"Royal Retribution | Druvakar Inovcation: Crown of Spikes!"
Percy's voice rang out, clear and commanding, woven with unmistakable intent.
He vaulted into the air, a streak of silver and shadow, his blade gleaming under the false sun of the arena.
As the edge of his katana plunged into the earth between Aria and Mei, the ground itself answered.
A resonant thoom shook the battlefield.
Sigil lines pulsed outward like veins of molten gold—then the earth exploded upward in a brutal sprawl of jagged stone.
A massive crater ripped open at his feet, debris hurtling skyward in a howling storm of dust and rock.
The sigil-ignited spikes scattered Aria and Mei like leaves before a tempest.
"Crap!" they cried in unison, scrambling back as the tremor rocked their footing.
Above the chaos, a towering spike burst forth, lifting Percy effortlessly into the sky.
He stood at its apex like a monarch surveying a kingdom forged in ruin, the wind tearing at his uniform, katana lowered in lazy triumph.
Arms wide in mock apology, he grinned down at them.
"Oh, come now, ladies—don't let little old me interrupt your... riveting swordplay."
Aria froze mid-step, her jaw clenching so tightly it creaked.
(The audacity...)
Hand over her heart in a show of strained nobility, she dipped her head slightly, her tone painfully civil.
"Mr. Percy," she said, voice sweet but taut as a drawn bowstring, "as a fellow student of the blade, I kindly request that you allow our duel to conclude... before engaging the victor."
Her manners were polished.
Her aura all but screamed for blood.
Percy tilted his head, the picture of amusement—then burst into laughter, rich and unrestrained, echoing across the shattered field.
Aria's left eye twitched violently.
(How dare he!)
Mei snickered, brushing dust from her knees.
"So much for that 'knightly virtue' you're always preaching, huh?"
"Silence," Aria snapped, voice like a blade drawn across stone. "I will deal with both of you soon enough."
"Oh yeah?" Mei cracked her knuckles. "Then come try me, sweetheart."
The tension thickened—
Yet the clash never came.
"Huh—?"
Aria faltered.
She tried to lunge—only to find her limbs shackled by invisible weights.
The very air had shifted—gravity itself felt warped, treacherous.
(What is this pressure?!)
Across from her, Mei buckled onto one knee, a curse ripped from her throat.
"F-F-FUCK—!"
Inside her core, her Inner Flame guttered, flickering dangerously.
Cracks spiderwebbed across her dantian, only barely held at bay by a stubborn ember of resistance.
Their vision warped—colors bleeding into black.
And what rose before them was not Percy.
It was a titan.
A silhouette vast as a mountain loomed above the battlefield—indistinct, yet every movement of its blade carved phantom cuts across their minds.
Aria tried to cry out.
No sound escaped her lips.
(I... I can't breathe—)
The phantom shifted again.
Each faint motion sent unseen slashes through the marrow of her being, peeling away every ounce of composure she clung to.
(STOP—!)
Her heart thundered in her chest like a war drum, drowning out thought.
Mei, half-conscious, raised her eyes—and saw it too.
A colossal figure, wreathed in cold authority, wielding not just power, but judgment.
This was no illusion.
This was not some trick of light or fear.
It was a resonance—an echo of something Percy barely yet understood himself.
As the last of their strength crumbled, their vision blurred at the edges.
They looked up—one final time.
And their gazes met his.
In that suspended breath between awareness and collapse—
They saw not just a rival.
They saw a king, crowned in silence.
A single second of shared clarity.
Uncertainty.
Recognition.
(Is this… real?)
And then the moment shattered.
The air cracked open—thin strands of reality peeling back—as Jason Lunarae stepped forward.
Only Lyra remained—rooted to the spot, her gaze locked on Jason's descending form.
But even she could feel it.
The suffocating silence that blanketed him, thick enough to crush thought.
Jason hovered inches above the scorched arena floor, a figure carved from stillness and wrath.
His golden-blond hair rippled like silk in the warping air, while his crimson eyes—shining the color of shattered stars—watched them without a flicker of warmth.
