Thristle rose slowly, knees trembling from the accumulated shocks, but her grin never wavered. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, mixing with sweat that ran in rivulets down her neck.

Across the arena, Aletha Thunderheart stood like a storm given form. Her silver-white hair had risen into a wild corona from the sheer static charge still dancing over her body. The red academy uniform was soaked through—clinging obscenely to every exaggerated curve. Her massive breasts heaved with each ragged inhale, nipples visibly peaked against the thin, wet material. Lightning still snapped and hissed between her fingers, but her silver eyes were bloodshot with rage, pupils contracted to furious pinpricks.

“Yield,” Aletha snarled again, voice cracking with strain. “Or I’ll fucking cook you.”

Thristle spat blood onto the cracked stone floor. “My King hasn’t clapped yet. Means we’re not done.”

She launched herself forward—not with her previous bouncing energy, but with predatory purpose.

Aletha met her halfway.

They collided like thunder meeting iron.

Thristle’s amplified right hook slammed into Aletha’s lightning-shielded forearm with enough force to send a visible shockwave rippling outward, cracking the arena floor in a spiderweb pattern. Aletha answered with a vicious short-range lightning jab straight to Thristle’s ribs. Electricity punched through the hobgoblin’s barrier like needles; Thristle felt ribs creak but refused to fold. Instead she grabbed Aletha’s wrist mid-strike, twisted, and yanked the taller girl forward into a brutal headbutt.

Their foreheads met with a sickening crack.

Aletha reeled, blood instantly streaming from her nose.

Thristle laughed through the pain. “See? Now we both bleed. Fair fight!”

Aletha’s response was wordless—a scream of pure fury. Lightning erupted from her entire body in a blinding radial burst. Thristle was too close to dodge. The discharge slammed into her like a hammer of white fire. Her barrier flared red, absorbing what it could, but the rest seared across her skin. She flew backward again, tumbling across the stone in a tangle of limbs before stopping to a skid.

The crowd roared—half in horror, half in ecstasy.

Thristle got back up with trembling legs. Her uniform smoldered at the edges. One thigh-high boot had torn open, exposing raw, reddened skin beneath. She coughed once, tasting copper.

Aletha stalked forward, fists still crackling.

“You’re done.”

Thristle wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Nah. Just getting pretty for my King.”

She flexed her fingers. Red light—brighter, hotter than before—coalesced around her hands and forearms, forming jagged, glowing gauntlets of pure amplified force. The air around them warped slightly, heat haze rising.

Aletha’s eyes narrowed. “Cute trick.”

She answered by slamming both palms together.

A sphere of compressed lightning formed between her hands—blinding blue-white, hissing like a living thing. She thrust it forward.

The lightning sphere streaked across the arena like a comet.

Thristle didn’t dodge.

She planted both feet, crossed her arms, and met it head-on.

The collision was apocalyptic.

A deafening boom rolled through the coliseum. The shockwave pushed the first three rows of spectators and sent dust billowing outward in a choking cloud. When it cleared, Thristle was still standing—barely. Her barrier had shattered completely; red shards of magic flickered and died around her like dying embers. Both arms hung limp at her sides, scorched and trembling. Smoke curled from her hair.

But she was upright.

Aletha staggered, palms smoking, chest heaving. The sphere had taken more out of her than she’d expected.

Thristle lifted her head slowly. violet eyes burning with manic delight.

“That… was awesome,” she rasped. “Do it again.”

Aletha bared bloody teeth. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But I’m his insane.”

Thristle moved.

No bounce, no flourish—just brutal, straight-line violence.

She closed the distance in three pounding steps and drove a knee into Aletha’s midsection with every ounce of remaining amplification magic. The noble girl folded around the blow, air exploding from her lungs in a choked gasp. Thristle didn’t stop. She grabbed Aletha by the silver hair, yanked her head down, and drove an elbow into the base of her skull.

Aletha dropped to one knee.

Thristle stepped back—panting, swaying—and raised both fists.

“Come on, lightning bitch. One more round.”

Aletha snarled, pushed herself up.

Lightning no longer crackled neatly around her fists. It arced wildly, uncontrolled, scorching the stone wherever it touched. Her stockings had torn; blood ran down one thigh from a deep gash. Her uniform top was ripped open down the front, barely held together by willpower and spite. She looked feral. Magnificent. Terrifying.

She screamed—a sound like tearing metal—and charged.

They met in the center like colliding meteors.

Fists flew in a blur too fast for most of the crowd to follow. Thristle’s amplified punches left glowing red afterimages; Aletha’s lightning strikes left scorched trails in the air. Every impact rang like hammer on anvil. Blood sprayed. Fabric tore. Bone creaked.

Thristle caught Aletha’s wrist mid-punch, twisted, and threw her over one hip in a brutal hip toss. Aletha hit the ground hard enough to crack the stone again—but rolled immediately, sweeping Thristle’s legs out from under her.

