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Hurman was the first to get up but wasn’t the last. The entire Practor Family did as well, followed by the Libarn Guild. Tranton and Trenk got up also, rushing down to learn what had happened.

“What happened?” Trantor asked the medics, following them to a room beneath the stands. But he wasn’t given an answer just yet.

By then, the other hosts had caught up with Lizbeth, following closely behind Trantor. They joined the medics in the room and one of them even came forward the moment Freele was laid on a proper bed. Dean Jarrit’s face was difficult to read but he stated, “First, allow me...”

The medics did as they were told and allowed the dean to inspect Freele. However, nearly everyone in the room was startled by the ethereal energy that came out of Jarrit’s hand and washed over the unconscious young woman. But no one dared question what the well-respected, high-perennial did.

“You’re right. She’ll be fine with proper rest...”

As the medics resumed their examination and began preparing salves, Trantor took a calming, deep breath and faced the dean. But he was caught off guard but the unhidden, joyful smile on the dean’s face. “Excuse me... but can you please tell me what’s wrong?”

.....

“She may have a sprained ankle and a broken foot, but those will heal just fine with the proper care.”

“But what happened? How did she lose the fight? Why is she unconscious?”

With each question, Trantor was more confident in facing the perennial but Jarrit didn’t take any offense. The dean sighed and placed his hand on Trantor’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine with rest. You should be glad of that.”

“But–”

“Don’t worry about it right now,” stated Jarrit. “I’m sure all will be explained before the tournament’s end.”

Turning to leave, Jarrit chuckled to his fellow hosts, “Come. There’s no need for us here at the moment.”

“Dean Jarrit...” a new voice called out as two people entered the room, accidentally blocking the dean.

“Patriarch. If you would please–”

“No one in this room is connected to the finalists, so revealing what that young man did to my son’s fiancee shouldn’t change the final outcome of the tournament,” Patriarch Tranton insisted, nodding to his worried son. “Please, I ask as a former student, what is the cause of Freele’s unexpected collapse?”

Sighing, Jarrit paused and stood still. He waited.

A few seconds passed until Lizbeth was the next to move, brushing past Tranton and leaving the room. “Sorry, but I need to go speak with the referee and make a speech before the intermission.”

“Of course...” Jarrit sighed, waiting until she was gone to speak. He then took out a plain-looking staff and tapped it on the ground, instantly creating a silencing formation throughout the room. “Very well... But this doesn’t leave the room.”

While many were worried for Freele, most everyone had their eyes on Oli.

With staggering steps, Oli refused to accept help from the former contestants as he wavered to his old seat. His body collapsed onto the seat. Finally, Oli let some medics begin applying course, freshly-ground salves to his wounds. Not missing a beat or offering a single word, Oli allowed his mind to descend into his soul jade.

Immediately, the medics around Oli could sense an influx in his essence and felt a bit better. They were also glad to see that Oli never flinched despite touching the deep slashes carved into his body.

Hurman led a pack of people to Oli. Nervousness was painted over his face but he wasn’t too worried thanks to Vloz. “Oliver... How are his wounds?”

The lead medic working on Oli looked up and nodded to the patriarch. “He’s fine, overall. But I’m not sure how well these wounds will heal by the final match. The bleeding will be stopped and we can even get the wounds to reseal. But that won’t stop them from reopening under the stress of battle. Unless he can avoid being hit, I don’t think he’ll be fit to fight, at least not against someone as fast as his opponent.”

“Thank you...” Hurman groaned out of reflex, biting his lip.

Reginol spoke up with a vengeful chuckle, “That’s what he gets...”

“How sore of a loser can you be?” Jonon scoffed. “He’s a low-adept and here we have a peak-elder wishing him ill will.”

All of a sudden, the hawk on Hurman’s shoulder flapped and took off. It flew in the direction of the medic room where Freele was being helped but Hurman and the others didn’t pay it too much attention.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Looking back and smiling, the lead medic nodded. “Go and fetch the suture supplies. You haven’t forgotten where to find it?”

“I’m on it!”

As Shadur followed the hawk to the medic room, Jonon asked, “Excuse me, but do you know what Oliver did at the end?”

“Sorry, but I can’t offer my professional opinion when I would only be guessing,” stated the lead medic.

“Please?”

Within the confines of Hurman’s mind, Vloz answered, ‘Likely, that was Oli’s soul arts.’

“So...” Hurman almost blurted out in shock.

“Hm?” Reginol and everyone were caught off guard by Hurman’s momentary shift in expression. “What’s wrong, old man? Has your age come in handy this time?”

“Sorry, but I’ve never seen anything quite like what Oli did...” answered Hurman.

But Vloz added, ‘Oli’s late father was a soul arts fanatic, so of course Oli would take after him. And don’t worry about Oli. He would want to fight either way but he’s not stupid enough to get himself killed in a deathless tournament.’

“Good...” Hurman mumbled quietly, as if caught up in thought.

‘Now we’ll see Oli use that for sure,’ Vloz added, startling Hurman yet again.