The sand of the Gladiatorial Arena had been renewed once more, but the mingled scents of gunsmoke, molten metal, and faint blood lingered in the air like settled memories of war.
The echoes of the previous duel still reverberated through the stands, while a new storm was already brewing in the silence.
In the other semifinal, the Night Lords had clashed with the Imperial Fists.
Sevatar had been a true specter. His fighting followed no fixed pattern, only relentless harassment, vicious blades striking precisely at joints and weaknesses, and the constant mental pressure radiating from his pale eyes.
He circled Sigismund, moving so quickly he left afterimages. When still, he melted into the shadows, and every reappearance brought a lethal flash of steel.
Sigismund stood like an unyielding reef amid the storm.
He did not chase that elusive phantom, but wielded his Power Sword in an impenetrable web.
His defense was not passive endurance. With blocks and parries precise to the millimeter, he built a moving bulwark of steel.
Every clash of blades threw off dazzling sparks and a grating screech that set teeth on edge.
Sevatar's assault was a furious tempest; Sigismund's defense, an ancient mountain range.
This duel pitted the ultimate spear against the ultimate shield, a supreme contest of patience and cunning.
Victory and defeat hinged on a single instant.
Unable to break through after so many attacks, Sevatar launched an almost perfect flanking strike at extraordinary speed. Perhaps prolonged combat had brought a trace of fatigue, or perhaps Sigismund's seemingly flawless defense had stirred a flicker of impatience. His movement faltered by a fraction, almost imperceptibly.
To most opponents, that hesitation would have meant nothing. To Sigismund, it shone as clearly as a lighthouse in the night.
The seemingly steady arc of his Power Sword abruptly