those darn frigs

The rest of the fourth round continued without issue. Foley held his own in a fight against a woman armed with two quarter staffs, relying on his tried-and-true method of putting up his defenses and waiting for his enemy to tire. For several minutes, she beat on his shields like she was playing the drums, but when she realized she couldn’t break through, she surrendered, able to walk out of the arena with some of her dignity intact. Not long after, Saimallah claimed victory in another one-sided beatdown against a church agent, never even touching his opponent. The round ended with Seraph narrowly defeating an axe wielder, due much in part to luck. The man was mighty and skilled with his weapon, but the fact remained that if Seraph still had his magic, he wouldn’t have even been a challenge. All of the prince’s victories were won by the skin of his teeth.

Realizing he wasn’t getting anywhere, Roc took to the air, flying in loops over the arena. People in the audience shielded their eyes from the sun and pointed at him, trying to keep him in their sights as his speed grew. As he built up his acceleration, he channeled mana into his right leg, and a sheath of energy enveloped eagle talons. “Decisive Divebomb,” he cast, prompting a magic circle to appear around his ankle. Beast Art, the combination of shamanism and monk magic. When he fought Aithorn, he could only use basic mana enhancement on his attacks, but by honing his monk magic by fighting Seraph over and over, his training back in the Ashok Mountains had been fruitful, and he had reached the league of true beastman warriors.

As Viktor basked in his success, healers rushed out and put Falco on a stretcher. Fortunately, the wound was mostly cauterized, and his organs weren’t damaged beyond the point of healing with magic.