Chapter 70: Spatial Shift
The crowd had barely settled from Reynard's elegant performance when the next name rang through the arena.
"Contestant Eleven-Two hundred and....—"
Dorian was already on his feet, walking toward the field before the number was fully called. He didn't wait for the announcer to finish.
He couldn't wait.
He knew this was his shot—maybe his only shot—to reach the elimination rounds. To make everything he'd endured, everything he'd sacrificed, worth it.
If he failed now, it would all be for nothing.
A murmur rippled through the audience. Dorian Vassel wasn't a name that stood out. He wasn't a noble. He hadn't put on a flashy show in previous rounds. But something about the way he stepped into the arena—shoulders straight, hands in his coat pockets, a quiet gleam behind tired eyes—made a few heads tilt with interest.
The arena's golden lights caught on the thin silver rings that lined his fingers.
His opponent was already there, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. A tall youth in sleek black armor, twin curved daggers strapped to his forearms. His presence radiated confidence, speed, and something more dangerous—precision.
The fighter grinned, flicking the blades free. "Try to keep up, slowpoke."
Dorian said nothing. Just adjusted his collar and let out a soft breath.
The signal sounded.
A blur of silver blades streaked toward him.
Pain followed.
The first strike sliced through the air—and across Dorian's side before he even registered the movement. He barely managed to turn when a second slash came from behind, carving through the fabric of his coat and sending him stumbling.
"Too slow," the opponent taunted, his voice a blur of motion itself.
A kick followed—a brutal, spinning strike to Dorian's gut that launched him backward. He hit the arena floor hard, sliding across the tiles in a swirl of dust.
"Dorian!" someone yelled from the crowd.
He groaned, coughing as he lay crumpled on the stone. Blood trickled from his lip, the world tilting around him.
Fast. Too fast. He couldn't track the movements. He barely saw them.
Another step. A blade stabbed downward—Dorian rolled, gasping as steel missed his neck by inches. He tried to stand, but the second blade sliced a shallow line across his shoulder, spinning him sideways.
The crowd flinched. "He's being carved up," someone whispered.
But through the pain, Dorian's mind was quietly working.
Mapping. Analyzing.
Every move. Every angle. Every step he takes… he follows a pattern.
Dorian's fingers twitched. A faint glow ran down one of his rings.
"I hate getting touched," he muttered, voice rasping. "But I needed the data."
His opponent came in again, spinning low with a sweeping blade.
And missed.
By a hair.
No—by space.
The blade passed through the air where Dorian should've been—but Dorian was already gone, shimmering like a heat mirage.
He reappeared five feet to the side, dragging a glowing fingertip through the air. Thin, radiant lines flickered behind him like threads of energy stitched into the battlefield.
"What the hell—?" the opponent snarled, eyes narrowing.
Dorian stood, bloodied but smiling faintly. "My turn."
The dual-blade fighter dashed forward, blades blurring—
—but his first step landed too far left.
His second too short.
His body stumbled into his own momentum as the space around him twisted.
He swung one dagger wildly—but the swing froze mid-air, trapped inside a sudden ripple. A distortion.
Dorian stepped forward, drawing his fingers through the air like a painter.
"You're moving fast…" he said quietly, "but not faster than space itself."
The crowd gasped.
The fighter backed off, spinning to recover his stance. "What are you doing?!"
"I rearranged the board," Dorian replied. "You're playing by my geometry now."
He raised his hand—and a ripple surged through the arena floor.
The opponent blinked—and found himself five feet off the ground, as if the floor had been yanked out from beneath him.
Dorian flicked his wrist.
The air cracked.
CRASH!
The fighter slammed into the stone, rolling with a sharp grunt. But he was fast—too fast to be stopped by one trick. He leapt back up, daggers drawn, and launched again in a blur.
Only for his own dagger to swerve—mid-air—toward himself.
The spatial distortion caught his blade and redirected it. He twisted mid-leap, narrowly avoiding stabbing his own leg.
"Damn you!" he hissed. "Stop hiding behind tricks!"
"No tricks," Dorian murmured. "Just angles."
With one swift motion, he sliced the air into three glowing threads.
Space buckled.
The twin-blade fighter charged again—and vanished.
He reappeared upside down ten feet above the ring.
Eyes wide, limbs flailing.
He crashed back-first into the stone with a deafening thud.
Groaning, he tried to rise—only to find the ground beneath him sliding. Not the arena floor, no—the very space he stood on was shifting like a slab of light.
He reached for his blades.
Dorian exhaled. "Enough."
One final wave of his hand.
A brilliant shimmer surged across the stage.
And then, space folded.
The opponent screamed—not in pain, but in confusion—as he was launched from the arena in a swirling ripple of distortion, tumbling across the air like a ragdoll caught in a whirlpool.
Thud.
Silence.
Then the crowd erupted.
Not for flair.
Not for brutality.
But for control.
For turning the invisible laws of space into weapons.
Dorian stood there, bloodied, breathing hard, one hand on his ribs. His rings still glowed faintly.
He didn't raise his hands. He didn't smile.
He simply walked off the stage, steady and quiet.
In the observation box, Instructor Veylen scribbled furiously.
Spatial-type confirmed. Danger level: High. Strategic class. Recommend monitoring.
Lyrian, watching from the hall, blinked once. "…He was getting destroyed a second ago."
Elyreina watched the screen, eyes narrowed. "No. He was collecting information. He never planned to win early. He planned to win correctly."
From the arena's edge, the announcer raised his hand.
"Victory! Contestant 299..… Dorian!!!
But before the cheers had even faded, another name echoed across the coliseum.
"Next up… Contestant 1.... Zarek Stormcrest!"
The energy shifted.
The crowd roared in anticipation.
And somewhere, hidden among the shadows, a silver-haired girl watched in silence.
And did not smile. Simply mustered interesting.....