Back on the field, Kiato's only answer was the sound of steel leaving its sheath.
He activated his blade.
"Unleash the dragon's fury—Hinoyuki."
His hair unraveled into strings of flame, slicing through the glacial air. His cloak shimmered with veins of molten magma, crested in living crystal.
"I guess that means you'd like a quick death," Veylor smirked, unsheathing his blade.
"Shiver, scream, then drown in silence… Unseal—Mourneveil. Let me hear their last breath freeze."
The ground trembled as murderous intent surged. Mist exploded across the arena, and within it, only disjointed laughter echoed.
When the mist finally cleared, Veylor stood—Mourneveil in hand, the blade shimmering with frost. His broken lips exhaled cold mist with every breath, tongue flicking from his mouth like a serpent tasting blood.
Then—he charged.
No stance.
No hesitation.
Just madness.
Kiato pivoted smoothly.
"Frost Spiral."
A ring of frost burst outward, locking Veylor's feet mid-charge for a breath. But Veylor laughed—laughed—as he twisted and skated across the frozen edge with unnatural grace.
Clang! Their blades collided.
Mourneveil hissed, devouring Kiato's cold steel, spreading shards of black ice along both swords. Veylor's grin widened.
"I like you," he whispered. "You're quiet. I wonder what your scream sounds like."
Kiato didn't answer.
He slipped back, aura coalescing into focused calm.
"Piercing Fangs of Ice."
Five frozen darts formed at his blade's tip and launched—aimed precisely at joints, eyes, weak points.
Veylor blocked two, dodged one, let the fourth skim his cheek—and caught the last between his teeth, crunching it like glass.
Up in the noble seats, murmurs rose.
"He's not using fire."
"Why limit himself?"
"Without flame, he might not win."
The Frostblood Matriarch narrowed her eyes.
"No. He's watching. Let the boy dance."
Down on the field, Veylor's grin sharpened.
"Enough foreplay," he purred. "Let's unleash."
He raised Mourneveil high and whispered:
"Sword Unleash—Cradle of Drowning Silence."
The battlefield vanished into mist.
The arena of Gallus fell silent.
Then, a wave of hushed voices:
"He has a second sword unleash?"
But even the whispers died.
Light dimmed.
Temperature dropped.
Veylor's aura formed a suffocating dome of water and frost. The audience gasped as Kiato disappeared from view.
Inside, Kiato couldn't hear his breath.
Couldn't see clearly.
Cold bit into his lungs.
A strike.
A slash grazed his arm—missed the kill by inches.
Another.
A blade scraped his ribs—shallow, but too close.
Hinoyuki's voice echoed in his mind:
"Stay calm. You can't fight madness with madness."
Kiato gritted his teeth. He wasn't losing.
He was recording.
Every step.
Every aura pulse.
Every rhythm behind the chaos.
Because even madness had tempo.
He closed his eyes.
The next strike came—
—and he ducked it.
A flicker of surprise.
Then Kiato slammed his sword into the ground.
"Frostfire Field: Phase Shift."
No fire emerged.
Only dense, piercing cold.
The mist cracked—not enough to dispel, but enough to carve a window.
There—Veylor's feet.
Moving faster than his upper body.
Overconfidence. Overreach. A weakness.
But Kiato wasn't ready to strike.
He was just getting warm.
The silence cracked.
Veylor's blade sliced through mist like a winged guillotine. Kiato twisted low, barely ducking—but a line of red bloomed across his cheek. His blood sizzled in the cold.
"You're slowing down," Veylor hissed from behind. "Is it the cold? Or are you afraid?"
Kiato exhaled.
Steam billowed from his lips.
His body warmed—not from magic, but from within.
Raizen fire. Zepharion blood. It boiled beneath his skin.
Not yet.
He gripped his sword tighter.
"Come closer."
Veylor obliged, slicing in from the left.
Kiato blocked with his blade's flat. Ice cracked against cursed steel.
He didn't overpower—he pivoted.
Veylor's elbow came for his throat.
Kiato caught it—with an ice-covered hand—and backrolled away.
He was adapting.
Reading.
Veylor's grin faltered.
In the Noble Seats, whispers soured.
"Still no flame?"
"Maybe he's ashamed of it."
"His father would've burned the arena down by now."
The Frostblood Matriarch said nothing—but her gaze followed Kiato's breath.
Thicker. Hotter.
She knew.
Kiato's veins glowed faintly.
His breathing quickened.
Heat pulsed through pain—not from spellwork, but from will.