(This pressure… it hasn't lessened since the moment he arrived,) Lyra thought grimly, her knuckles whitening around the staff she held.
Jason's expression didn't change.
No anger.
No triumph.
Only a cold, aching disappointment.
"I expected more," he said quietly, his voice smooth as the surface of a frozen river just before it cracks.
Lyra's spine straightened with instinctive pride.
"And I expected someone less... predictable," she replied, the sharpness of her words hiding the tremor in her chest.
Jason blinked—slow, deliberate amusement flickering across his features.
"Says the heir of a house that's recycled the same failures for centuries."
Before Lyra could retort, a figure landed beside her—Dalton Greeves.
He rose from his crouch with the grace of a coiled spring, fire and steel humming faintly around his body.
"You look like you could use some backup," Dalton said, casual—but his gaze never once left Jason.
"I don't need a savior," Lyra snapped, the fire in her voice flickering—but not extinguished.
"Didn't say I was saving you," Dalton replied, loosening his stance. "Just not in the mood to be bored."
Jason's gaze shifted to him.
Recognition flickered.
"Dalton Greeves."
Neutral words, yet the ripple of power behind them warped the very space between them.
"I hear you're talented. But not enough to be interesting."
Dalton barked a short laugh.
"Damn. That's cold." He smirked, flexing his fingers. "Guess I'll just have to fix that."
Jason tilted his head, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"So eager to break."
The atmosphere deepened—folding in on itself.
Light fractured around Jason's frame as eight radiant sigils ignited in perfect synchrony, forming a luminous halo that spun behind him like the gears of a divine machine.
Lyra's breath caught.
(Eight Rings of Divine Compression… already pre-charged?!)
"Don't underestimate him," she warned, lowering her center of gravity, voice razor-sharp.
"I never do," Dalton murmured, his stance tightening.
Hovering above them, Jason extended two fingers, glowing with lethal promise.
"Let's see if either of you is worth remembering."
And then—
FLASH.
A column of searing white light tore down from the heavens, slamming into the earth with thunderous finality.
Dalton and Lyra split apart in an instant, dodging opposite ways as molten glass hissed beneath their feet.
Jason's magic wasn't just speed.
It was finality incarnate.
From his vantage, Jason's voice cut through the swirling debris.
"You think this is a test of strength. It isn't."
"It's a reminder."
Jason hovered in the air, motionless yet monumental.
Eight luminous sigils spun around him—perfect circles of golden-white light, each carved so precisely that the very fabric of the arena trembled under their orbit.
Each sigil pulsed with restrained annihilation, synchronized to the silent cadence of his breath.
Below, Lyra reset her footing, grounding herself with instinctive precision—her soul thrumming in tune with the old harmonies of Caelumis blood.
The earth beneath her murmured faintly in response, stones flexing as if aware of the storm to come.
Dalton cracked his neck, steam coiling from his gauntlets where Pyramánhar (Flame) met Ferrumánhar (Metal) in a barely truced conflict.
His left arm gleamed with molten iron sheen; his right burned with a deep, controlled blaze.
Behind him, faint yet resolute, a wreathe of pure Darkness Ruhen shimmered—loyal to the Great Flow, untwisted by corruption.
"No Solareth," Lyra murmured sideways, invoking the true sigil name for Jason's Light weaponry.
"Wouldn't dare," Dalton muttered back, a savage grin curling his lips. "Let the boy wonder make his entrance."
Above them, Jason's crimson gaze swept down like a guillotine's edge—silent, inevitable.
"You brandish borrowed forces beneath your lineage," Jason said coolly, voice slicing through the tension like a ritual blade.
Without ceremony, Jason raised his right hand—two fingers extended, glowing with internal Solareth Mánhar.
Carving without hesitation, he traced a complex eight-stroke pattern mid-air, each motion blazing against the sky like the sun's own script.
The glyphs pulsed with deep harmonic resonance, pure and ancient.
"Hal'Korith Invocation: Crown of Eight."
The carved sigils locked into place with a concussive thrum—
—and then detonated outward, expanding into a radiant halo.
Eight beams of compressed Solareth energy lashed down toward them—silent, merciless lines of judgment, each one a direct carving of Jason's will.
