To the Grand Final
The crowd erupted—cheers, screams, a thousand throats howling like a living storm.
In this semifinal of the Open Duel, something horrific and magnificent had just unfolded between Cheik Ademi and Mr. Sunday.
Six minutes into the bout, Mr. Sunday had struck the lower back of Cheik Ademi—not deeply, not fatally, barely even a wound. Yet every spectator saw the instant change on Cheik’s face: panic, raw and unmasked. A man who previously fought like pain had no meaning, who continued the assault even with flesh torn and bone cracked—now leaped back in fear, widening the distance as if Mr. Sunday had touched something forbidden.
The arena whispered in confusion.
And Mr. Sunday—calm, insolent, unreadable—lowered himself to sit casually atop the edge of his sword, provoking his opponent. His cat-mask, with its dusty half-smile, hid every trace of thought. People claimed that he never truly fought seriously, and tonight he looked content to play inside that myth.
Cheik Ademi, seeing the mockery, erupted in fury.
He drew his trusted weapon—his obsidian boomerangs, the very same that ended Mikael the elven fighter in the earlier round. But instead of throwing one, he hurled three at once as he charged, intent on finishing Mr. Sunday in a single decisive moment.
Mr. Sunday slipped through the incoming flurry—parrying the obsidian blade, redirecting the brutal force of the shield strike, feet dancing on instinct. But the true danger awaited behind him—the return arc of the three boomerangs, screaming through the air like silver fangs.
The world slowed. Instinct seized his body.
He twisted; he leapt—an impossible feat of martial grace. One blade passed safely beneath him, but luck abandoned him for the other two.
One carved across his cheek—a kiss of steel that missed lethal depth by a hair.
Another grazed his shoulder as he arched backward, allowing momentum to pull him into a rolling landing.
He rose in a crouch, breath sharp, eyes locked on Cheik—because he knew: against this opponent, the smallest injury will soon become a catastrophe.
And he was right.
Catching his returning boomerangs, Cheik Ademi smiled—an awful, knowing smile. He smeared Mr. Sunday’s blood along the obsidian blade.
In that instant, Mr. Sunday’s body snapped still. He could not move.
"God's sake! He's done for!" a spectator screamed, voice cracking with shock.
But Cheik did not finish him. Instead, he turned to the crowd, raising his weapon, celebrating victory before it was even earned. And the audience rewarded him—chants of his name, primal howls, hysteria.
From the commentator booth high above the stands, Martin Beglin’s voice boomed:
“Ladies and gentlemen—Cheik Ademi is toying with fate! The man could end it right now, but no—he wants the glory first!”
And Bill Drury answered, breathless:
“Or he wants the crowd to witness something even worse, Beglin. Confidence is a strong weapon. This might deal a mental blow to whoever he's facing next in the final!”
Eventually satisfied with rallying the swelling masses, Cheik thrust the obsidian blade—directly into his own stomach.
.
.
.
Suddenly, his scream tore the air. Sweat poured down his face. Because now, not only was Mr. Sunday wounded—he was wounded too.
He finally understood:
Mr. Sunday had done something to him.
Blood drenched them both. Cheik fell to his knees, while Mr. Sunday—though barely able to breathe—remained standing. The crowd fell into a stunned silence, struggling to comprehend what had happened, was happening, and what would soon happen.
One spectator broke first:
"What are you doing! Finish him now!!"
Cheik writhed in agony.
Mr. Sunday began to walk toward him.
With a chilling calm, the masked man took his sword—dragged it across his own wrist, then stabbed his own shoulder.
“Oaaagh! Aeeuughh!”
Cheik screamed again, but Mr. Sunday paid no mind.
He reached the fallen gladiator and plucked from his belt a small cloth pouch. He opened it—revealing two straw dolls wrapped in thick coils of human hair, carved with a tiny slash - A slash that matched Mr. Sunday’s earlier strike on Cheik Ademi's backside.
“Voodoo magic from Zarim,” he said, holding the dolls up high so the arena could see.
“Extremely potent and powerful Yarna.”
The audience erupted—not with cheers, but with confused terror and hungry fascination.
From the booth, Bill Drury whispered almost reverently:
“Gods above… Such sorcery, albeit legal, is somewhat too dangerous don't you think, Martin?”
"All is fair in combat and love, be as it may, as long as it's not prohibited, we must honor everyone's way of fighting. And I think Mr. Sunday knew ... He’s been playing the game of agony and resilience with him this whole time." Martin Beglin, shook his head.
Mr. Sunday lowered his blade to Cheik’s throat—who still writhed weakly.
"Azma yangu haiwezi kushindwa" (My resolve cannot be conquered) Ucap Mr. Sunday pada Cheik Ademi.
Cheik Ademi fell still.
He lowered his own weapon, then prostrated himself—hands open behind his ears, the Gondwana gesture of total surrender.
