Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes

The arena pulsed with energy as the announcer's voice boomed over the roar of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen! It's time for the first match of the day!" the announcer declared with dramatic flair.

"Representing Galdren, the thunderclap terror himself—Orik, the Thunderstriker! And from Windhollow, the indomitable, the elusive, the Iron Wraith—Veta!"

Cheers and whistles echoed through the stands as the two fighters made their entrances.

Orik was tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating sparks of electricity from his fingertips as though they were restless fireflies. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous confidence.

On the opposite side, Veta strode in with calm precision, her gray, metallic skin gleaming under the arena lights.

Her expression was unreadable, cold as iron, but those who knew her reputation understood the hidden menace beneath that calm.

Ivaim leaned back in his cushioned seat among the elite spectators.

"Thunder versus Iron? Sounds like the start of a bad folk song," he quipped loudly enough for those nearby to hear.

The people around him chuckled, and a man a few seats away remarked, "I bet on Orik. Think iron's going to fry today?"

Ivaim smirked.

"You think? Pretty sure Orik's the type to forget which end of the fork goes into his mouth when it's not sparking."

The crowd burst into laughter, drawing curious glances from others too far away to hear Ivaim's remarks.

But of course, some of the crowd repeated his jokes to the far ends of the crowd, making the audience continue to laughter.

The announcer's voice echoed once more.

"Fighters, take your positions! Ready... Begin!"

The arena fell silent for half a breath before Orik struck first, launching a blinding arc of electricity straight at Veta.

The bolt sizzled through the air, the crackling sound echoing off the stone walls.

Veta moved smoothly, shifting into her untouchable wraith form just before the lightning struck.

The bolt passed harmlessly through her ethereal body, grounding itself into the dirt floor.

"Missed her by a mile," Ivaim remarked with a lazy wave.

"Maybe he needs glasses—or a map."

Another round of laughter rippled through the crowd, though some watchers sat wide-eyed, too stunned to laugh.

Orik gritted his teeth and vanished in a flash of crackling light, reappearing near one of the arena's electrical nodes.

"Stand still, you ghost!" he snarled, releasing another barrage of lightning.

Veta reformed just in time, her body shifting back to solid iron.

Sparks danced harmlessly off her metallic skin as she marched forward, unfazed by the electrical onslaught.

"Ever tried shocking a rock?" Ivaim mused loudly.

"Same energy."

The spectators erupted in a mix of giggles and gasps, while Orik's frustration grew palpable.

Roaring in fury, Orik blinked from one lightning node to another lightning node.

His movements erratic as he tried to catch Veta off guard.

Each time he struck, she either shifted into wraith form or absorbed the attack in her iron state, completely unfazed.

"I'm getting dizzy just watching him," Ivaim called out.

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"Is this a fight or a bad magic show?"

Veta finally saw her chance. Orik appeared at the nearest node, sparks sputtering as his stamina waned.

Before he could discharge another attack, Veta shifted back into solid form and lunged forward, her iron fist slamming into his chest with a brutal thud.

The impact sent Orik skidding across the arena floor, smoke rising from his scorched armor.

The crowd gasped, leaning forward in their seats.

"That's one way to stop a thunderstorm," Ivaim remarked cheerfully.@@novelbin@@

"Hit it with a hammer!"

Orik struggled to rise, electricity flickering weakly around him. Veta didn't give him the chance.

In one swift motion, she shifted into her wraith form, flowed behind him like mist, and reformed with an iron hand pressed against his back.

With a final, crushing blow, Orik collapsed face-first onto the arena floor.

The announcer's voice rang out triumphantly. "And the winner—Veta, the Iron Wraith!"

The crowd erupted into cheers as medics rushed to tend to Orik.

Ivaim leaned back with a satisfied grin.

"Tough luck for Thunderboy," he said to no one in particular.

"Should've brought an umbrella."

The crowd around him laughed again, a mix of admiration and disbelief at his constant commentary.

...

As the matches continued, Ivaim remained comfortably seated, clearly having no intention of preparing for his own fight like the other competitors.

His sharp tongue became a feature of the event, turning the usual cheers and applause into waves of laughter that rippled through the arena after nearly every round.

When a burly man from Stonecliff tripped on his own foot during an early exchange, Ivaim quipped loudly.

"Didn't know they let dancers join the tournament. He's got the footwork, just needs a dress."

The audience exploded with laughter, and the flustered fighter glared up toward the elite seats, clearly wondering whether the laughter was at his expense.

During another bout between two young, overly dramatic fighters who kept circling each other without throwing a single blow, Ivaim sighed theatrically.

"Ah, the ancient art of running in circles," he announced, loud enough for half the arena to hear.

"Truly inspiring."

The spectators roared, some wiping tears of mirth from their eyes. The fighters paused for a second, looking around in confusion, their focus clearly shaken by the unexpected noise.

By the third match, where a fire-wielding competitor accidentally scorched part of his own cloak, Ivaim leaned forward with mock concern.

"Do they charge extra for self-roasting, or is that just a bonus feature?"

The laughter hit hard enough that the announcer had to pause his commentary. Even the judges exchanged bemused glances.

The embarrassed competitor tugged at his smoking cloak, his face redder than the flames he controlled.

Competitors began glancing nervously toward the crowd, unsure whether the booming laughter meant they were being mocked.

A few even stumbled mid-fight, distracted by the constant eruptions of mirth.

"Ivaim," one spectator nearby whispered between laughs, "you're going to ruin the whole tournament if this keeps up."

"Ruin it?" Ivaim grinned. "I'm the main event."

The announcer's voice boomed across the arena, his excitement palpable as he called out the next match.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Prepare yourselves for the next round!" T

he crowd hushed slightly, eager to hear the names of the incoming fighters.

"From Eldveil, the untamed force herself—Seren, the Savage Maiden!"

A wild cheer erupted as Seren strode into the arena. She was fierce and unyielding, her braided hair whipping against her shoulders. T

he gleam in her eyes promised violence, and the dual axes strapped to her back only reinforced that threat.

"And from the stronghold of Elthram, a name that needs no introduction—Nathan, the Iron Warden!"