The crystalline viewing sphere flickered to display the next confrontation. The battlefield focused on a narrow canyon where Tharn Ironbrow and his team had fortified their position. The dwarf stood resolute, his shield gleaming under the dim light of the canyon’s shadows. Around him, his team formed an impenetrable wall of shields, spears, and arcane wards.

  “Hold this ground,” Tharn barked, his gravelly voice carrying authority and confidence. “They’ll try to break us with brute force, but they’ll find nothing but steel and resolve.”

  Opposite them, Oran Blackclaw and his assault force emerged, their imposing figures cutting a sharp contrast against the rocky terrain. Oran’s massive battle axe rested on his shoulder, and his team’s confidence was palpable. Their heavy fighters marched with purpose, flanking the dark mage and the rogue that trailed silently in the rear.

  From the coliseum stands, Grant leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement. “Here we go. Let’s see how Tharn deals with this wrecking ball.”

  Nel smirked. “It won’t matter. Oran’s going to smash that shield wall into splinters.”

  Ash watched quietly, his brow furrowing as the two forces closed the distance. Something about Oran’s team felt… off, but he couldn’t place it.

  The battle began with Oran’s team charging forward, their advance heralded by a barrage of spells that lit up the canyon like a storm. Fireballs streaked through the air, crashing into the ground around Tharn’s shield wall and leaving scorched craters in their wake. Lightning arced across the battlefield, carving jagged scars into the rocky terrain. Despite the chaos, Tharn’s shield wall held firm as the first impact echoed through the canyon. Oran’s fighters struck with the force of a battering ram, their weapons clanging against shields and parrying spears.

  “Hold the line!” Tharn roared, his shield bracing against the combined might of two heavy fighters. The ground beneath him cracked, but he stood unmoving, his defiance like an unyielding mountain.

  Behind the wall, Tharn’s mage retaliated with a volley of arcane blasts, each orb of energy detonating with a thunderous crack that sent shockwaves rippling outward. The rogue from Oran’s team weaved through the explosions with eerie precision, their movements a dance of shadows and speed as the canyon floor was pockmarked with glowing craters.

  Tharn’s team began to push back, their disciplined strikes cutting through the chaos. A spear user lunged forward, his weapon gleaming with an enchantment that crackled with energy. The blow pierced through a gap in Oran’s line, sending one of their heavy fighters reeling. The ground around them erupted as more defensive magic from Tharn’s side detonated, sending shards of rock and debris into the air. Cheers erupted from the coliseum, the crowd enthralled by the sheer destruction unfolding, but Ash’s frown deepened.

  “Something’s not right,” Ash muttered.

  Grant raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Tharn’s holding his ground like I knew he would.”

  Ash shook his head. “Look at how Oran’s team moves. It’s too… calculated. That’s not brute force. That’s misdirection.”

  The canyon trembled with the clash of steel and spellfire. Dust and debris hung thick in the air, lit in flashes by arcing lightning and the flares of defensive wards. Tharn’s shield wall stood unbroken—scarred, scorched, but still whole. For a fleeting moment, it looked as though brute strength would fail against dwarven discipline.

  Then the air shimmered. And then, with a sudden pulse of energy, reality fractured.

  A wave of magical feedback rippled outward, washing over the canyon like a silent scream. Oran’s entire assault team—heavy fighters, dark mage, even the rogue—vanished, their bodies unraveling into wisps of smoke and flickering light. In their place stood a new formation: leaner, faster, and unmistakably cunning.

  Shadowspire. Cloaked in gray and black, their sigils pulsing with active magic, and at the center, Elyas Ravenheart—arms crossed, a smug smile playing on his lips as if he had just unveiled a painting and was waiting for the applause.

  The coliseum burst into an uproar. Cheers, gasps, curses—an ocean of reaction surged through the seats. Even the announcer stumbled mid-sentence.

  “—wait, no—ladies and gentlemen, that’s not Oran Blackclaw! We’re seeing a total arcane subversion! That’s Elyas Ravenheart of Shadowspire, executing what may be the cleanest battlefield illusion in War of Imperium history!”

  Ash sat up straighter in his seat. “There it is…”

  Tharn staggered back a step—not from any strike, but from shock. “Illusions,” he growled. “They were never here.”

  He turned, eyes flashing toward his spellcaster. “Why didn’t you detect the distortion of mana around us?”

