Celestial power: the war of realms

Draco Vs Loki

Mason stepped forward once more, his voice echoing through the arena. "Our next competitors are... Draco from the Shadow Realm and Loki from the Dragon Realm!"

The name announcement hit the crowd like a chill. The noise and cheers fell away, replaced by a hushed, almost reverent silence. The atmosphere shifted, charged with a tension that seemed to weigh down the air itself. The audience watched as Loki stepped onto the stage, his face drawn and serious. He held his head high, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of dread. Facing Draco was not merely a test of skill—it felt like a confrontation with darkness itself.

Then Draco emerged. His presence seemed to chill the air around him. Dressed in shadowy armor that absorbed the light, he moved with an almost ethereal grace. A whisper of wind swept across the stage, and as he met Loki's gaze, the arena felt colder still.

Mason, sensing the palpable tension between the two, quickly stepped back.

"Alright, let the duel… begin!"

Draco's eyes closed briefly, and when they opened, they glimmered with a dark intensity. He reached for his weapon, slowly unsheathing the Umbral Blade.

The sword was breathtaking and ominous: forged from Shadowsteel, a rare alloy imbued with the essence of shadows and enchanted with Shadowfire. Its smooth, dark surface shimmered with veins of purple and blue, giving it the appearance of a night sky lit by distant stars or dark water under moonlight. In the dim arena light, these veins pulsed faintly, as if alive.

Loki's eyes narrowed as he beheld Draco's weapon, but he did not falter. He drew his own sword, the legendary Drakeblade, a weapon born from ancient dragon magic and enchanted metals. Its blade gleamed with an inner fire, faintly orange, as though a dragon's breath was sealed within. The Drakeblade radiated an aura of strength, carrying with it the fiery heritage of the dragons.

The two warriors sized each other up, blades in hand, their contrasting energies filling the space between them.

Draco raised his sword high, the blade gleaming with a sharp menace as his eyes locked onto Loki. Before Loki could fully brace himself, a dense, swirling mist—almost like a fog—shot from Draco's weapon, hurtling toward him with a speed that made Loki's heart hammer in his chest. Gritting his teeth, Loki raised his own sword, steadying himself behind his shield.

The clang of metal rang out in the arena, a sharp sound that echoed across the stone walls and held the crowd in a tense silence. No one dared move or make a sound; every pair of eyes was glued to the brutal dance of weapon and shield.

With barely a pause, Draco pressed forward, launching a relentless storm of strikes. Loki braced himself, holding his shield firm as each of Draco's blows sent a shock wave down his arm, testing his strength, testing his resolve. Step by step, Draco pushed him back, forcing Loki to retreat as he struggled to withstand the relentless assault.

Loki's breath was shallow, his focus stretched thin under the weight of Draco's attacks. For a brief moment, he looked up, his eyes locking onto Draco's. But Draco gave him no chance to regroup. In one swift, decisive move, Draco took a deep breath—and the crowd gasped as a jet of fire erupted from his mouth, blazing straight at Loki.

Heat rippled through the air, and the audience held their breath, each person rooted to the spot. This was no ordinary fight; Draco's raw power was a dangerous force, and his intentions were clear. He wasn't interested in a fair fight. He wanted Loki dead.

The flames licked closer, and Loki felt the intensity of Draco's killing intent.

The fire was all around him, a fierce, unrelenting blaze that Loki could barely keep at bay. He tried to raise his shield, to push back, but the heat was overpowering. Flames licked at his arms, and pain shot through him as his skin began to burn. He staggered, teeth gritted, his vision blurring as he struggled to keep his defenses intact.

From the edge of the arena, General Mason's eyes narrowed. The match had spiraled out of control. He saw the murderous intent in Draco's relentless attack, the twisted pleasure in his gaze. Fury flashed in Mason's eyes as he raised his voice, a thunderous command that filled the arena.

"Draco! Do not forget your limits!"

