Ordin’s arms were hanging lower than they had been at any point in the fight—the Sky Splitter’s maximum stretch having spent the last of what the elastic tissue could produce without the debt becoming damage rather than just debt. His palms were still functional. But the output available to them now was minimal—small Arrow Bursts, if anything, the recovery requiring time that the fight might not give him.

Vorin pushed to standing.

His right side was carrying the Sky Splitter’s impact—real, significant, the wide-area force having delivered something different from the concentrated Arrow Bursts. He was standing. He was functional. He had one working copy technique from the entire fight—the punch—and Ordin had one real output remaining in whatever the elastic tissue could still provide.

He advanced.

Ordin raised his palms—the stretch minimal, the compression at whatever the recovery debt allowed, a small Arrow Burst at best.

He clapped.

The burst hit Vorin’s chest—smaller than any previous burst, the debt-limited output producing a fraction of the force the standard Arrow Bursts had carried.

Vorin took it.

Kept moving.

The copy registered—the smallest burst of the fight, the debt-limited version, useless regardless of size because the mechanism still didn’t transfer.

He threw his punch.

The same punch that had worked before—his own physical strike, no ability required, the fist traveling toward Ordin’s chest at one foot of distance.

Ordin raised his palms to block.

The punch hit the elastic tissue—the same absorption, the same rebound, the same specific quality of force received.

The copy registered.

Vorin used it immediately—not as the copied punch this time, the copy of a punch that had already been his own punch was just his own punch returning to him with no additional capability.

He used it as a grab instead.

Not the punching motion—the copy included the motion of his arm extending toward Ordin’s palms, the path the arm had traveled. He grabbed Ordin’s left palm with both hands—the grip closing around the elastic tissue, the contact real.

Ordin tried to clap.

Vorin’s grip held the left palm in place—the right palm free, the left palm restrained, the clap incomplete because one half of the mechanism was held.

Ordin pulled.

Vorin held.

The elastic tissue stretched against the grip—the same tissue that stretched to produce compression now stretching against Vorin’s hold, the two forces competing, the stretch not producing compression because the stretch was involuntary rather than deliberate.

Vorin pressed the held palm toward Ordin’s chest—not trying to make Ordin clap, trying to bring the palm into contact with Ordin’s own body, the elastic tissue against the sternum.

The elastic tissue made contact with Ordin’s chest.

Ordin felt it—his own palm against his own chest, the specific wrong feeling of the tissue touching a surface it wasn’t supposed to touch from this direction.

He clapped with his free right palm against the back of Vorin’s hand holding the left palm.

The burst fired against Vorin’s hand—the free palm’s compressed air hitting the back of the grip, the force arriving at the contact point where Vorin’s hand held Ordin’s palm.

Vorin’s grip broke.

His hand pushed away by the burst against its back—the grip failing, the elastic tissue coming free.

The copy registered.

A palm-back burst—compressed air hitting the back of a hand. The motion captured. Still not replicable without elastic tissue.

Vorin clapped.

Nothing.

Ordin stepped back—both arms at the lowest position of the fight, the recovery debt complete, the elastic tissue at the floor of what it had available.

Vorin looked at the configuration.

Both fighters standing. Both of them at the bottom of what the fight had left them.

Vorin’s right side carrying the Sky Splitter’s impact—real, present, the wide-area force having delivered something that the Arrow Bursts hadn’t. His legs were functional. His left arm was fully functional. His right arm was carrying the Sky Splitter’s damage at a level that made full-strength use expensive.

Ordin’s palms at minimal available output—the debt real, the recovery requiring more time than the fight was going to allow him, whatever remained in the tissue available but small.

Vorin threw his punch again.

Left hand—the undamaged side, the punch coming from the arm the Sky Splitter hadn’t caught, the full-strength version of the only technique that had worked.

Ordin’s palms came up—minimal compression available, the block the only option.

The punch hit the palms.

The elastic tissue absorbed it.

The copy registered.