Lyra answered without hesitation.
Her staff—a conduit woven with Mánhar-etched wood from the ancient forests of Caelun—whipped into motion.
She carved her own glyph into the air, each stroke glowing deep emerald as she poured Terra-bound Mánhar into the form.
Her staff's runes shimmered in harmony with her soul's breath.
"Druvakar Invocation: Tectonic Divide!"
The ground beneath her answered, not with violence—but with solemn affirmation.
A ring of sigil-light burst from the earth, and titanic slabs of stone tore free, vaulting upward into a layered barrier against Jason's light.
Several beams collided and shattered—others lanced through, carving molten scars across Lyra's side and shoulder.
But she stood, teeth clenched, eyes burning with stubborn resolve.
Behind her fractured cover, Dalton moved.
He carved without hesitation, drawing sharp metallic runes through the heated air with his reinforced gauntlets.
Each stroke summoned the scent of iron and burning ozone, Mánhar vibrating through every motion.
"Kharveth Invocation: Blade Echo—Form Seven!"
Twin blades of solid Ferrumánhar coalesced from nothing—rippling and humming with centrifugal force.
Dalton surged forward, weaving between falling debris, scattering molten sparks across the scorched ground.
Jason did not move.
He only lifted one hand, an almost negligent motion—two fingers again etching a sigil with blinding precision.
"Solareth Directive: Radiant Judgment—First Spear."
One stroke.
One glyph.
One decree.
From the sky, a singular spear of pure Solareth erupted—so fast it tore through sound itself.
Dalton twisted mid-air, barely evading.
The heat skimmed his face, searing a line across his cheek—but he rode the momentum, landing in a crouch, steam rising from his gauntlets as internal stabilizers compensated.
"You wanted pressure?" Lyra shouted from across the shattered arena, her voice raw with fury and triumph.
She whirled her staff again, carving faster now—sacrificing refinement for pure intent.
The glyph burned green-gold, flaring like a heartbeat before collapse.
"Druvakar Resurgence: Earth's Final Stand!"
The ground beneath Jason's feet shifted—subtly at first, then violently.
Leylines buckled and twisted, the harmonic anchors of the battlefield pulling at the orbits of his Crown of Eight.
The very world was beginning to resist him.
Jason's eyes narrowed.
At last—something worth his attention.
"Pyravath Invocation: Scorchline Tempest!"
Lyra's voice cracked the air like a whip.
A cyclone of fire ignited beneath Jason's hovering boots, the heat distorting the very air.
Without hesitation, Lyra slammed her staff together in both hands—Mánhar surging into her conduit—and began carving rapid sigil strokes in midair, each one glowing molten-red.
The flame responded instantly, spiraling upward in a burning vortex aimed to consume him.
"Druvakar Invocation: Converging Maw!"
Lyra roared, her fingers striking the ground in tandem.
Cracks splintered outward as she carved earthen glyphs directly into the stone with brutal efficiency—her staff tracing deep, jagged strokes through solid earth.
The ground beneath the firestorm exploded upward, forming massive jaws of magma-laced stone, snapping shut around the pillar of flame.
Jason finally blinked, the first sign of acknowledgment.
"Clever," he murmured.
The moment the encroaching firestorm brushed his outer Light Sigil field, Jason traced a short Solareth glyph in front of his chest with two fingers—precise, cutting the air like a razor.
His body flashed—vanishing in a burst of compressed white light—teleporting ten meters back in a seamless spatial blink.
Dalton was already there, waiting like a storm coiled to strike.
"Vraekath Invocation: Grave Spiral!"
Dalton's voice rumbled low, dark.
He punched downward—drawing a twisting spiral of sigils across the floor with trailing darkness bleeding from his hands.
From the carved glyph, a vortex of void energy erupted—spiraling violently, the gravitational force trying to seize Jason midair.
Jason's eyes sharpened.
With no flourish, he etched a tiny Solareth sigil with a lazy flick of one finger—pure, condensed annihilation.
"Solareth Directive: Light Collapse."
