting the ground echoed louder than it should have.
Newton froze.
His hands gripped the edge of his seat as he pushed himself up. The arena went silent. Every eye locked onto the scene.
Maxwell stood over Samuel, breathing heavy, blood dripping from his wounds, but his stance still strong.
Still standing. Samuel lay on the ground, unmoving for a moment. Then a slight movement.
A weak shift. But nothing more. Maxwell stepped forward.
Slow, and certain. He raised his sword. "Goodbye, Samuel."