The referee’s whistle pierced the dead air.
Mr. Sunday—winner of the semifinal.
He raised his sword only briefly in muted celebration before collapsing under the weight of his wounds, and officials rushed in to lift him onto a stretcher and carry him away. The masses showers him with yelling, cheers, and praise as the fanfare signals the end of the bout.
Di bangku penonton, Viena, Lisabelle, dan Laura menyaksikan pertandingan. Lisabelle terutama, sangat antusias dan bahkan tidak berkedip sedikitpun.
"Luar biasa. Bagaimana ia bisa tahu rahasia-rahasia seperti itu? Menakjubkan bukan, Vivi?"
Viena tidak menjawab pertanyaan Lisabelle.
"Vivi?" Lisabelle memanggil untuk kedua kali.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. It's really amazing." jawab Viena singkat setelah tersadarkan dari lamunannya.
Lisabelle pun terdiam, ada sesuatu yang mengganggu pikiran Viena, tapi ia belum tahu apa. Apa sebenarnya yang dikatakan si tua Argenis itu kepada adiknya? Ia ingin mencari tahu, tapi ia belum menemukan momen yang tepat.
"Laura, can we grab something light somewhere after this? Pertandingan berikutnya belum akan dimulai setengah jam lagi."
"Oh, I know exactly what you'll like."
The three of them left the arena and wandered into another part of Great Gardenia. The festival was overflowing—ribbons of exquisite fabrics, music, vendors calling and laughing, banners fluttering like birds in migration. Somehow, through the crush of visitors, Lisabelle managed to find a patch of space with a few seats. She beckoned Viena to sit quickly, to claim it before someone else could, while Laura went to buy food.
Goldun, Laura’s devoted half-dwarf attendant, offered—almost insisted—to run the errands for her. But Laura refused with a cheerful wave. Today she wanted to feel the festival with her own body, her own breath: the noise, the long lines, the mingled aromas of roasted spices and sweet tarts—even the waiting.
Now Lisabelle and Viena were alone.
They sat side-by-side on the soft grass beneath a flowering apple tree, where petals drifted like mute snowfall. Lisabelle reached into her little basket, pulled out a loaf with apple jam, and gently held it against Viena’s lips. Viena bit into it, and when she withdrew, Lisabelle ate from the same mark, as if sharing warmth through the imprint of her teeth.
“Wanna tell me what he said to you?” Lisabelle asked—not sharp, not demanding, just soft curiosity wrapped in concern.
“What? H-He said nothing.” Viena turned her gaze away immediately.
“For what reason did we drag ourselves here early and shove through the crowds,” Lisabelle sighed, “if you’re not enjoying any of it?”
Still no answer. Viena folded inward, silent despite Lisabelle’s gentle insistence.
“Vivi… it would be better to come clean with me. Better to let me help you—so we can enjoy the rest of this festival instead of you spending your days looking at the ground all the time?"
Silence returned, longer this time. Petals floated and landed on their shoulders. Lisabelle ate more than half the bread while Viena sat frozen in uncertainty.
Inside her, a war raged.
Part of her yearned—achingly—to tell Lisabelle everything. Many things. Things she should have said long ago.
But then there were Randia’s words—his stern warning that she must protect her secret above all else.
And then—
“Are you a Mistari, Vivi?”The question shattered her shell.
Viena’s eyes flew wide. Her fingers clawed into the hem of her skirt until they shook. Her heart hammered wildly, breath turning sharp and thin. Cold sweat gathered and trickled down her temple. Her whole body trembled.
Lisabelle saw all of it. She did not flinch, did not interrupt. She let the storm pass inside the child—because she needed Viena to speak with her own lips. She wanted Viena to weigh her own heart.
"... I am."
And Lisabelle moved instantly—pulling Viena into her arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead, holding her fiercely, protectively, as though shielding her from every god who mattered.
“It must have been hard,” Lisabelle whispered, voice breaking with love.
“Thank you… for trusting me.”
The words pierced straight through Viena’s heart.
Tears surged before she could stop them.
She collapsed in sobs against Lisabelle’s embrace—crying not quietly, but with the raw desperation of someone who had held her struggle for too long.
Everything she had buried clawed its way up at once.
Days of wandering the roads like something less than human.
Nights surviving on lies, on tricks, on stolen bread and stolen coins.
The shame of pickpocketing, of digging through garbage just to stay alive.
Every humiliation, every compromise, every moment she swore she would forget—
all rising together, crashing through her like a storm finally given permission to break.
Lisabelle wrapped her tighter, stroking her back, fingers smoothing her hair in slow, rhythmic care—like a sister, like a shelter, like a promise of safety the world had never given her.
Above them, the apple blossoms stirred in the warm wind—petals falling over them like a quiet benediction.