The arena thrummed with tension, the air practically humming with energy as Helen's voice rang out like a bell of judgment.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our next battle features Percy Atlas Magus and Joon Hwarangdo. Let the match begin!"
From the far side, Percy stepped forward, calm and unreadable. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sheathed katana, the Shadowstrike—a weapon that shimmered with dark, subdued brilliance, as though the blade existed just slightly out of sync with reality.
Across from him stood Joon Hwarangdo, 2nd circle martial artist. His stance was fluid, his breathing slow and measured—Adaptive Energy Flow made manifest in posture. He narrowed his gaze, sensing something... strange. The pressure coming off Percy wasn't magic alone. It was heavier. More layered.
Percy vanished in a blink. The sound of cracking space snapped through the arena as he reappeared behind Joon mid-air.
"Spatial Slash!"
The katana hissed through distorted space.
Joon's body bent like a reed in the wind—Flowing River Evasion—avoiding the blade by a hair's breadth. With a quick pivot, he retaliated with Willow Branch Whirl, a flurry of unpredictable strikes that struck from seemingly impossible angles.
Percy parried, his movements tight and controlled. Sparks flew.
"Impressive," he said, tone neutral, yet edged with growing interest. "Let's see how you handle this."
He unleashed a burst of Spatial Bullets, folding slivers of space and sending them flying in erratic trajectories.
Joon moved with urgency, dodging with liquid grace.
{This mage—he's not just powerful. He's watching everything. Adapting.}
"Blazing Palm Inferno!" Joon roared, his palms igniting as he struck out with controlled detonations.
Percy flipped backward, absorbing the blast momentum into a sweeping Whirlwind Kick, redirecting the force outward before landing smoothly.
"You've got some interesting moves, Joon," Percy mused, eyes coldly calculating.
"But you're not the only one with tricks."
He didn't blink as his mind kicked into overdrive.
{Photo-Eidetic Memorization: Analyzing movement patterns.}
{Adaptive breathing rhythm detected. Counter-formulating.}
Joon grounded himself, shifting into Mountain Stance Resolve, anchoring his spirit and strikes.
"Then stop observing and fight me."
Percy's hand twitched. The Sensory Field rippled outward like invisible sonar, detecting Joon's internal shifts.
"Sensory Field Proficiency: Increased."
"I already am," Percy replied.
Joon surged forward with Iron Fist Cascade, each strike hammering down with weighty precision.
Percy deflected, slipping inside Joon's guard.
"Emperor's Crescent!"
A wide spatial arc tore through the air, slamming into Joon and forcing him back across the stage.
"Emperor's Crescent: Proficiency Increased."
"I never underestimate my opponents," Percy added, his tone now edged with quiet steel.
"But I do aim to surpass them."
Joon exhaled slowly, his aura beginning to change. The colors around him shifted subtly—earth, fire, wind, water, metal.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Elemental Cycle Breathing."
A pulse of energy surged from him, the breath of nature itself guiding his every movement. Each strike now bore elemental resonance.
Percy didn't flinch.
He stepped forward—and vanished again.
A ripple of displaced space cracked behind Joon's shoulder.
"Royal Retribution."
Percy's katana, still sheathed, crashed down in a clean vertical arc—its weight not in steel, but in precision, adaptation, and perfected rhythm.
"Royal Retribution: Proficiency Increased."
The air in the arena crackled with residual energy, the crowd watching with bated breath as the duel reached its final exchange.
Joon, though battered and near his limit, refused to yield.
"Flowing River Evasion!" he called out, his body moving like liquid, sidestepping Percy's attack with practiced elegance.
With one last surge of will, he gathered his remaining energy, igniting both palms.
"Blazing Palm Inferno!"
The arena flared with heat, a desperate yet formidable attempt to turn the tide.
Percy's eyes sharpened, analyzing the angles, calculating trajectories.
The moment the fire launched toward him, he vanished.
A sharp crack of displaced air marked his reappearance—right inside Joon's guard.
"Lightning Fist Jab."
The impact was instant.
A flash of arc energy surged through Percy's fist as it collided with Joon's chest, sending a shockwave rippling outward.
Joon stumbled backward, hit the ground, and slid to a halt.
Silence stretched across the arena.
Joon lay there, his chest rising and falling, sweat pooling at his brow.
His pride warred with his reality. He had lost.
Yet… he had fought well.
Slowly, he exhaled, accepting the outcome.
"You… you win, Percy."
His voice was tired but held no bitterness—only a mix of disappointment and newfound respect.
"You're stronger than I thought."
Percy calmly slung his sheathed katana onto his back. His stance was relaxed, but his presence still carried weight.
He extended a hand.
"You fought well, Joon," he said, his voice devoid of arrogance—only sincerity.
"But strength isn't everything. It's how you use it."
A truth not spoken to diminish, but to uplift.
Joon hesitated, then clasped Percy's hand, pulling himself to his feet.
A nod. A quiet promise.
"Thank you, Percy. I'll get stronger."
Percy's lips curved slightly.
"I look forward to our next match."
The two walked off the stage together, the roaring applause acknowledging not just the victor, but the warrior's spirit they both displayed.
Three figures observed from a distance, their expressions a mixture of satisfaction, contemplation, and measured calculation.
Helen, Yaroslav, and Eadmund.
Their auras of authority cloaked them like unseen armor, their eyes tracking every movement Percy made.
A telepathic thread linked them.
{Percy's performance was impressive,} Helen remarked, her mental tone laced with intrigue.
{The harmony he achieved with his abilities is remarkable.}
Yaroslav, ever the strategist, weighed in.