The words echoed, slicing through the air. For a split second, Draco froze, his head snapping up to where Mason stood. His gaze was sharp, devoid of fear, his eyes alight with a wild, deadly resolve. Mason held Draco's gaze, unflinching, his expression hard and unyielding. Draco's power and rage intimidated many, but Mason was not one of them. He was a master in his own right—a general in the ancient martial arts.

Without hesitation, Mason leaped from the stands, landing with effortless grace on the arena floor. His presence was a ripple of calm and command that even the elders, sitting silently by, could not ignore. They had watched the match in silence, bound by the strict rules of tradition, but Mason knew that he had to intervene before Draco's violence became fatal.

As he approached Loki, he took in the burns marring Loki's arms and shoulders— the scorch marks that smeared his armor. Loki had managed to create a small barrier of energy, a last-second effort that had saved him from being consumed entirely. But he was shaken, his hands red and blistered.

Mason gripped Loki's shoulder. "Loki," he said, his voice firm but laced with concern.

He turned, signaling to the physicians waiting at the edge of the arena. They hurried forward, med kits in hand, while Mason maintained his silent, watchful stance between Loki and Draco, his message unmistakable.

Draco's father had not come to witness his son's display, an absence that felt almost like defiance to the entire realm. But for now, no one dared to comment.

As the physicians carefully tended to Loki's burns, Mason's attention shifted to Draco. He approached him, his steps measured and controlled, stopping only when they were face-to-face. His voice was low, yet each word carried a razor-sharp edge.

"I could dismiss you from this competition right now," Mason said, his tone laced with warning. "But I know that would cause chaos—and I have no intention of starting a war here. Don't mistake this as weakness, Draco. Next time, you won't escape the consequences."

Draco blinked, his expression unfazed. A faint, almost mocking smile tugged at his lips. His gaze held steady, challenging, as he answered in a calm but defiant tone.

"If you can't follow through on your threats, don't make them."

He turned, stepping back without a second glance, and walked out of the arena, leaving behind a trail of tension thick as smoke. The elders watched in silence, their expressions unreadable, bound by tradition yet clearly shaken by Draco's audacity.

Mason's gaze remained fixed on Draco's retreating figure, a simmering storm in his eyes. He didn't need to declare a winner. There was no victory here, only a line crossed, a dangerous display of power that had turned a test of skill into something darker.

Draco had emerged victorious against Loki, and the truth of his victory lingered in the arena. Sadi had watched Draco's fight intently from the start. When Draco ascended the stairs afterward, his gaze met Sadi's, but he gave no sign of recognition, no hint of emotion. Draco's expression was a closed door, his eyes sliding past Sadi as though he were nothing more than a bystander.

Sadi turned his head, watching Draco walk away, his own thoughts unreadable. But before he could dwell on it further, Mason's voice filled the arena, announcing the next match. Sadi shifted his focus back to the arena, setting aside whatever Draco's reaction—or lack thereof—might mean.

The competition continued, each match pushing the contenders closer to the ultimate prize. When it was finally Thor's turn, he stepped forward, hoping his opponent would be none other than Sadi. But fate had other plans. Thor fought fiercely, winning his challenge handily, yet a hint of frustration clouded his victory. The arena erupted in cheers at his triumph, but Thor's mind was elsewhere.

After ascending the stairs, he went straight to Sadi, who was waiting quietly for his own match to be called. Thor approached with a sneer.

"Sadi, I was expecting you," he said, his tone laced with mock disappointment.

"But it seems the gods didn't want us to meet in the arena. I was really hoping to face you."

Sadi met his gaze steadily, calm as ever. Thor continued, his voice tinged with arrogance, "Bad luck, I suppose. Guess I'll have to sit with the crowd and watch you fall to someone else."

Sadi took a measured breath, his composure unshaken. "Don't worry," he replied evenly. "I'll win my match. And then I'll be ready for you."

Thor laughed, though Sadi's quiet confidence seemed to rattle him. He was about to say more when Mason's voice rang out, cutting through the noise. Sadi's name echoed through the arena.

It was finally Sadi's turn.