  The mage, visibly shaken, fumbled for words. “It was… layered. I didn’t sense the anchor. The entire canyon—it was warded like a projection chamber.”

  Above the battlefield, the viewing sphere zoomed out, tracing thin magical lines embedded in the rock—glyphwork etched subtly into the cliffs, used to project the illusory presence of Oran’s forces from a distance.

  From the viewing booth, Nel let out an incredulous laugh. “Genius! He mapped an entire battlefield illusion into the canyon’s leyline flow. That’s not just spellcasting—that’s illusion architecture. Elyas baited them perfectly. Oran’s probably at the castle by now.”

  Ash’s eyes sharpened, absorbing every detail. “He baited Scarlet Enclave into committing their full defense line. Tharn’s entire squad is in too deep. They’ll never get back in time.”

  Leona’s expression darkened. “Kaidan’s line is vulnerable now.”

  The view shifted again, just as Tharn turned, realizing the trap. His shield slammed into the ground with a fury that echoed through the canyon. His jaw clenched. His hand trembled at his side—not with fear, but fury.

  “Ravenheart…” he spat the name like a curse. “Damn you!”

  Ash clenched his fists, his gaze darting to the viewing sphere as the scene shifted to follow Oran’s real team. They were outmaneuvered. Shadowspire isn’t just fighting—they’re predicting every move Scarlet Enclave makes.

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  Scarlet Enclave’s castle loomed large on the screen, its imposing walls a testament to the Guild’s engineering prowess. Lysandra and her reconnaissance team had taken up defensive positions, the rogue leader’s sharp eyes scanning the horizon. She stiffened as a faint rumble reached her ears.

  “They’re coming,” Lysandra said, signaling her team to ready themselves. “Be sharp. This isn’t going to be a subtle fight.”

  From the treeline, Oran Blackclaw emerged like a force of nature, his obsidian armor reflecting the sunlight. His team followed close behind, their formation tight and focused. Without hesitation, Oran raised his battle axe and pointed toward the castle gates.

  “Break them!” he roared.

  Oran Blackclaw didn’t charge—he strode forward like a judge delivering a sentence. His obsidian armor crackled faintly with every step, runes etched into the plating glowing red with building fury. The massive battle axe he wielded dragged across the stone, gouging a scar in the ground behind him as he made his way into the courtyard.

  Lysandra Keswick adjusted her grip on her daggers, narrowing her eyes. She’d heard tales of him: the Juggernaut of Shadowspire, the Blackclaw that cracked mountains. But she didn’t flinch.

  I’ve faced worse. I’ve lived through worse.

  “You’ve come this far,” she called out, steady and clear. “But you’ll go no further.”

  Oran said nothing. The silence between them was thunderous.

  Oran’s mage raised both arms and slammed them into the ground. A wave of black mist erupted from the shockpoint, coiling like spectral serpents across the stone. Archers coughed and staggered, blinded by necrotic fog.

  “Mira! Wind burst!” Lysandra shouted.

  Her team’s wind caster responded instantly. A pulse of compressed air swept through the mist, blowing it back long enough for the archers to recover and loose another volley.

  Oran’s rogue appeared briefly behind Lysandra—but she was ready. She spun, slashing upward, her blade biting into shadow. The rogue hissed and vanished again, clutching a bleeding wrist.

  “You’re not the only one who can plan ahead,” she whispered.

  Then Oran moved.

  He surged forward faster than anything his size had the right to be. She barely brought her blades up in time. His first strike didn’t land—it collided—the force enough to drive her several feet back despite blocking the axe head.

  She responded by darting to the side, slashing at the gaps in his armor. Her enchanted daggers sizzled against his chest plate, leaving minor but mounting damage.

  “Not bad,” Oran rumbled. “You’re faster than what the rumors say about you.”

  “I appreciate the flattery, but it’ll get you nowhere.”

  She rolled low, slicing at his leg joints, aiming for tendons and weak points—but his boot kicked out, catching her mid-roll and slamming her into a broken pillar. She gasped, wind knocked from her lungs.

  “You’re clever,” he said, advancing again. “But clever breaks.”

  She grabbed a throwing dagger from her belt and hurled it—not at him, but at the stone overhang above. The detonation glyph carved into the hilt ignited on impact.

  The stone collapsed.

  Oran raised his axe, chanting low. A shield of black flame burst upward around him, vaporizing the rubble before it could touch him.