The orbiting Light Sigils around him folded inward, forming a single searing point of radiance that exploded outward—countering the pull of Dalton's darkness and dispersing the Grave Spiral into harmless black mist.
Jason floated higher, his body a silhouette against the blinding sky.
"You are not Sacred, Dalton," he said, voice impassive, almost pitiful.
Dalton's gauntlets reconfigured with a low, mechanical hiss—furnace steel and inner fire merging tighter across his arms.
"No," Dalton growled, fire igniting in his palm.
"But I am pissed."
In a savage blur, Dalton carved dual glyphs in the air, fire and metal Mánhar surging into synchronized sigilwork.
"Composite Invocation: Molten Bladestorm!"
From the ruptured ground, dozens of blazing swords erupted—spiraling in a storm of molten steel and flame, arcing like heat-seeking daggers toward Jason.
Jason did not dodge.
He carved with a single outward stroke of his fingers, unfurling a shield sigil etched with geometric precision.
"Solareth Ward: Static Radiance."
A spherical wall of translucent light burst forth, absorbing and neutralizing every flaming blade—until a final concentrated wave cracked the barrier, spiderwebbing fractures across its surface.
Jason's expression darkened.
"Enough," he said.
The air around him thickened, vibrating under the magnitude of the glyph he began to weave—each stroke broader, slower, but filled with terrifying finality.
Jason raised both arms, carving the invocation into the sky itself.
"Luminarch Ultima: Heavenfall Protocol."
Above, the clouds tore apart.
A massive pillar of compressed Solareth energy descended—pure judgment incarnate.
Dalton, instincts screaming, seized Lyra and hurled her aside with raw force—
"Vraekath Invocation: Void Shell!"
Mid-throw, he etched a swirling darkness glyph around himself with an urgent hand motion.
The Void Shell closed around him—an orb of absolute Darkness Ruhen, pure and protective.
But it cracked.
It crumbled.
And the light swallowed him whole.
When the radiance faded, both Dalton and Lyra lay sprawled on the battlefield.
Smoke curled from their bodies. Blood dripped freely.
They were conscious—but only barely.
Jason's boots clicked softly as he descended to the scorched arena floor.
He gazed at them both—no pride, no cruelty—only a razor-edged calculation.
"And yet... you still stand," he said, voice unreadable. "Barely."
Dalton coughed blood, but forced a crooked grin.
"Still... not impressed," he rasped.
Lyra smirked through broken lips.
"Did we... earn your attention yet?"
Jason paused. His gaze—once distant—narrowed slightly.
"Yes."
And in that word... a shift.
Not respect.
Not mercy.
A calculated interest.
The gaze of a god who had found a toy worth keeping—for now.
Although the phantom silhouette had faded, its lingering dread still clung to their nerves like cobwebs.
Aria and Mei could feel it—a phantom pressure not from Mánhar, but from something deeper.
From perception itself.
"As if I'm going to wait," Percy said casually, snapping their attention back like a whip crack.
"By the time either of you moves, one of you will already be too exhausted to fight back."
He motioned toward the floating timer.
"Fifteen minutes left. You're both still in peak condition. That won't last."
Aria flicked her eyes toward the updated leaderboard.
Ava.
Emma.
Gone.
(Ava and Emma, eliminated?) she thought, incredulous.
She remembered how those two trained like dual blades forged for a single purpose—one sword, one shield.
Childhood friends turned lifelong sparring partners.
(For both of them to fall… to him—?)
She looked at Percy again.
(No… this one doesn't follow logic. Strategy against him is a gamble. Every move he makes rewrites the board.)
Her grip tightened.
(He doesn't "fight." He calculates. With terrifying accuracy.)
Mei wasn't doing any better.
Though her fighting spirit flared, her stomach twisted violently—a gut reaction her mind tried to override.
But her body had already decided: this opponent was danger.
She shook it off.
"If you wish to fight," she said through grit teeth, "then as a martial artist—I am honor-bound to help you stretch."
She clenched her fists.
(If I hit first, maybe—just maybe—I can find his blind spot.)
"Soaring Ember Spiral!"
Mei vanished, her body igniting into a swirling vortex of fire and fists—her signature technique.
