Whirlwinds and attacks in the form of sharp blades lashed the ground of the makeshift arena, while the elven champion, tall, handsome, and with his long, braided golden hair, moved with great agility around his opponent, dodging all the magical attacks and waiting for an opportunity to strike with his two short swords.

  The fight had been going on for a couple of minutes, between the elf named Ril'damir and the demon general Carmant. A fight that, up to that point, had been reduced to a deadly dance of magical attacks and an elf who seemed able to dodge everything the demon threw at him.

  Among the spectators in Ytreses, there was anticipation regarding this confrontation, and many shouted the elf's name to encourage him. But among the spectators was one person who didn't believe an allied victory was possible, a woman dressed in a long blue robe and with a white mask that covered the lower half of her face.

  With her black hair, styled in the classic manner of sect practitioners, and with her light green eyes, the woman could truly see what was happening in the arena.

  Everything seemed to indicate that the elf was toying with the demon, demonstrating his agility and waiting for the opportune moment to finish off his enemy with a single blow—a common tactic when facing a demon. But the reality was quite different. The elven representative was using a special technique to dramatically increase his speed, at the expense of his mana and life force. Something that should have given him a great advantage, but which nevertheless barely allowed him to dodge the demon's magic.

  She could barely see any fatigue on the demon's face, a burly man with red hair and a black robe, who relentlessly unleashed wind attacks through his golden gauntlets, his expression unfazed. She couldn't see hatred in the demon's eyes; she could only discern something subtle… perhaps greed.

  On the other hand, the elf was completely drenched in sweat, his gaze undeniably fierce, like any warrior risking his life in a single moment. However, she could see desperation and fear in the man's eyes.

  The slight oscillation in his breathing, the micro-tremor in his forearm muscle, the way his left foot began to lag a fraction of a second behind: signs that would go unnoticed by anyone else, but which told her a clear story. Ril'damir wasn't winning. He was surviving… and barely.

  The crowd, oblivious to it, thrilled to the elf's every move, convinced that each perfect dodge was undeniable proof of his mastery. But the woman felt her stomach tighten with each passing second. She knew the demon had everything under control, prolonging the fight only to ensure his enemy was exhausted enough to deliver the killing blow.

  And then it happened, when the demon left a gaping opening in his stance… Too obvious, too deliberate. And that was all the elf needed to see to launch a direct counterattack against his enemy, seemingly using all his remaining energy.

  The screams ceased. Thousands of throats fell silent simultaneously, each gasping for breath as if it could influence the outcome of the clash. But she could do nothing but close her eyes, awaiting the inevitable.

  First came the impact of two colossal forces, then a dry groan, and finally the familiar sound of a body collapsing. Something so quick and surprising, that it seemed somewhat anticlimactic given the level of the combat.

  The demonic coliseum is no place for the weak, so no one cried out or mourned the loss of their ally. And as with all those who had fallen before him, every member of the Free Army of Ytreses shouted the name "Ril'damir" a couple of times in unison, in a kind of farewell ritual.

  The woman softly uttered a short prayer for the fallen elf and, opening her eyes again, witnessed the harrowing sight of the demon dragging his opponent's lifeless body toward the fortress. The elf's head was twisted at an impossible angle, completely turned backward; an unmistakable mark of one of the most feared arts among demons: telekinesis. Only a few, usually demon generals and those higher in the hierarchy, could manipulate another's body with such brutal power, though it only worked at close range and was effective as a surprise attack.

  The fact that the demon was so powerful spoke to the fact that the elf was no mere warrior: he had been a veteran general of countless campaigns, a pillar of the alliance. The woman herself had seen him several times commanding large formations of allied forces. Yet his end had come in the most merciless arena in the world, a circle where glory and horror coexisted like old siblings. There, in the Demonic Coliseum, even the greatest could fall like mere pawns in a cruel game.

  It was at that moment, while the heavy silence of tragedy still lingered in the air, that the woman's eyes met those of a man standing beside her. He was elderly, his face etched with lines that spoke of discipline and experience. He, too, wore a blue robe, but on his chest was the emblem of the Sect of the Rising Dragon. Before the woman's unwavering gaze, the man simply nodded… And that small gesture was all she needed to decide her fate.

