All My SSS Beasts Are Cute but Invincible!

The slight flutter of the rock falcon’s feathers acted as the trigger. Robin and Silver‑Eye moved at the exact same moment — not against each other, but converging on the rock falcon from two sides. Two shadows closed in.

Forced to react at the last instant, the rock falcon dove downward, folding its wings and skidding across the ground for roughly two steps. Its landing was unsteady; one talon twisted on impact, tilting its body ten degrees to the side.

The man in dark‑grey clothes charged forward. He tried to reach his spirit beast the moment it touched down, yet Emon was half a step faster. Silver‑Eye abandoned pursuit of the rock falcon, folded its wings and dove.

Silvery light glowed along its talons, carving an arc‑shaped slash across the man’s path, blocking his advance. The man was forced to halt and retreat. He drew his short knife from his waist and held it crosswise in front of him. The silvery blade struck the metal, bursting into scattered sparks and knocking him back half a pace.

In that split second, Oliver made his call. Robin plunged down from above, her talons aiming for the rock falcon’s wing root, still unable to take flight after crashing to the ground.

The rock falcon rolled half‑way across the stone to dodge the strike, but one of Robin’s talons grazed its wing mid‑roll. The blow was not heavy, yet it would severely hinder its next take‑off.

The rock falcon struggled to get airborne, its ascent noticeably laboured. Its left wing beat with only two‑thirds the amplitude of its right. The man glanced upward at his spirit beast’s condition, his expression darkening further.

Still, he did not back down. He pulled off an unexpected move: he drove the tip of his short knife straight down into the gap between stone bricks.

Fine cracks radiated outward from the hilt, weaving an irregular web across the floor. The rock falcon circled overhead and dove down to land on his shoulder, its grey eyes fixed firmly on Robin and Silver‑Eye.

Silence hung over the arena for roughly two seconds. Then the cracks in the stone began to glow. Dark‑red light seeped out from the brick joints, as if something deep beneath the earth was stirring awake.

Standing at the centre of the fissures, the man pressed one hand atop the knife’s hilt and raised the other in a pulling gesture. The crimson light crawled up the blade, gathered at the hilt, then vanished as if being drawn away.

Once the crimson radiance faded, the short‑knife’s colour shifted — from pale grey to deep blood‑red, wispy tendrils of heat curling off its edge.

"...What did he channel into that blade?" Freddy’s voice came from behind, thick with confusion.

Gwendolyn spoke from Cecil’s shoulder, her tone sharper than before. "He is drawing on some energy stored inside the rock falcon — likely fire‑affiliated power. The falcon wasn’t resting when it landed; it was transferring its energy to him."

Cecil frowned. His gaze locked onto the blood‑red short‑knife in the man’s hand. Wispy curls of heat rose from the blade against the blue‑white dome light, trembling like invisible threads.

The man struck. He sprinted forward with the red‑glowing knife, targeting not Emon, but Oliver. His speed had surged dramatically. The crimson blade cut a blazing arc through the air, sending ripples of heat warping the surrounding atmosphere.

Oliver stepped back half a pace, but could not fully evade. He raised his left forearm to block. The blade grazed his sleeve. The fabric instantly curled and charred, smoke curling from the cuff. Oliver pressed his lips tight, making no sound, yet his hand trembled slightly as he lowered his arm.

Robin let out a shrill cry mid‑air. She dove faster than before, silvery light blazing brighter along her talons than in any prior attack, plummeting like an ignited projectile from high above.

The man spotted Robin’s dive and twisted sideways to dodge — yet at the exact moment he shifted, Silver‑Eye closed in from the opposite direction, a silvery energy slash cutting off his left escape route.

He was trapped between two assaults. Robin’s diving talon strike came head‑on; Silver‑Eye’s slash blocked his left. His only way out was backward.

He bent low and rolled backward, slipping through the gap between the two attacks. The rock falcon launched from his shoulder at the same time, its pale‑grey silhouette skimming low to intercept him. But Robin and Silver‑Eye pulled their strikes short, holding back instead of chasing. They were waiting.

Once the man regained his footing, the knife’s crimson glow had dimmed by nearly half. The weapon’s power was draining, and he had no way to recharge it a second time.

Oliver stood upright. A bright red burn marked his left forearm; his sleeve was burnt through, the exposed skin edged with pale blistered flesh. He ignored the injury, his gaze fixed firmly on the man.

Emon stood on the far side of the arena, Silver‑Eye settling back onto his shoulder with folded wings. He did not rush forward, yet his position had subtly shifted to the man’s flank, like a gate slowly closing shut.

The man glanced at his fading knife, then measured the distance between Oliver and Emon. He reached a decision. He sheathed the short‑knife, lifted both hands palms‑out, and stepped back toward the arena edge.

"I surrender." he said.

A moment of stillness fell across the field. The metallic toll of the dome rang out once more, confirming his withdrawal. "Participant has surrendered. Two combatants remain in this round."

The man re‑sheathed his weapon and walked back to Leon’s western contingent. Leon did not look at him or speak. Cecil noticed, however, Leon’s ice‑blue eyes lingering on the rock falcon perched on the man’s shoulder — a distinct pale scar marked its wing root, the mark left by Robin’s first talon strike.

It could still fly, yet its speed and manoeuvrability had been reduced by at least seventy percent.