Ordin’s palms had absorbed the punch—and the absorption at minimal available output produced a specific result. The tissue couldn’t spring back the way it normally would at full output. The rebound was reduced, the recovery of the tissue’s natural position slower than it had been at any previous point in the fight.

The punch’s force stayed in the tissue for longer than a normal absorption.

Ordin’s palms were pushed back against his own chest.

His own palms against his own chest again—the same configuration as before, the elastic tissue pressed to his sternum by the force the reduced-output absorption couldn’t fully manage.

He tried to pull his palms away from his chest—the right palm came free, the left palm slower, the tissue pressing against the sternum as the right palm came around.

He clapped.

Right palm to left palm—but the left palm was still against his chest, the right palm reaching across to meet it.

The compression direction was wrong.

The clap fired inward—toward Ordin’s own chest rather than outward toward Vorin, the compressed air releasing in the direction the mis-positioned palms were facing.

It hit Ordin’s sternum.

The burst from his own ability—fired by his own clap, produced by his own tissue—delivering its force against his own body at close range because the palms had been pressed against his chest when the clap completed.

Ordin went to one knee.

The self-directed burst—minimal output but point-blank range against his own sternum—the impact real and significant regardless of the reduced output, the distance to the target being zero.

He put one hand on the floor.

The hand that touched the floor was his left palm—the elastic tissue pressing flat against the stone, the tissue stretched by the press.

He felt the configuration.

His palm against the floor. His right palm available. The compression possible if he brought his right palm down to meet the left.

He started to lift the right palm—

Vorin’s foot came down on the left palm.

Not a stomp—a deliberate placement, Vorin’s boot pressing the elastic tissue flat against the stone, preventing the left palm from lifting to meet the right, the clap impossible without both palms free to move toward each other.

Ordin looked at his pinned left palm.

At Vorin’s boot.

At his right palm—free, functional, available, but useless for compression without the left palm to meet it.

He tried to pull the left palm free.

Vorin pressed harder.

The elastic tissue stretched under the boot—not tearing, the tissue’s durability intact, but unable to lift, the boot’s weight and Vorin’s deliberate press keeping the palm against the stone regardless of how much Ordin pulled.

The right palm couldn’t reach the floor—the angle too awkward, Vorin’s position preventing Ordin from bringing the right palm down to the pinned left palm’s level in a way that would let the clap fire in any useful direction.

Ordin looked at the configuration.

Left palm pinned. Right palm free but without a meeting point. Both palms necessary for any output. One immobilized.

He looked at the referee.

The referee crossed the floor and arrived at the position—Ordin on one knee, left palm pinned under Vorin’s boot, right palm available but unable to produce output without the left. Assessed. Asked.

Ordin looked at his left palm under Vorin’s boot.

At the right palm with nothing to meet.

At the fight that had found this configuration through a self-directed burst from his own mis-positioned palms and a stomp that had taken the solution away in the same moment he had found the floor.

He exhaled.

Nodded.

The referee raised a hand.

The Solmara sections gave Ordin their full acknowledgment—the sound of people watching their fighter manage a copyable-but-not-replicable advantage across an entire fight, feed Vorin worthless copies from every angle, produce the Sky Splitter at the exact moment it could be aimed at Vorin’s path, and lose the finish to a palm pinned against the floor by a boot.

The Virex sections gave Vorin their full territorial response—the sound of people watching their fighter absorb everything, find the one technique that worked, and use it to create the configuration that ended the fight not through power but through position.

"Ordin of Solmara Institute," the announcer said. "He knew the copies wouldn’t work. He fed Vorin techniques that required mechanisms Vorin didn’t have. He fired the Sky Splitter at the path rather than the position." He paused. "And in the end—his own palms against his own chest, his own clap firing inward, his own output against his own sternum. And a boot on a palm that had nothing left to do but touch the floor."

Another pause.

"Your winner—Ordin of Solmara Institute."

In the stands the bracket updated.

All four Class 2 semifinals complete.

Mark. Sarah. Varen. Ordin.

The final four.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​