  Lysandra was already in motion, using the distraction to reposition. She leapt from stone to stone, flanking around the remaining battlers, cutting down a Shadowspire archer from behind before whirling on Oran again.

  The two clashed once more—her blades like sparks, his axe like a thunderclap. The ground cratered beneath them. Sparks flew as steel screamed against steel. Around them, defenders fell. The air was thick with smoke, magic, and blood.

  Lysandra’s team was dwindling.

  “Don’t let them breach the inner gate!” she roared. Her voice was hoarse, but still carried weight. Her surviving scout nodded and sprinted toward the portcullis control, only to be cut down by a shadow-tipped spear.

  Oran loomed again. His armor bore new scratches. His helm was cracked. But his eyes… they burned with unbroken will.

  “You fought well,” he said. “Better than most.”

  Lysandra’s breath was shallow now. Her arms ached. Blood ran down her leg. But she still raised her blades.

  “Then remember that when you crawl through my ashes.”

  Their final exchange was a blur. She feinted left, aimed for his side. He countered with the butt of his axe. Her dagger scraped his shoulder. His axe crashed against her ribs.

  She coughed blood and dropped to one knee.

  “Damn it,” she hissed.

  “You’re finished,” Oran said.

  His axe swept one final arc that to send her flying across the stone, unconscious.

  As she fell, the remaining castle defenses failed. The glyphs along the ramparts sputtered. The defensive enchantments collapsed.

  One by one, her team vanished in arcs of light—force-teleported out of the match arena as the defeat registered.

  The gate stood open.

  The castle interior now lay bare.

  Oran stepped forward, and Shadowspire followed.

  High above the battlefield, the coliseum roared with life. Spectators leaned forward in their seats, some clutching glowing scrying stones to zoom in on the clash, others chanting names like they were battle cries.

  “Lysandra! Lysandra!” echoed from a cluster of Scarlet Enclave supporters. Crimson pennants flashed with spell-enhanced ripples, casting trails of light in the air. Children waved illusion-globes that shimmered with miniaturized replays of Lysandra’s opening strikes.

  In the commentary tower suspended above the arena, the announcers’ voices boomed with amplified clarity, their words laced with arcane modulation.

  “And there she goes—Lysandra Keswick with the counter! Look at that footwork, folks! Daggers blessed with quicksilver enchantments, striking between armor seams. That’s the finesse we’ve come to expect from the Scarlet Enclave’s elite scouts!”

  “But Oran Blackclaw isn’t backing down,” said the second voice—deeper, reverent. “He’s shrugging off hits that would cripple a lesser fighter. His armor’s enchanted with obsidian bloodweave—rare, nearly indestructible. This is brute force versus calculated speed, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The viewing sphere zoomed in on the courtyard clash, freezing for a moment as Lysandra’s blade narrowly missed Oran’s throat. Gasps rippled through the crowd. The image replayed in slow motion from another angle, highlighting sparks, tension, and the sheer contrast in size between the two combatants.

  “She almost had him there!” the first announcer exclaimed.

  A collective cheer burst from the stands—but quickly gave way to silence as Oran retaliated. His axe struck the ground where Lysandra had stood moments before, and the image shimmered with impact resonance.

  On the opposite end of the arena, Shadowspire’s supporters roared to life. Their sigils glowed in synchronization, some forming temporary illusions of Oran raising his weapon in victory.

  “Look at the control,” said the second announcer, his voice hushed in awe. “Blackclaw isn’t just swinging wildly. He’s anticipating. Reading. Adjusting.”

  Emberlight watched from their box in silence. Nel muttered something under his breath—half spell analysis, half disbelief. Grant sat forward, knuckles white.

  “She’s outclassed,” he said. “She knows it, too.”

  Ash didn’t respond, eyes locked on the projection.

  And all around them, the crowd continued to rise and fall—each strike, each feint, each blow a wave rolling through a sea of thousands.

  Above the arena, the announcer’s voice rang with awe. “Shadowspire has shattered the final outer wall. Kaidan’s defenders are all that remain. What a display of deception, precision, and raw force!”

  Ash clenched the armrest of his chair, and leaned forward, his jaw tightening. This is where it counts. If Kaidan’s defenses break, Scarlet Enclave is done for. He looked on in wonder as the teams continued forward in an incredible display of skills and wit.