The air atop the arena didn’t just heat up; it combusted. Kieran Ji’s lungs burned with every ragged breath, the oxygen replaced by a searing, suffocating pressure.
Opposite him, Nira Ashford was no longer just a girl; she was a conduit for something primal. The flames swirling around her had shifted from a mundane crimson to a deep, devastating aurum-gold. This was the Crimson Inferno—a Legendary-tier skill manifested by a mere Level 14.
"Incredible," Roland Marsh muttered from the high seats, his eyes fixed on the blossoming firestorm. "A Legendary skill at Level 14? Her ceiling is higher than we imagined."
Serena Sutton tilted her head, her gaze more clinical. "She’s leaning on that Epic-tier grimoire of hers to bridge the gap, but even so, the talent is undeniable."
Another examiner sighed, checking a box on his clipboard. "Poor kid. It’s over for Kieran Ji."
On the sands, Kieran’s face went pale under the soot. He realized too late that Nira had baited him. She had let him close the distance specifically to trap him in this gilded cage of fire.
"Forfeit, Kieran," Nira commanded. Her hair whipped in the updraft of her own heat, eyes glowing with divine fervor. She looked like a nascent goddess of war. "You can’t break the Crimson Inferno. Don’t make me burn you."
One thought from her would turn the arena into a crematorium. Despite her advantage, a flicker of irritation crossed her mind; she had planned to save this trump card for Ethan Lyle. Being forced to reveal it now felt like a setback.
"Who said… I was done?" Kieran’s voice was a rasp.
He didn't retreat. He didn't look for an exit. Instead, a manic desperation took hold. With a snarl, he lunged forward, sprinting straight into the heart of the gold-white heat.
"Foolish," Nira whispered. She raised a pale arm, and the sea of fire responded, surging upward into a monolithic wave that threatened to swallow the world.
The crowd gasped as Kieran’s small silhouette was eclipsed by the towering inferno. Mr. Ji surged to his feet in the VIP box, his chair clattering to the floor.
"He’s insane! Medic, get in there!" Roland Marsh roared, already blurring into motion as he leapt toward the stage.
The fire stripped the skin from Kieran’s bones the moment he made contact. His clothes vanished in a puff of gray ash, leaving his flesh charred and weeping. It was an agony that should have ended the fight instantly, but Kieran didn’t stop. A boy who had spent his life pampered and afraid of death had found something he feared losing more than his life.
Shing!
A blackened, smoking figure burst through the wall of flame. Nira’s eyes widened, her composure shattering as a blade hissed through the air. She twisted, her reflexes barely saving her throat, but the steel caught her shoulder. Crimson blood sprayed across her white robes.
"Heh..."
Kieran stood there, a living charcoal statue, his eyes the only part of him still white and recognizable. "Keep… keep Ethan’s name out of your mouth," he wheezed, blood bubbling in his throat. "I respect him more than anyone but my father. Say another word against him, and I’ll kill you."
His eyes rolled back. His body hit the stone with a heavy, sickening thud.
Ethan Lyle was on the stage before the dust even settled. He ignored the officials, his hands glowing with the resonance of the Twin Harmony bracelets as he began weaving a desperate stabilization spell. Kieran was a mess of third-degree burns; in some places, the muscle was literally cooked.
"I... I didn't think he'd go that far," Nira stammered, watching Ethan’s dark, unreadable expression. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," Ethan interrupted, his voice like dry ice. "I don’t care."
The dismissal stung worse than the sword wound. Nira’s guilt flared into a fresh spark of rage. "Why are you acting like the victim? If you hadn't manipulated him, he wouldn't be like this! This is your fault, Ethan!"
Ethan didn't look up. He had already categorized Nira as a lost cause—a girl blinded by her own privilege and his teacher Caelum’s shadow. If she weren't his master's daughter, he might have leveled the arena with a Forbidden Incantation just to silence her.
Once the medical team whisked Kieran away, Ethan walked off the stage without a backward glance.
Nira watched him go, her teeth gritted so hard they ached. She couldn't understand it. Why did Kieran—the coward, the sycophant—risk everything for a man she was certain was a fraud? Her father believed in him. Kieran died for him. Why was she the only one who saw the truth?