They both went down.

They rolled across the arena floor in a snarling, clawing tangle—fists, elbows, knees, teeth. Thristle got on top, straddling Aletha’s waist, and rained down hammer-fists. Aletha bucked wildly, lightning surging up through her body into Thristle’s thighs. The hobgoblin screamed but didn’t stop. She grabbed Aletha’s throat with one hand and cocked the other back for a finishing blow.

Aletha’s silver eyes met violet.

For one heartbeat, something flickered there—not fear, not surrender.

Respect.

Then Aletha slammed both palms against Thristle’s chest.

A final, desperate lightning pulse erupted point-blank.

Thristle’s body locked rigid. Every muscle seized at once. Smoke rose from her skin as the electricity coursed through her. But deep inside, something primal ignited—her King’s faith, the roar of the crowd, the burning need to make him proud. With a guttural roar that tore from her throat, Thristle forced her arms to move. Her red amplification magic flared brighter than ever, shattering the paralyzing grip of the lightning. She slammed her forehead down into Aletha’s face with savage force, then drove her fist straight into the noble girl’s sternum.

The amplified strike hit like a cannon. Aletha’s lightning shield cracked audibly. The taller girl’s eyes widened in shock as the air was driven from her lungs. Thristle didn’t let up. She grabbed Aletha by the torn collar of her uniform and unleashed a brutal series of short, devastating punches—each one carrying triple the force, red energy exploding on impact.

Aletha tried to counter, lightning flaring wildly, but her arms were heavy, her reactions slowing. Thristle’s thighs clamped down like iron vices around Aletha’s waist, pinning her to the cracked stone floor. With one final, earth-shaking cry, Thristle cocked her right arm back, and drove it down into Aletha’s solar plexus with everything she had left.

The impact sounded like a thunderclap.

Aletha’s body jerked violently. Her silver eyes rolled back. The lightning around her flickered once… twice… and died.

She went limp beneath Thristle.

Silence crashed over the coliseum—broken only by the hiss of dying sparks and Thristle’s ragged, victorious breathing.

Thristle remained straddling her fallen opponent for a long moment, chest heaving, blood and sweat dripping from her chin onto Aletha’s torn uniform. Then she slowly pushed herself up, legs shaking, and stood over the unconscious noble girl.

She raised one trembling, bloodied fist to the sky.

The crowd erupted in a deafening roar.

Mira Hale’s voice rang out, breathless with excitement.

“Match… nineteen… concluded!”

A heartbeat of stunned silence.

“Winner… by knockout… Thristle Nightshade!”

The commaners exploded into pure pandemonium—cheers, stomps, and chants of “Nightshade! Nightshade!” shaking the stands.

Thristle swayed on her feet, grinning through split lips, violet eyes shining with exhausted triumph. She looked up toward the high gallery, locking eyes with Aiden.

Even from this distance, she could see his proud smirk.

She mouthed the words, barely audible over the roar:

“For you… My King.”

Then her knees buckled. She dropped forward, vision blurring.

In that exact instant, the air in front of her shimmered. Aiden teleported directly into the arena, appearing right before her in a silent flash. Thristle fell head-first into his chest, her sweat-slicked, bloodied face pressing against the fabric of his shirt. His arms wrapped around her instantly—strong, steady, and gentle—cradling her battered hobgoblin frame against him. One hand rested on the back of her head, fingers threading carefully through her messy hair, while the other supported her lower back, holding her upright so she wouldn’t collapse completely.

“You did it, Thristle,” he murmured softly, voice low and warm against her ear, meant only for her. “I’m so proud of you. You fought beautifully… my fierce little Hobgoblin. You made me look good out there.”

Thristle let out a weak, happy laugh, her body going limp in his embrace, cheek smearing blood and sweat onto his chest as she nuzzled closer.

Up in the high gallery, Nyxion leaned forward with a wide grin. “She actually did it. And look at him—couldn’t even wait for the medics.”

Luna was jumping up and down, tears of joy streaming down her face. “Thristle won! She won! And now she gets to fall into his arms like that… so romantic!”

Aiden kept holding Thristle close, one arm still wrapped securely around her as he glanced up toward his wives with a small, satisfied smile.

“Yeah… she did,” he called back softly, pride clear in his voice.

Down below, medics hovered uncertainly at the edge of the scene, not daring to interrupt. Aletha was carefully lifted onto a stretcher, still unconscious, her silver hair matted with blood and sweat, uniform in tatters.

Thristle remained nestled against Aiden’s chest, eyes half-closed in blissful exhaustion, as the crowd continued roaring their approval.

Two warriors.

One king.

And a fight no one would ever forget.

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END OF CHAPTER 299: THRISTLE NIGHTSHADE V/S ALETHA THUNDERHEART! : 2

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep