Quarter finals(4)

The midday sun beat down on the Coliseum, transforming the sand into a furnace. Flint, a young warrior from the Sunfire Dominion, his dark skin glistening with sweat, surveyed the arena. Across from him, Cyrus, a prodigy from the Azure Kingdom, stood with unnerving calmness. Unlike Flint, clad in heat-resistant leather and wielding a warhammer forged from obsidian, Cyrus wore a simple white tunic and carried a slender silver staff.

The clash of cymbals shattered the tense silence, marking the start of the dual. Flint, a master of magma magic, channeled the sun's fury. With a guttural roar, he slammed his fist into the sand. The ground erupted, molten rock spewing forth and solidifying into jagged obsidian spikes that surged towards Cyrus with terrifying speed.

Cyrus, however, remained unfazed. Raising his staff, he muttered an arcane incantation under his breath. The spikes froze mid-air, defying gravity as a shimmering blue aura engulfed them. A hushed gasp rippled through the crowd. Time magic, a rare and enigmatic power, was on display.

Flint, frustrated, channeled his magic again. This time, magma surged from his pores, forming a shimmering cloak of molten rock. He charged, his obsidian warhammer a fiery comet trailing molten rock in its wake.

Cyrus, however, vanished with a faint shimmer. Flint's blow struck empty ground, sending a tremor through the arena. He spun around, searching frantically. The heat from his magma cloak radiated outwards, distorting the air.

"Lost, are we?" Cyrus' voice materialized behind Flint, a chilling echo in the heat-laden air.

Flint whirled around, his warhammer barely deflecting a bolt of pure energy that erupted from Cyrus' staff. The impact sent a jolt of searing pain through Flint's arm.

Sweat and despair mixed on Flint's face. Cyrus wasn't just dodging his attacks, he was manipulating time itself, creating short temporal pockets to move through the arena unseen. This fight was unlike any Flint had ever faced.

Gritting his teeth, Flint channeled his magic differently. This time, he focused on control, creating a miniature pool of molten rock at his feet. As Cyrus reappeared, his staff poised for another attack, Flint manipulated the molten rock with a flick of his wrist, launching it at Cyrus like a fiery projectile.

Cyrus reacted with lightning speed. With a muttered incantation, he slowed the molten rock down to a crawl. It became a grotesque caricature of its former self, a slow-motion blob of molten rock defying the laws of physics.

Flint didn't hesitate. He channeled his magic again, this time creating a wave of intense heat that pulsed outwards from his own body. The air shimmered, distorting the slowed-down molten rock. It pulsed and warped, the heat warping its trajectory.

The crowd gasped as the redirected molten rock crashed into Cyrus' staff. The impact sent a shockwave through the arena, shattering the staff into a million shimmering fragments. Cyrus stumbled back, his face contorted in surprise and pain.

A roar of approval erupted from the crowd, a surge of energy for Flint. But the victory cry died in their throats as Cyrus raised his hand, the shattered silver staff vanishing into a puff of blue mist.

"Impressive," Cyrus said, his voice tinged with respect. "But your power is fleeting, while mine…" he raised his remaining hand, and the air around him shimmered, a faint echo of the shattered staff appearing in his palm. "…exists outside the constraints of time."

Before Flint could react, Cyrus unleashed a torrent of pure energy – a concentrated blast of time magic that seemed to drain the very life out of everything it touched. The molten rock cloak around Flint sputtered and died, replaced by a sudden chill that crept into his bones. His movements slowed, his thoughts sluggish.

Flint looked down at his warhammer, once a symbol of fiery defiance, now cold and heavy in his hand. He tried to raise it, to defend himself, but his body refused to obey. The energy sapping his strength, draining him faster than a sandstorm.

Cyrus approached slowly, his face devoid of emotion. He stopped a hand's breadth away from Flint, the faint blue glow swirling around his hand intensifying.

"Yield," Cyrus said, his voice cold and clear.

Flint, his vision blurring, his body a numb shell, managed a single, defiant nod. The roar of the crowd, a distorted echo in his ears, faded into a distant hum as his knees buckled, and he crumpled onto the scorching sand.

The time magic faded, leaving Cyrus standing alone in the center of the arena. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rasping breaths of the fallen warrior. Cyrus raised his hand in a gesture of victory, the crowd erupting in a delayed, tepid applause.

The victory felt hollow. He had won, yes, but the fight had sucked the joy out of the triumph. Flint, unconscious on the sand, looked less like a vanquished foe and more like a withered tree under a relentless drought. The cheers of the crowd, once a deafening roar, now sounded like the buzzing of cicadas in the suffocating heat.

Cyrus lowered his hand, the blue energy dissipating around him. Shame gnawed at the edges of his satisfaction. He hadn't intended to cripple Flint, he just wanted him to yield. But time magic was a fickle mistress, its effects often unpredictable.

A medic, a woman with a concerned frown etched on her face, rushed to Flint's side. She checked his pulse, then looked up at Cyrus with a mix of anger and urgency.

"He's alive, but…" Her voice trailed off, replaced by a sigh that spoke volumes. "He's severely dehydrated, his muscles are atrophied, and there's…" she pointed to a tremor running through Flint's body, "…internal damage. He'll need extensive treatment, and even then…" She left the sentence hanging, a stark reminder of the potential permanency of Cyrus' actions.

Cyrus felt a pang of guilt, a cold sensation twisting in his gut. His victory trophy was a broken warrior, his triumph marred by unintended consequences. He hadn't slain a dragon, he had sapped the life force from a desert flower.

Shamefaced, Cyrus retreated from the arena, the roar of the crowd now a dull throbbing in his head. As he walked through the tunnel leading backstage, the metallic tang of blood, a faint smell from Flint's injuries, filled his nostrils. It clung to him like a shroud, a constant reminder of the brutal reality of his victory.

Later, in the sterile confines of the infirmary, Cyrus stood awkwardly beside Flint's bed. The Sunfire warrior lay motionless, hooked up to an array of tubes and machines. The vibrant energy that had once shone in his eyes was now replaced by a disturbing stillness.

A wave of nausea washed over Cyrus. He wasn't used to visiting opponents in the infirmary. Usually, his victories were celebrated with feasts and accolades. This… this was different. This was a stark reminder of the consequences of his power, the burden of a magic that could bend time itself.

As he turned to leave, a weak voice stopped him. "Cyrus…"

Flint's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible. Cyrus turned back, his heart clenching in his chest.

"Why… stop it?" Flint croaked, his face pale against the bleached white sheets.

Cyrus hesitated. "I… I didn't mean to… to hurt you that badly." The words felt hollow, even to him.

Flint offered a weak smile, more grimace than anything else. "I know. Just… frustrating, isn't it? You think you have control… but time? It always wins."

Cyrus stared at Flint, his reflection in the warrior's glassy eyes a stark reminder of his own power, and its limitations. As he walked out of the infirmary, the sterile white walls seemed to close in on him. He had won the fight, but in that sterile room, under the harsh fluorescent lights, he felt like he had lost something far more important – his own sense of purpose.

The cheers of the crowd now echoed in his mind as a mocking chant, a hollow victory that would forever be stained by the shadow of unintended consequences.