She needed to win. She needed to crush Ethan Lyle, not just for The Wager she made with her father, but to prove to the world that this "master" was nothing but a shadow.
The Arena Trials had reached their zenith. Only four names remained: Ethan Lyle, Dorian Cross, Nira Ashford, and Lyra Hollins.
The crowd was electric. While Nira was expected to breeze past Lyra, the second bracket was what everyone had come to see. Ethan Lyle, the enigma, versus Dorian Cross, the SSS-class prodigy who had just dismantled Spencer Holt without breaking a sweat.
In the observers' lounge, the tension between the schools was palpable.
"Sutton, you seem awfully smug," one of the Principals noted.
"I have every reason to be," Sutton replied, a sharp smile playing on his lips. "Dorian is my star pupil. He’s ready."
"Ethan is a Level 18 Forbidden Incantator," Victor Gao reminded him, his voice cool. "The level gap alone is staggering, let alone the class tier."
Sutton scoffed. "And what? You think he’s going to spam Forbidden Incantations in a sanctioned duel? Those spells tear the caster apart. Unless he’s suicidal, he’s just a mage with a high level and no mana."
"Let's hope Dorian can survive long enough to find out," Victor countered.
On the stage, the two combatants squared off.
[Dorian Cross: Shadow Dragon Lancer – Level 14]
[Ethan Lyle: Forbidden Incantator – Level 18]
Dorian leveled his black spear at Ethan’s heart. The weapon hummed with a low, draconic vibration, shadows coiling around the shaft like living snakes. "Ethan Lyle," Dorian declared, his voice booming. "You’re the only one here worth my time. Once I put you down, the title is mine."
Ethan didn't answer. He simply drew Starfall Scar.
"Begin!"
Dorian moved like a blurred inkblot, his spear whistling through the air in a lethal thrust. Ethan didn't chant. He didn't summon a storm. Instead, he stepped into the guard, Starfall Scar glowing with a faint, rhythmic pulse.
He was using the Lifespan Blade Arts.
Clang!
The collision echoed through the stadium. Dorian’s eyes widened. "A sword?"
He had braced for the World-Rending Tempest, not a melee exchange. But Ethan’s blade didn't just parry; it hit with the weight of a falling mountain. And with every subsequent strike, that weight doubled.
Two hits. Four. Eight.
The speed of the exchange increased until they were nothing but flashes of black and silver. The audience sat in stunned silence. They had expected a magical artillery barrage; instead, they were witnessing a brutal, high-speed sword dance.
"Since when do Forbidden Incantators fight like vanguards?" someone shouted from the stands.
"He hasn't cast a single spell!"
Up in the VIP box, Victor Gao’s eyes narrowed. "He’s doing it. He’s burning his own life force to power those strikes."
"Is he mad?" Sutton hissed, his confidence wavering. "Winning a trial isn't worth years of your life!"
By the fifteenth strike, Dorian’s hands were shaking. His grip on the Shadow Dragon spear was slick with blood from his torn palms. The sheer kinetic energy Ethan was generating was becoming impossible to deflect.
"Enough!" Dorian screamed, desperation finally overtaking him. He swung his spear in a massive arc—the Shadow Pile Driver—aiming to crush Ethan’s ribs.
Ethan took the hit on his blade, the force sliding him back across the stone, but he remained upright.
Dorian didn't give him a chance to recover. He tapped into his core, his spear tip erupting with a void-black light that seemed to swallow the sun. "You think you’re the only one who can play with forbidden power? Die!"
"Forbidden Incantation: Void Dragonfall!"
The spear lunged forward, not as a physical weapon, but as a piercing line of absolute erasure. The air screamed as the vacuum pulled at everything in the arena.
The impact was a dull thud followed by a spray of red.
Ethan stood frozen. The black spearhead had punched through his chest, emerging from his back in a jagged burst of steel and gore. Dorian stared at him, a cruel, triumphant grin splitting his face as Ethan’s blood began to soak his uniform.