Chapter 51: The Final Round: Illusions Unleashed!

Results for Round Three and Round Four came so fast that Cecil barely had time to process what had happened. In Round Five, Vera stepped onto the arena herself.

Her flame‑centipede unfurled a persistent line of burning fire across the centre, driving her opponent toward the boundary. Leon’s Silver‑Mane Wolf endured within the fireline for nearly half a minute before getting struck on the hind legs by the centipede’s pincers and forfeiting the match.

Round Four pitted Eamon’s Silver‑Eye against Victor’s swarm of bats. The battle dragged on for a long time. In the end, Silver‑Eye delivered a precise diving slash that shattered the bats’ sonic formation, prompting Victor to surrender voluntarily.

After four rounds, the fragment distribution had shifted. Vera’s team held the largest share — adding to their previous four pieces, they now possessed seven fragments. Cecil’s team had two, and Leon’s team only one. Seven out of eight fragments had been collected; only the final piece remained.

Before Round Five began, the blue‑white runes glowing above the arena burned brighter than in any prior round, like an eye fully opening. The dome’s metallic chime boomed down from high above, heavy with the weight of the approaching endgame.

"Round Five — the final match. Seven fragments have been gathered. The victor of this round obtains the last fragment. The holder of the complete set may unlock the exit."

The three teams lined up along their zone boundaries. The atmosphere was nothing like earlier rounds. What had once been mere competition had turned into a final showdown. That last fragment would decide who held authority over the exit — or rather, who got to choose who escaped.

Cecil stood at the front of the northern zone, Gwendolyn perched upon his shoulder. His right hand tightened slightly inside his sleeve, faint cold chill gathering at his fingertips. Behind him stood Freddy, Lydia, Oliver and Edwin. Each breathed at a different rhythm, yet all kept their breaths low and restrained.

Over in the eastern zone, Vera stood foremost. Behind her, Lena knelt on the stone, her fingers brushing gently against the wings of her multicoloured butterfly. Beneath the blue‑white light, the wings shimmered with soft blends of blue, green and violet, their antennae twitching faintly. Lena’s expression was calm, a faint, gentle smile playing on her lips, as if she was about to undertake something she felt no fear of.

Vera glanced back at her younger sister. She said nothing extra, merely patted her lightly on top of the head. Lena stood, handed her book over to Vera, and walked toward the centre of the arena.

Cecil’s brows drew together as he watched Lena’s profile.

Gwendolyn’s voice drifted up from his shoulder, pitched lower than usual. "It’s Lena."

"Yeah."

"We have never seen what that butterfly can do." Gwendolyn’s tail rested across the nape of his neck, her blue eyes fixed on those vivid, colourful wings out on the field. "But Vera is sending her out for this final round, so she must be confident. That butterfly is not built for combat. Remember the first time we saw it? Lena was reading, the butterfly perched on her shoulder, and the colours on its wings kept shifting slowly."

Cecil remembered. From the very first moment it had appeared, the butterfly had shown no trace of aggression. It was so quiet it was easy to overlook entirely. But now, as Lena advanced toward the arena centre, the butterfly lifted from her braids and hovered beside her shoulder. The blue‑green‑violet iridescence on its wings burned richer than ever before.

"Illusions," Cecil murmured.

"Exactly," Gwendolyn replied. "Among butterfly‑type spirit beasts, some specialise entirely in sensory manipulation. They deal no physical damage, yet they can make you see things that are not there, hear voices that do not exist, feel touches with no source. In battle, illusions are deadlier than any direct blow — you can never tell what is real."

A brief silence fell over the five members of the northern team. Freddy spoke first, his voice lowered. "Then who goes in?"

Oliver drew Robin close, settling the wind falcon onto his forearm. The falcon’s grey feathers held a matte glow under the arena light. "I already expended much of Robin’s strength fighting Eamon last round. He hasn’t fully recovered."

Lydia uncoiled Ivy from her wrist and glanced at her. The emerald snake coiled loosely around her fingers then slipped free. "Ivy can bind physical bodies, but she cannot bind illusions. If Lena’s butterfly traps me in hallucinations, I won’t even be able to tell where Ivy is."

Edwin kept his head bowed, his rust beetle resting in the palm of his hand, its antennae twitching. "Rust cannot bite something that isn’t real."