  Without hesitating, she began walking toward the center of the arena. Her mere presence drew the attention of thousands of spectators from both sides. The shouts grew rapidly, a wave of anticipation rising like a vibrant roar. And only when she reached the circle marked for the duels between champions did the crowd stop, holding their breath.

  A deep voice, emanating from the alliance's sector, resonated throughout the coliseum with unwavering authority:

  "Representative of the Rising Dragon Sect, Early Transcendence Stage, Leonor Liu."

  Leonor's name was received by the alliance like a banner raised in the midst of a storm. Thousands roared in unison, launching their challenge to the demons with a mixture of fury, hope, and pride. But the rulers of the fortress, the demons, remained motionless, silent… waiting for something more. Something Leonor knew she had to do.

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  She fixed her gaze on the wall occupied by the demons, took a deep breath, and brought a hand to her neck. Her fingers closed around a silver necklace she had worn for years. After a second of hesitation, she ripped it off and threw it as far away as she could.

  It was her self-destruct device, the mechanism that ensured her body wouldn't fall intact into demonic hands in case of defeat. Ripping it off was the primary requirement for her challenge to be recognized by the demons, who would claim her body should their champion win.

  The reaction was immediate. A roar of voices, laughter, and shouts erupted from the infernal stands. And after them, a voice as deep as the first, but laden with the guttural tone of the demonic language, boomed from the defenders' line:

  "Representative of Dornath, level 7, Vicir Eldenrock."

  Leonor knew the demonic language, so she understood every word perfectly. The number 7 meant she would face a demon general, and Dornath predicted that this would likely be a fire sorcerer.

  However, something strange happened when the Demon Champion was due to enter the arena. Longer than usual passed before he appeared at all, so much so that spectators from both sides began to express their unease, as if the seriousness of the event were being undermined. A murmur grew among the crowd like a swell of suppressed irritation; even the most disciplined warriors exchanged glances, silently wondering if this was a sign of disrespect.

  And when the Demon Champion finally appeared, Leonor immediately noticed something odd about him. He was a man with brown hair and green eyes, wearing a gray robe and carrying a silver staff. His posture was firm, and he assumed a fighting stance as soon as he stood before her, his face fierce in a clear attempt to intimidate her. But although his body mimicked the steadiness of a veteran, something betrayed the opposite: an almost imperceptible tremor in one of his hands and a gaze that averted itself whenever she tried to meet his eyes.

  What Leonor could see was the apprehension and nervousness in the demon's eyes, so it wasn't difficult for her to conclude that he had somehow been forced to fight her. A clear underestimation of her abilities. That reality hit her like a bitter pill: not only was she being sent an adversary who seemed reluctant to be there, but she was also being treated as if she didn't deserve a true duel.

  For both demons and the inhabitants of Gaea, the presence of female combatants was rare, with women primarily relegated to medical and support roles, far removed from the battlefield. It was no surprise, then, that the demon facing Leonor, despite his high level, likely had little combat experience and had been sent after a seemingly easy target. Indeed, very few women have left their mark in the centuries of fighting against demons.

  But far from being offended, she simply swallowed the bitterness of the situation and assumed a fighting stance, drawing her sword from her waist and unleashing her full combat aura. The energy emanating from her expanded like a clear and powerful rising wave, making the dust beneath her feet tremble. If the demons had tried to underestimate her, she would show them the gravity of their mistake.

  Both combatants waited for a few seconds for the starting signal, in a tense silence that stretched like a rope about to snap. That signal came from the fortress with the detonation of a massive energy sphere in the sky, an explosion of light that ignited the arena and marked the inevitable beginning of their confrontation.

  The demon was the first to act, raising his staff and pointing the red gem at one end toward Leonor. The initial attack manifested as a crimson beam only a few centimeters thick, so swift it seemed impossible to dodge. But Leonor didn't need to: she raised her sword, its blade beginning to radiate a bluish hue, and using one of its flat sides, she deflected the beam with precision, redirecting much of its energy toward the ground.

