Watcher of Fate

Elara sat quietly in the corner of the prep room, her thoughts swirling as she prepared for the upcoming semi-final match. Quill perched on her shoulder, his dark eyes gleaming with an alertness mirrored her own. The room around them buzzed with tension, the air thick with anticipation, but Elara focused solely on the conversation between her and Quill, their voices a low murmur amidst the background noise.

“Solid illusions and the true clone were impressive,” Quill remarked, his tone contemplative. “But they’ve seen them now. They’ll be expecting it.”

Elara nodded, her gaze distant as she replayed the previous battles in her mind. “I know. The element of surprise is gone. They’ll be on guard for those tricks.” She flexed her fingers, feeling the familiar magic pulse coursing beneath her skin. “I’m down to one last trump card. If I use it now, there’s no going back. I’ll have nothing left hidden.”

Quill shifted slightly, his feathers rustling. “Better to hold onto it until you truly need it. The finals, perhaps?”

Elara’s lips thinned into a line. “That’s what I’m thinking too. But we don’t know what the next opponent is capable of. I’ll have to play this carefully.”

Quill nodded in agreement. “We’ve come this far. No need to show all your cards just yet. Adapt to the situation. If you must use it, make sure it counts.”

The tension in the room escalated as the announcer’s voice echoed through the stone walls. “Targath, the Bloodthirsty Minotaur, to the ring!”

Elara’s attention snapped to the announcement, her heart skipping a beat. She had expected Targath to be in her prep room, just like before, but a quick glance around confirmed he wasn’t. The hulking figure of the minotaur was conspicuously absent, leaving only a few other gladiators scattered about, each lost in their own preparations.

“Not here this time,” Elara muttered, more to herself than to Quill.

Before she could ponder Targath’s absence any further, the announcer’s voice echoed through the prep room. “Elara, the Lucky Mortal, to the ring!”

Elara’s heart pounded in her chest as the call came. She wasted no time, her legs carrying her swiftly out of the prep room and down the narrow corridor leading to the arena. The walls seemed to close in on her as she ran, the crowd's roar growing louder with each step. The realization struck her like a cold wave: she was going to face Targath in the semi-finals.

As she burst into the open air of the arena, the harsh sunlight reflecting off the blood-stained sand, Elara's eyes immediately locked onto her opponent. Targath, the Bloodthirsty Minotaur, stood across the arena, a towering mass of muscle and fury. His eyes burned with a savage hunger, his massive hands gripping a double-bladed axe that gleamed menacingly in the light. The weapon seemed almost too large for any ordinary being to wield, but in Targath’s hands, it looked like an extension of his formidable strength.

Elara slowed her pace as she stepped onto the sands, the weight of the upcoming battle pressing down on her. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and anticipation. The crowd roared in approval at the sight of the two gladiators, their bloodlust palpable. Every eye was on them, waiting for the brutal clash that was about to unfold.

Focusing intently on Targath, Elara activated her [Cognizance] skill, her senses sharpening as she analyzed her opponent. The information box appeared above Targath, displaying his details in stark clarity:

[Lvl 31 Minotaur Berserker (Rare: 518)]

Elara’s breath caught in her throat. Targath’s spirit pressure was formidable, a force of nature that seemed to radiate from him in waves. It was lower than she had feared, but still powerful enough to pose a significant threat. His rarity rating of 518 indicated that while he wasn’t the most powerful being she had faced, his combat prowess and raw strength were not to be underestimated.

The announcer’s voice cut through the noise of the crowd, beginning the countdown. “Gladiators, prepare yourselves! The fight begins in three...”

Elara tightened her grip on her sword, her muscles coiling like a spring, ready to explode into action. Across the arena, Targath snorted, his nostrils flaring as he shifted his weight, his hooves digging into the sand. His muscles rippled under his fur, each movement brimming with controlled power. The way he adjusted his stance made it clear that he was prepared to unleash devastating force.

“Two...”

The tension in the air was electric, every fiber of her being screaming at her to be ready. Elara’s mind raced through her options, her previous strategies flashing before her eyes. Targath was a brute, but he was no fool; he would capitalize on her mistake. She would need to be faster, smarter, and more precise than ever before.

“One...”

Targath’s muscles tensed, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto her, a predator ready to strike. The arena fell into a tense silence, the crowd holding its collective breath.

“Begin!”

The word was barely out of the announcer’s mouth before Targath charged, a bull-like roar erupting from his throat as he barreled toward Elara. His axe was raised high, the blade gleaming with a lethal edge. The ground shook beneath his thundering hooves, each step propelling him forward with terrifying speed and power. His focus was absolute, his intent clear: to crush her in one fell swoop.

Elara’s instincts kicked in, and she reacted in an instant. With a quick weave of navy-blue threads, she cast [Shadow Step], her form dissolving into a wisp of smoke that darted across the arena. The world around her blurred as she zipped to the other side, reappearing in a cloud of dark mist just as Targath’s axe came crashing down where she had stood a moment before. The ground splintered under the force of his missed strike, but Elara was already on the move.

Without hesitation, Elara wove the dark threads of shadow, silver threads of force, and white threads of light, casting [Clone]. A second Elara materialized beside her, identical in every way, her eyes gleaming with the same steely determination. The clone wasted no time, immediately weaving a spell of its own. The green threads of air intertwined as the clone cast [Haste] on the original Elara. The world around her seemed to slow as her movements accelerated, her reflexes sharpened to a razor’s edge.