Cecil stood among them, Gwendolyn still on his shoulder. He could feel four pairs of eyes resting on his back, waiting for his decision. He watched Lena’s steady figure already positioned at the eastern corner of the triangular arena. The butterfly hovered beside her shoulder, its wing colours flowing continuously. She stood firm, like a tree untouched by wind.

"I’ll go," Cecil said.

Gwendolyn’s tail tightened faintly against his neck.

Freddy responded immediately. "Are you sure? We’ve never dealt with illusions from that butterfly."

"Precisely why I should be the one," Cecil answered. "Gwendolyn’s frost can be unleashed even without sight. If illusions blind me, I can sense my opponent’s position by reading shifts in temperature. None of the rest of us have that advantage."

Freddy opened his mouth to argue further, but Lydia laid a hand gently on his arm. She gave Cecil a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Cecil walked toward the arena centre. Gwendolyn hopped down from his shoulder to land at his feet, her blue‑white scales glimmering under the arena radiance. He took his place at the northern corner of the triangular platform. Across the wide field, Lena met his gaze. Her light‑brown eyes shone bright beneath the light. That faint smile lingered, yet something new had crept into it — a look Cecil could not quite name, like a premonition of sorrow.

Leon stood along the western zone boundary. His Thunder Gryphon crouched beside him, lightning across its golden feathers much dimmer than in earlier rounds. He glanced at Cecil, then toward Lena, his ice‑blue eyes calculating quietly.

Vera stood in the east with her arms folded across her chest, watching the two figures in the arena, her face unreadable.

The dome’s metallic chime resonated one final time.

"Round Five — final match. Both combatants are in position."

Cecil stood at the northern corner. Gwendolyn stayed close by his feet, her tail brushing the stone ground. At the eastern corner, Lena lifted her butterfly. It rose beside her and spread its wings wide. The swirling blue‑green‑violet hues quickened, rippling outward like disturbed water.

Lena drew a deep breath and took one step forward.

The butterfly beat its wings.

In that instant, Cecil’s world began to melt away.

The moment the butterfly flapped its wings, Cecil felt the stone bricks beneath his feet turn soft. It was no genuine softness, but a disjointed warping of both sight and touch. Intellectually he knew his boots stood upon hard rock, yet the sensation rising through his soles resembled stepping into warm, slowly sinking mire. He glanced down. The brick patterns were still there, yet they flowed along unfamiliar paths, like swirling oil upon disturbed water.

"Cecil." Gwendolyn’s voice came from nearby, yet from the wrong direction. He looked down and saw her crouched beside his left foot, her blue‑white scales unchanged as always. But her voice had reached him from his right.

"Your eyes are lying to you," Gwendolyn’s voice sounded from the right side. "I’m still right here. Don’t move."

Cecil held perfectly still. He pulled his focus away from what he saw and centred it on the sensations through his feet and across his skin. Gwendolyn was telling the truth. Her physical form stayed beside his left foot, that faint blue‑white chill hovering just inches from the shaft of his boot. Even so, the voice he had heard had genuinely originated from his right. Sight and sound had been torn apart.

"Do not search for her with your eyes." Gwendolyn’s voice echoed from the right once more, even as Cecil felt the cold tip of her tail brush lightly against his left ankle. "Use temperature. The butterfly cannot alter heat signatures."

Cecil shut his eyes. Visual distortion faded, yet his hearing remained scrambled. Gwendolyn’s voice bounced back and forth between left and right, as if someone were rapidly toggling audio between two speakers. He stopped trying to trace where the sound came from, pouring every ounce of focus into the sensations against his skin. Gwendolyn’s cold aura lingered steady and clear beside his left foot, like a small lamp set upon the stone.

"Where is she?" Cecil asked.

"Three‑metres away. She’s walking toward you," Gwendolyn said. "Her sister trained her to move while wrapped inside her own illusions. She is closing in, yet you cannot see the real her. You will only see whatever she wants you to see."

Cecil opened his eyes. The world before him had shifted. The arena’s blue‑white runes were gone, the triangular fighting platform vanished. Lena stood merely three steps in front of him, holding a book cupped in her hands, her expression calm and gentle. Her lips moved as though she was speaking. Cecil could not make out her words, yet the vision felt utterly real. The real Lena would never hold a book out on the trial ground. The real Lena had remained stationary at the eastern corner ever since she took that one step forward.

This "Lena" standing before him was a fake.