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Chapter 71 – Thunder's Pride
The arena air crackled—not with magic, but anticipation.
The second day of qualifiers had reached its midpoint, and already, a mix of unpredictable upsets and clean victories had left the crowd buzzing.
Now, another name was called.
"Contestant 1038—Zarek Stormcrest!"
A scattered wave of cheers rose—not overwhelming, but noticeable. Anticipatory. Curious.
He was known.
But not loved.Not feared.Just watched.
Because he carried a name that mattered.
The name of Stormcrest.
And in the topmost observation deck—where few eyes dared linger—his father sat still in the center chair.
Rigid. Silent. Clad in deep navy and gold. His hair silver-streaked and tied back with military precision. Not a wrinkle on his uniform. Not a twitch in his posture.
Just eyes.
Cold and calculating.
---
Zarek stepped onto the arena floor like a soldier returning to familiar ground. Not posturing. Not acknowledging the crowd.
He didn't need to.
His armor was lightweight and storm-threaded, built more for precision than brawling. A small ring of electricity hovered near his left knuckle, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Across from him, his opponent cracked his neck.
Kael Darnis. Third-year. Wind and earth hybrid. Sharp features, dark eyes.
Unbothered.
He carried the calm of a duelist, not a showman. And more importantly—he didn't flinch when he saw the name Stormcrest.
"Another prodigy," Kael muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Let's see how long that pride lasts."
---
The match began.
Kael moved first, palms forward, fingers splayed. Dust and wind surged to his side, crafting a spiraling gale laced with bits of stone.
Zarek didn't blink.
Kael sprinted low, darting side to side, then leapt high—midair feint.
Zarek's hand twitched slightly.
Lightning sparked... then dimmed.
He's not baiting yet, Lyrian thought from the stands. He's waiting. He's not reacting until he confirms direction.
Kael descended fast, both fists wrapped in hardened earth and gale.
Clash.
Zarek parried with his forearm, skidding back a step.
Kael didn't let up. Another rush, followed by a spinning sweep kick laced with wind.
Zarek ducked under—barely.
Crackled static rippled along his back as the gale grazed him.
Still, no counterstrike.
The crowd leaned in.
"Why's he not fighting back?"
---
Lyrian narrowed his eyes.
No. He's testing.
Zarek's body shifted subtly, eyes tracking the curvature of Kael's motion—not just his attacks, but his preparation.
He's measuring rhythm. Looking for mana surges—predictable spell patterns. Timing the delay between earth-to-wind transitions.
Kael stepped back, breathing heavy.
"Come on then, lightning boy. You going to throw sparks or just stare?"
Zarek's gaze rose slightly.
Then—
He vanished.
Not lightning. Not teleportation.
Just sheer acceleration.
His foot slid and slammed off the ground at the same time—launching forward like a coiled bolt.
Kael brought up a wall of rock—
BOOM!
Zarek's fist shattered through it in a single strike, but Kael had already spun around the impact and summoned a spiraling wind dagger to his hand.
Ssschk—!
It cut Zarek's side—lightly.
But it drew blood.
The crowd gasped.
Again.
Just like yesterday—Zarek let himself be hit before retaliating.
---
Then, everything stilled.
Zarek raised his palm.
His voice didn't rise.
But the air did.
"Thunder Step."
Lyrian blinked.
It wasn't just movement.
It was distortion.
The moment Zarek triggered it, the arena's spatial current—barely perceptible—shifted. The energy trembled. Mana bent. Time lagged.
Zarek was gone.
No trace.
Then—
CRACK.
He appeared behind Kael with a thunderclap, hand outstretched. A snap of pure voltage erupted from his palm, striking Kael's spine directly.
Kael seized.
Every muscle locked.
His face twisted.
And he froze—kneeling, stuck mid-movement like a statue caught mid-swing.
The thunder dissipated. Smoke curled off his armor.
Kael gritted his teeth—but couldn't move.
---
Zarek exhaled once.
Low.
Controlled.
Then—he stepped back.
No extra blow.
No comment.
He simply let the judge raise the flag.
"Victory: Contestant 1038."
---
But in the stands, Lyrian wasn't clapping.
His hands were folded under his chin, mind turning fast.
He let himself get hit again... for data.
That wasn't arrogance. That was design.
Zarek had waited for Kael to hit him. To confirm wind acceleration versus earth cast lag.
Then he mapped the delay… and finished it in one perfect strike.
Lyrian's eyes narrowed.
If I were in Zarek's place, I would've struck earlier. Less risk. But…
No. He needed the full picture.
*He doesn't waste spells. He doesn't fight with power. He fights with certainty.
Then Lyrian turned it around in his head.
If I were Kael?
I'd have baited his Thunder Step. Forced him to use it before I burned all my mobility. Force a trade. Exhaust his mana first.
Because even Zarek—despite the perfection of his technique—was breathing slightly harder than he had been.
And Lyrian noticed.
---
In the instructor's booth, Elder Stormcrest remained unmoved.
He neither nodded nor frowned.
He simply looked at his son with the same blank expectation.
"You are a Stormcrest. Nothing more. Nothing less."
---
Zarek descended the stairs slowly. As he passed a group of observing students, someone whispered:
"Guess he lives up to it…"
Another replied, "He'd better. With that last name."
---
Down in the pit, medics carried Kael off the field. Conscious. Breathing.
But stunned.
He looked up once at the crowd. Then down at his hands. They were still trembling.
Not from pain.
But from how quickly the tide had shifted.
---
As the next name echoed through the speakers, the tension slowly faded.
But in the back of the viewing tier, Lyrian remained still.
He wasn't afraid of Zarek.
But he understood him now.
He leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded.
"He's strong. But not untouchable. He needs control. He needs precision."
"Disrupt that—and you shatter the entire Storm."