The signal cracked across the arena.
Both fighters moved at once.
Marcus came in like a battering ram, greatsword carving a silver arc through the air. Levi met him only long enough for steel to ring against steel—the impact shuddered up his arms and into the stones beneath his feet—then he was gone, sliding to the side with his katana held low, letting the giant's momentum carry the blow wide.
Marcus swung again. And again. Each strike was heavy enough to split paving stones, each one tearing through empty space as Levi orbited just outside the killing line. He wasn't retreating. He was reading.
The angle of Marcus's shoulders. The rhythm of his breathing. The way his left foot planted a fraction too long before each overhead strike, and the brief, exploitable delay that followed a feint. The overcommitment when pushed. The dominant right side. With every exchange, Levi's grip on the fight tightened—not through force but through accumulation, each passing second adding another piece until the whole shape of the man became visible.
Marcus laughed through the exertion. "Still quick."
Levi ducked a horizontal sweep that would have taken his head off. "Still predictable."
The giant drove forward, hammering down with enough force to crack stone, pushing Levi back a step, then another. Dust burst between them. The crowd leaned in as one, feeling the pressure build. Then Marcus changed rhythm entirely—and instead of chasing Levi, he brought the sword down into the ground.
The impact tore a jagged trench through the arena floor. Stone shards flew. The stands shook. Marcus struck again, and again, each blow widening the damage, each one aimed less at Levi's body than at the earth beneath him—systematically destroying the footing, collapsing the terrain until there was nowhere clean left to stand.
'So that's your answer. Not finesse. Not patience. Just force until something breaks.'
It was a sound strategy. Against most opponents, it would have worked.
Levi shifted back, watching the giant's stance between blows—the way his weight rolled forward after each strike, how his guard opened for a fraction of a second before he committed to the next swing. Small windows. Consistent ones. He let two more pass just to be certain.
Then Marcus's next strike landed half a heartbeat sooner than expected.
The greatsword caught his shoulder. Pain detonated down his arm and Levi stumbled, one foot scraping stone before he caught himself. A thin line of blood traced its way from beneath the edge of his armor. The crowd roared. For the first time since the match began, Marcus's grin sharpened into something genuine.
"There you are."
Levi steadied his breathing. He had underestimated the timing—not by much, but enough to matter. He let the pain settle into something manageable, rolled his shoulder once to confirm it still moved, and exhaled slowly. Then he raised his katana and waited, weight low, eyes tracking the giant's hands rather than the blade.
He was done measuring.
Marcus read the shift in him and obliged. He drew back for a final overhead strike, both hands tight on the hilt, committing his full weight behind it the way he always did when he sensed an opening. The blade rose. The crowd stilled.
Levi moved—not back, but forward, crossing the distance in a single blur and slipping inside the arc before the greatsword could complete its fall. His katana flashed once. The sound it made wasn't the clash of steel on steel but something sharper and more final—a clean, surgical ring that cut through the noise of the arena.
Marcus's greatsword split at the hilt. The upper half spun away and cracked against the stone beyond the ring. Marcus stared at what remained in his hands as Levi stepped past him, and a moment later the giant's knees hit the ground, the breath knocked out of him in a single hard gasp.
The arena went silent.
Levi stood with his blade lowered, pulse steady. The sharp heat that always preceded a decisive strike had already burned away, leaving the quiet behind—clean, familiar, and if he was being honest, the part he looked forward to most.
The stands erupted.
Marcus laughed from the ground, rough and genuine. "You were measuring me the whole time."
Levi sheathed his katana with a soft click. "Obviously."
"I thought you were being cautious."
"I was," Levi said. "Until I wasn't."
Marcus shook his head and hauled himself upright, still grinning. The announcer's voice rolled across the stands—victory to Levi of Fraire—and the cheers redoubled. Levi turned toward the competitor's section and found Mika already at the railing, offering a single round of unhurried applause with the expression of someone who had expected this and was mildly entertained by it anyway. He headed back to the competitor seat to spectate the rest of the matches for that day.
"You took your time," Mika said.
"I was making sure."
"You always say that right before something goes wrong."
"Nothing went wrong."
Mika's eyes dropped briefly to the blood on Levi's arm, then back up. He said nothing. The silence was pointed enough that Levi looked away first.
"Nearly had you in the second exchange," Mika said finally.
"Nearly."
"That's doing a lot of work."
Levi let that sit without answering. His gaze drifted back across the ruined arena floor—cracked stone, the severed blade still lying where it had landed—and he kept his expression even and his thoughts to himself.
Mika didn't push.
The announcer raised another scroll. "Next match — Mika of Maesa versus Laize of Shoar!"
Mika's attention shifted at once, the ease of a moment ago replaced by something quieter and more deliberate. He started toward the battlefield without hurry, then paused at the edge and glanced back.
"Try not to get bored before I finish."
"Try not to make it a spectacle."
Mika stepped into the arena. "No promises."