  The explosion raised a dense cloud of dust that completely obscured the woman. Despite the lack of visibility, the demon did not cease his offensive; on the contrary, he unleashed a barrage of fireballs on the spot where Leonor should have been. It was clear he wanted to end the fight immediately. His recklessness only succeeded in further destroying the terrain and thickening the dust cloud that enveloped the area.

  Finally, he had to stop when visibility became zero. Tension immediately crossed his face, and with his staff resting on the ground, he erected an energy field around himself, a clear sign that even he wasn't sure he had reached Leonor.

  A second after the energy field stabilized, a figure emerged from the dust cloud like a blue flash. Leonor advanced in a straight line from one of the demon's flanks, silently and relentlessly, leaving a trail of cutting energy in her wake. The demon barely had time to turn his head before the woman was meters away, her sword already raised.

  The impact wasn't a cut, but a shockwave erupting from the clash between Leonor's sword and the enemy barrier. The crimson dome warped violently, vibrating like glass about to shatter. The demon took three steps back, dragging his staff along the ground to avoid falling, feeling the woman's pressure threaten to crush him from within.

  Leonor didn't say a word. Not a cry, not a warning, not a challenge. Only her eyes, cold and full of determination, reflected her unwavering resolve.

  The demon, in desperation, reinforced the barrier. The staff trembled in his grip, and lines of red energy wound across the ground like living roots.

  Leonor reacted instantly, retreating at great speed and narrowly avoiding the crimson halo that formed around the demon. Then, she propelled herself forward with force and leaped into the air to avoid most of the incandescent fragments produced by the spell's explosion. It was undeniable that her speed and reflexes were outstanding; she had even managed to block part of the attack with her sword. Even so, some of the projectiles struck her robe and grazed her skin. The burns would have been severe were it not for the protective energy that constantly flowed over her body.

  But the demon wasn't unscathed either. His protective shield had consumed a tremendous amount of energy to withstand that near-suicidal technique. Sweat covered his forehead and trickled down his hands, which still gripped the staff tightly.

  Leonor gave him no chance to catch his breath. As soon as his feet touched the ground, she launched another attack. She drew several long, needle-like projectiles from her clothing and scattered them into the air; when activated, they began to move on their own.

  What followed was a relentless onslaught from the woman. The demon had no choice but to focus on resisting, reinforcing his energy shield to keep at bay both Leonor's sword and the needles that, guided with precision, struck the most vulnerable points of the protective dome time and again.

  The woman needed only the slightest lapse in the demon's defense for one of her needles to pierce the shield, plunging deep into his leg. He did everything he could to overcome the pain, even using telekinesis to stop another needle in mid-air as it was about to pierce his head. However, he could not avoid the sword, which, propelled with deadly accuracy, flew straight toward him and sank completely into his stomach.

  The demon groaned in pain and, in a desperate act, stopped Leonor just as she was an instant away from slamming her fist into his chest. Blood gushed from his eyes and nose as he used all his strength to keep her suspended with his telekinesis. But Leonor was too strong to be restrained for long, and he lacked the ability to maintain the spell and launch another attack simultaneously.

  By then, the demon's energy shield had completely vanished. When he could finally no longer hold her, Leonor broke free, and a single blow was enough to disarm him completely, sending his staff spinning through the air. She then delivered a direct blow to his throat, crushing his windpipe and causing the demon to collapse heavily to the ground.

  The multitude of allied warriors roared with excitement as they watched the demon fall, and Leonor, already exhausted by the intensity of the battle, withdrew her sword without hesitation from her enemy's stomach.

  It was then that the woman paused for a moment, gazing at the demon on the ground. She didn't pause to revel in her imminent victory, but because the scene before her was almost surreal. This being, who just seconds before had been a ferocious opponent, an infamous enemy to all of Gaea, now lay prone, desperately struggling to breathe. Tears mingled with the blood that flowed from his eyes as he stared toward the fortress, as if searching, among the throng of his own kind, for the face of someone important.

  In that instant, Leonor saw neither a monster nor a demon general. She saw a man in agony, perhaps trying to see his loved ones one last time. Her hand froze, unable to finish him off. Silently, she watched as life slowly faded from the demon's eyes. His convulsions grew shorter and weaker… until finally he stopped moving.