Only Oliver and Emon remained at the centre of the arena.

Silver‑Eye took off from Emon’s shoulder, climbing to hover opposite Robin at matching altitude. The two birds stared at each other across fifteen paces of open sky.

Robin’s grey plumage looked matte beneath the dome light; Silver‑Eye’s silver‑grey feathers held a faint luminous sheen. Neither moved, only watching one another.

Oliver and Emon both stepped two paces forward, halting at the exact centre of the triangular platform.

"That blocking move of yours was well‑timed." Emon spoke, his voice steady as ever. "Had he veered left, you would have landed a second strike."

"You closed the gap faster." Oliver replied.

A tiny flicker tugged at Emon’s lips, a faint crack like thin ice beginning to melt. "Then let us fight now."

He charged forward. Silver‑Eye dove in perfect sync from overhead. Silvery radiance blazed intensely along its talons, the hawk hurtling toward Robin like a light‑wrapped arrow. Robin met the charge head‑on, refusing to dodge.

Her talons flared with identical silvery glow. The two birds crashed together mid‑air. Clashing talons produced a sharp, metallic screech. Silvery shards scattered from the point of impact, glinting briefly under the blue‑white dome illumination.

Ground‑level combat erupted at the same time. Emon’s strikes matched his demeanour: steady, precise, with no wasted movement. His punches landed at small angles, always targeting gaps in his opponent’s shifting centre of gravity. Oliver struggled badly in close‑quarters combat.

He specialised in directing Robin’s long‑range attacks; his hand‑to‑hand training paled in comparison to Emon’s. After several exchanges, his feet were already drifting backward.

Yet Robin was gaining the upper hand in her aerial duel with Silver‑Eye. Silver‑Eye was larger and possessed greater stamina, but Robin was swifter and more agile. In the opening between their fifth talon clash, she found an opening.

She slipped underneath Silver‑Eye’s left wing and raked her talons across its wing root. Silver‑Eye let out a sharp cry, tilting half‑way downward for a split second.

Emon’s attack faltered for that instant — he felt Silver‑Eye’s distress.

Oliver did not waste the opening. He leaned forward, driving his left fist upward toward Emon’s jaw, his first aggressive punch of the fight. Emon twisted his head to avoid it, yet the motion shifted his weight half‑an‑inch to the right.

Silver‑Eye had not yet recovered from its tilt; Emon could not rely on the hawk’s aerial vision to predict Oliver’s next move.

Robin dove again. She did not strike Silver‑Eye. Instead she swept low over Emon’s head, her wingtips generating a powerful gust of wind that blurred Emon’s sight. Emon raised his arm to shield his face. For a fleeting moment, his right‑side defence opened up.

Oliver seized that gap. His right fist slammed into Emon’s right lower rib, not delivering crushing force, but striking a precise vulnerable spot just below the ribcage.

Emon’s breath caught. He stepped back half‑pace, pressing his left hand to his side. Silver‑Eye folded its wings and returned to his shoulder, talons gripping his clothing, pale‑gold eyes locked on Robin.

Oliver did not press his advantage. He stood still, chest heaving. Robin returned to his shoulder. Her left‑wing feathers were ruffled, though she bore no serious wounds.

Silence descended over the arena. Emon kept his hand pressed to his ribs, breathing slowly returning to normal, yet his movements had grown noticeably slower.

"...You have won." Emon said. His voice carried a faint, suppressed hoarseness, the ending sharp and decisive.

The dome’s metallic chime echoed. "Round winner — Northern Team. Fragment awarded."

A streak of dark‑gold light fell from the vault overhead, materialising into a nail‑sized fragment etched with fine patterns on the stone floor. Oliver bent down and picked it up, clutching it in his palm. His hand trembled slightly, whether from exhaustion or the lingering pain of his burn.

Cecil walked forward from the northern perimeter, Freddy and Lydia close behind. Seeing them approach, Oliver held out the fragment. When Cecil took it, his fingers brushed Oliver’s — cold as stone freshly pulled from water.

"Your forearm —" Cecil glanced down at the burn on Oliver’s left arm.

"It’s nothing. Just a surface wound." Oliver pulled his sleeve down to cover the injury. "We got the fragment. One for us."

Cecil slipped the fragment into his pocket. The cool metallic weight rested solidly beneath his fingertips. He turned back toward the arena centre. The blue‑white runes still spun, though the triangular boundary lines had dimmed. This round was finished; the next was drawing near.

Gwendolyn shifted on his shoulder, her tail brushing the nape of his neck. Her voice was calm, calculating. "Fragment counts are uneven now. Vera holds four, we have one, and we have no idea how many Leon’s side possesses. If the next round is another three‑way free‑for‑all, we must secure a second fragment to stay in contention."

Cecil nodded. He walked back to his northern group. Freddy handed him a folded cloth to wipe his hands. Lydia held out a small vial of healer’s salve toward Oliver.

"Apply this." she said. "You will need it for the next round."

Oliver took the vial, pulled the stopper and poured a little of the pale‑green liquid over his burn. It solidified instantly into a thin protective film across the wound. His expression stayed neutral, used to keeping quiet amid such trials.

Cecil stood among them, his right hand pressing against the pocket holding the fragment. Its sharp metal edge pressed against his outer thigh through the fabric.

What would the next round bring?

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