Empowered by the spell, Elara charged at Targath, her blade gleaming as she moved with the speed and precision of a seasoned warrior. At the same time, her clone took on the role of a healer, weaving black and blue threads to cast [Warrior Reprieve] onto the original Elara, reinforcing her endurance and resilience. The clone then summoned pure green threads of air, casting [Tempest's Touch] to create tendrils of wind that tugged at Targath’s weapon and footing, throwing him off balance.

Targath was no mindless brute; his swings were not wild but controlled and deadly accurate. Each arc of his massive axe was delivered with calculated precision, aiming not just to hit but to cleave Elara in two. His strikes were powerful, capable of splitting stone, and each movement was executed with a level of skill that belied his savage appearance.

Elara’s heart pounded as she evaded Targath’s attacks by the narrowest of margins. Her high dexterity and the fluid movements provided by her shared skill with Quill. [Crimson Quill Dance] allowed her to slip through the lethal arcs of his swings like a ribbon caught in the wind. Each time Targath’s axe whistled through the air, Elara was already a step ahead, her body twisting and flowing with the grace of a dancer, her feet barely touching the ground as she maneuvered around him.

But the exchange of blows was anything but effortless. For every thin, precise slash that Elara managed to land on Targath, the minotaur responded with a swing of his axe that shook her to the core. Even when his strikes missed by arm's length, the sheer force of his swings caused the air to tremble, sending shockwaves through Elara’s body. Her blade danced across Targath’s armor, leaving behind shallow cuts that bled, but in return, the powerful gusts of wind from his near misses made her bones rattle, her limbs trembling with the impact.

Elara felt each close call as a jarring shock that reverberated through her frame, a reminder of the raw power she was up against. Targath’s swings were like thunderclaps, each promising devastation if it connected. She could feel the strain on her muscles as she pushed her body to its limits, every movement a delicate balance between offense and defense.

The arena became a blur of movement, steel, and fury as the battle raged. Elara’s slashes were quick and calculated, targeting the gaps in Targath’s armor, seeking to weaken him bit by bit. But Targath was relentless, his powerful swings cutting through the air with terrifying speed and precision. His axe tore through the space where Elara had been moments before, each near-miss leaving her heart pounding and her senses heightened.

The air around them was tense, the crowd’s roars blending into the background as the two gladiators exchanged blows. Elara could feel the weight of the fight pressing down on her, the strain of keeping up with Targath’s relentless assault taking its toll. She knew she couldn’t afford to make a single mistake; one misstep, one moment of hesitation, and Targath would end her.

Targath’s anger grew with each missed strike, his frustration mounting as Elara continued to evade him. His focus shifted to the clone aiding Elara with healing spells and disrupting his attacks. The realization that the clone acted as a healer infuriated him even more. With a bellow of rage, Targath decided to charge at the clone, his massive form hurtling toward it with murderous intent.

The clone feigned fear, its eyes widening as it backed away, playing the part of a panicked illusion. Targath, blinded by his rage, fell for the ruse completely, his focus entirely on the clone as he prepared to deliver a killing blow.

Meanwhile, the real Elara saw her opportunity. With Targath’s back turned, she began to channel her mana, drawing upon the full depth of her power. The energy surged through her, raw and potent, as she prepared to unleash her most powerful technique. Clear threads of mana coalesced around her blade, crackling with a fierce, almost tangible energy. The air around her hummed with the sheer intensity of the spell as she aligned her strike.

With a burst of speed, Elara closed the distance between herself and Targath. She could feel the world around her narrowing to a single point of focus: the exact moment when she would strike. The threads of magic converged on her blade, empowering it with a destructive force that seemed to rend reality itself.

As Targath raised his axe to strike the clone, Elara unleashed her attack, the blade arcing downward with deadly precision.

[Technique: Poignant Criticism]

The blade connected with Targath’s primary arm, and the moment it struck, the air seemed to freeze. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of steel slicing through flesh and bone, a sickeningly clean cut that silenced the roar of the crowd. The force of the strike was so immense that it cleaved through Targath's thick armor, muscles, and bone as though they were nothing more than paper.

Blood erupted from the wound in a gruesome spray, the crimson liquid painting the arena floor as Targath’s arm was severed cleanly at the shoulder. The severed limb, still clutching the double-bladed axe, fell to the ground with a heavy, wet thud, the blade embedding itself in the blood-soaked sand. The sight of the arm, muscles twitching in death’s final grip, was almost surreal, the brutal reality of the strike sinking in as Targath’s blood spattered across Elara’s armor, staining her in a gruesome red.

Targath’s roar of agony was like nothing Elara had ever heard, a deep, guttural sound that resonated with both pain and fury. The stump of his arm gushed blood in thick torrents, each pulse of his heart sending another wave of crimson cascading down his side. His knees buckled under the sudden loss of balance and strength, his massive form swaying as he struggled to stay upright.

The crowd gasped in unison, the sheer brutality of the strike stunning them into silence. Once filled with the roars of bloodthirsty spectators, the arena fell eerily quiet as they watched the mighty Targath, the Bloodthirsty Minotaur, brought low by a single, devastating blow.

Elara stood behind him, her sword still glowing with the residual energy of the spell. The air around her was thick with the metallic scent of blood, the sand beneath her feet slick with the gore that had sprayed from Targath’s wound. She didn’t relish the moment but knew she had to seize it. “Yield, Targath,” she called out, her voice steady despite the intensity of the battle. “This fight is over.”

Targath roared again, a more primal than articulate sound filled with pain and defiance. But no fight was left in him; his strength was draining away with every drop of blood that stained the sand beneath him. His legs finally gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, the strength that had once made him a terror in the arena now pouring out of him in a relentless flow of blood. He was a warrior to the end, but even he knew when he was beaten.