{Indeed. His control and integration of both martial and magical skills are far beyond what we were at his age.}
{It's clear he has been training diligently.}
Eadmund, always more reserved, added his thoughts, though a hint of pride laced his usually neutral mental voice.
{He is not only skilled but also adaptable. Did you notice how he anticipated his opponent's moves?}
{That level of foresight is rare.}
Helen's mental voice carried a tone of agreement, but also a note of caution.
{Yes, and his seamless transition between offense and defense shows his strategic mind at work.}
{However, we must keep this information closely guarded. There are those who should not know too much about Percy's true capabilities.}
Their gazes subtly flickered toward Jared Sathe, who stood with his usual stoic mask.
Helen's voice shifted slightly, after reading a notification on her tablet.
{There's been a change in the lineup for the next event. The Survival Exam.}
A beat of silence.
{A boy named Carlos Astaroth requested to be one of the hunters, but his request was initially denied.}
Helen's expression darkened slightly.
{However, the girl who was supposed to be a hunter suddenly disappeared, and the principal accepted Astaroth's request.}
A heavy pause settled between them.
{Carlos has a history of fighting—and hatred—for Percy.}
A pulse of indignation flared in Yaroslav's presence, mirrored by Eadmund's simmering anger.
{The audacity of a mere young mage believing he has the power to touch our chosen disciple,} Yaroslav fumed.
{If he intends to act recklessly, he may learn firsthand the difference between ambition and reality,} Eadmund added, his thoughts cold and sharp.
Helen said nothing, but the weight of her silence spoke volumes.
This was no mere coincidence.
And now, Percy had another opponent waiting in the shadows.
One who wasn't bound by the rules of a duel.
As the echoes of applause faded, Helen's mind voice hummed with amusement.
{Don't worry. Percy can take care of himself.}
Eadmund and Yaroslav turned toward her—one stoic, the other skeptical.
{Why shouldn't we worry about his well-being, Helen?} Eadmund's tone was calm, yet laced with quiet demand.
Helen smiled softly, her thoughts carrying a note of playfulness.
{Eadmund, you of all people—having lived longer than anyone else on this planet—I would've thought you'd know better than to ask a lady to reveal her secrets.}
Yaroslav burst into laughter, drawing a few curious glances from other judges. He coughed, waving a hand in apology, before rejoining the telepathic exchange.
{You know, Helen, despite being a woman, you understand well enough that even the most innocent of secrets can be as deadly as the sharpest blade.}
The two locked eyes. A quiet tension brewed—light on the surface, but deeper underneath.
Until Eadmund spoke again.
A single mental cough broke the standoff like thunder rolling in the distance.
{If you do not wish to say, I will take your word. Your reputation is not without merit.}
Helen inclined her head slightly, her voice gracious.
{Thank you for your trust, Eadmund.}
But the elder mage's tone shifted—colder, deeper, like something ancient stirring in the void between worlds.
{However, as you've said—I am one of the oldest mages alive. I have seen empires fall before your ancestors were even conceived.}
{So allow me this one and only warning.}
The words hung heavy, Helen and Yaroslav feeling a tangible chill pass over their minds.
{Do not abuse my trust. I am not one of the men enchanted by your charm. As long as Percy remains safe, I will stand beside you.}
A pause. Then came the name—not spoken in vanity, but as a threat clad in absolute truth.
{But the moment your 'secret' harms him… you will understand why I am called the Sage of the Void—
—and not by the name the world has forgotten.}
For the first time in decades, Helen and Yaroslav were left silent—not out of fear, but out of reverence. The sheer weight of history behind Eadmund's words pressed against them like gravity.
Yaroslav gave a respectful nod.
Helen's voice was softer now, thoughtful.
{Understood. We are aligned in purpose. Percy is our hope—and I have no intention of letting him fall.}
Eadmund's tone lightened again—just slightly.
{Then let us stay vigilant. His growth will attract more than challengers. It will draw eyes from across the flow—some kind, some cruel.}
Helen ended the thread with quiet resolve.
{Agreed. For now, let us celebrate his victory… and prepare. The next trial draws near.}
The connection closed.
Three judges, silent in posture but burning with purpose, returned to their seats—their thoughts united in mission.
From his perch across the hall, Jared Sathe watched. His gaze betrayed nothing.
Outwardly calm.
Inwardly… alert.
And then, it came.
A voice—not his own—echoed in his mind like oil sliding across glass.
{Ah… Jared, my old friend. How fares our endeavor?}
His jaw twitched—barely.
{The target's combat abilities are beyond standard parameters. Martial-magic integration, strategic calculation, and adaptive memory—almost like he's trained for decades.}
The voice sharpened with hunger.
{Then you know what must be done. The final exam. Eliminate him. Failure is not an option.}
The threat wasn't spoken—it existed.
Jared didn't flinch.
{Carlos Astaroth is already positioned as a hunter. His hatred for the boy will fuel the encounter.}
A low, dark chuckle responded—rich with malice.
It slid like ice behind Jared's eyes.
As the faint hum of applause continued from the crowd, Jared's thoughts briefly flickered toward the others… then returned to the voice.
{There's been a change. I couldn't secure Lead Examiner.}
The voice dismissed the concern with unnerving ease.
{It matters not. That role would've only tethered your influence. Focus on the greater objective. The ultimate plan is already in motion.}
Jared stiffened.
Ultimate plan? That was new.
But he knew better than to ask.
With minds like this… ignorance wasn't just safer. It was survival.
{Understood.}
The voice faded, leaving only Jared—and the growing weight of what was to come.