Veylor raised Mourneveil—now layered in inverted water, dripping upward.
"I see it now," he said, breath ragged. "You're holding back. Why?"
Kiato said nothing.
"Let it out!" Veylor roared. "Let me see the RAIZEN FLAME!"
He vanished.
Mist rose again—teeth around Kiato. Blades struck from all angles.
Each slash was chaos. Mourneveil screamed frost and curses.
Kiato's aura flickered.
But his eyes burned brighter.
One final cut drove him to a knee.
Blood dripped from his shoulder, thigh, ribs.
Veylor crept close.
"The cold suits you," he whispered. "Let's carve your final breath into the mist."
He raised his sword—
—and froze.
Not from cold.
From heat.
The frost hissed.
Kiato rose slowly.
His left hand burned orange.
Steam hissed from his cloak.
His blade's spine glowed red.
The frost beneath him evaporated.
His voice came low:
"I gave you time. I gave you space. Because chaos without rhythm doesn't scare me."
He tilted his head back, eyes closed.
"Crimson Howl."
A pulse shook the dome.
Then another.
Then—a roar.
A dragon's roar, pulled from Kiato's soul.
Flames coiled around him like a beast. Frost shattered. Mist ignited.
The battlefield returned.
Kiato stood in a ring of melted stone.
The crowd gasped.
Nobles leaned forward.
"That's… not ordinary flame."
"No," the Matriarch whispered. "He's channeling something ancient."
Gundrick Kenji didn't speak—
But pride touched his lips.
Veylor stared—
Then laughed.
"YES!" he howled. "THAT'S WHAT I WANTED!"
He raised his blade.
"Final Technique—Drown in Me."
A spiral of frost and water erupted—wrapping him in a cocoon of destruction.
Across from him, Kiato's flame faltered—but did not go out.
He planted Hinoyuki into the ground.
His father's voice echoed:
"Fire is strength. Frost is thought. Use both—or die with one."
Kiato exhaled.
"Crimson Howl—Second Pulse."
This time, the flame compressed.
A ring of heat circled him—then burst inward.
Into his blade.
The sword hummed.
Steam swirled.
Then—he vanished.
Straight into the cyclone.
The storm raged. Veylor stood at its eye—Mourneveil pulsing.
Then—a ripple.
A heatwave pierced the vortex.
Kiato appeared.
Steam-cloaked.
Blade crackling.
Eyes razor-sharp.
Veylor roared.
Clang!
Their blades met.
Not once.
Not twice.
But in a blur of death-speed slashes.
Frost and flame collided.
Veylor attacked from impossible angles.
Kiato parried with precision.
He was still planning.
Still calculating.
The Noble Seats were silent.
Even Captain Gon Ferrence whispered:
"He's predicting every move… that's not just skill. That's cognition."
The Matriarch trembled. "He's making the psycho dance."
Gundrick Kenji narrowed his eyes.
"End it."
On the battlefield, Kiato stepped back mid-flurry.
His blade dimmed.
He lowered his stance.
Veylor panted, grinning. "Giving up?"
Kiato's voice came cold:
"No. I'm done reading."
He stabbed Hinoyuki into the ground.
"Frost Technique—Glacier Vow."
The heat vanished.
Frost pulsed—along Veylor's aura trail.
Every step, every leap—frozen.
He was suspended mid-strike.
Eyes wide.
"You—"
Kiato stepped forward, drew his sword, and whispered:
"Frost Technique—Crimson Howl: Final Arc."
One blazing slash.
No explosion. No theatrics.
Just a clean, cauterized strike.
Veylor's sword dropped.
His knees hit the ground.
Silence.
Then—the arena erupted.
Cheers. Screams. Awe.
Nobles rose. Students roared.
Even the captains stood.
"His father trained him well."
The referee muttered:
"That wasn't wind or ice… that was intelligence."
The Frostblood Matriarch placed a hand over her heart.
"He turned thought into a weapon."
And in the commander's box—
General Tetsuo Raizen nodded.
Once.
Kiato stood over Veylor, steam rising from his skin.
Veylor spat blood, grinning.
"You won," he rasped. "But not because you were stronger."
"No," Kiato agreed. "Because I was smarter."
Veylor chuckled—
Then collapsed.
The referee declared:
"Winner—Kiato Kenji!"
Kiato walked from the arena, steam trailing behind him.
All eyes followed.
And in the hearts of many, one thought echoed:
"I'm lucky he wasn't my opponent."
—To be continued.