Within seconds, she appeared before Percy, an inferno of rotating limbs and blazing martial force.
Aria's eyes widened.
"I'll admit—that's fast. Even I'd struggle to counter that."
The spiral twisted through the air like a drill of living flame.
{Analyzing Spiral Pattern…}
{Tactical Matrix v2.0 | Locking Combat Trajectory…}
{Palm strike 1, jab 3, downward hammer at 7 o'clock…}
Percy's mind unfolded the entire attack like it was pre-written sheet music.
"Perfect," he muttered, securing his katana across his back.
"Now you're the perfect training dummy."
His fist ignited—not with magic, but with raw spirit.
There was no need for flash when you understood the rhythm of the world.
Inside the vortex, Mei's heart rate spiked.
(He's… smiling? No. Not smiling. Enjoying this.)
She braced to strike—
And suddenly the spiral froze.
Not stopped.
Not dispersed.
Paused.
Like a cassette tape mid-playback.
From Aria's perspective, the fiery vortex had simply halted mid-air.
She blinked, confused.
Then a battlefield projection screen flickered to life—showing another angle.
"No way…"
There was Percy—moving with the spiral, not against it.
Dodging between rotations.
Intercepting at weak angles.
Parrying the fire's trajectory with open palms.
It was ballet.
Brutality masquerading as elegance.
(He's matching every move with predictive counters—like he's already memorized my technique—)
Her limbs screamed as she forced the spiral onward, but the vortex no longer spiraled.
It crumbled.
Piece by piece.
Until only Percy stood at the eye of the storm—arm raised, knuckles smoldering, and waiting.
"This style," Percy murmured, "isn't meant to be countered with force."
He raised his fist higher, stance shifting.
"So I won't."
{Whirlwind Kicks' Proficiency Increase 15.86% ↑ 23.79%}
{Fleeting Palm Strike' Proficiency Increase 5.64% ↑ 20.95%}
{Lightning Fist Jab' Proficiency Increase 6.82% ↑ 22.64%}
Percy stood in the eye of a storm—his own body the axis, movement and calculation blending with sublime mastery.
Notifications flared around him like digital starlight, illuminating every perfect strike, every flawless counter.
(Some skills thrive in chaos… others in stillness,) he mused, catching his breath as his footwork adapted fluidly beneath him.
"Yuh-Duh!" Beta scoffed, draped lazily across his shoulder, her tone a perfect mix of sass and disbelief.
"How else did you think skills would level up?"
(I mean… I've trained endlessly. But this—this kind of growth—I've never felt it until real combat.) Percy argued, slightly embarrassed.
"Well, King, Yass's. That's called combat efficiency scaling," Beta said, like a student explaining obvious algebra. "Some skills only trigger in live conditions. It's called being dynamic, babe."
(Whatever. Just keep the gains coming.)
More alerts followed:
{Whirlwind Kicks' Proficiency Increase 23.79% ↑ 33.67%}
{Fleeting Palm Strike' Proficiency Increase 20.95% ↑ 30.42%}
{Lightning Fist Jab' Proficiency Increase 22.64% ↑ 32.14%}
(Alright… enough playing around, ) Percy decided, his fists igniting with purpose.
With a smooth, sweeping kick, Percy hooked Mei's legs from under her, sending her crashing to the ground with a hard thud. Her fire spiral collapsed—torn apart by control far greater than her own.
"Fuck—!" she gasped, her breath ripped from her lungs as the battlefield shifted beneath her.
Percy didn't let up. He turned—eyes snapping to Aria.
"Spatial Blast!"
He launched a tri-wave of sigils directly at her, the force of each humming with compressed dimensional Mánhar. Aria, caught mid-stance, barely had time to react.
"Shit—!"
She slammed her sword into the ground.
"Aegis, protect!"
A translucent guardian emerged from her weapon—an ethereal knight cloaked in regal violet.
It raised its shield, taking the brunt of Percy's assault.
Three blasts hit, one after another—BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The air rippled.
Her shield cracked.
Dust spiraled around her boots.
But she held.
(Such force... these weren't casual attacks. He's going all out.) Aria's jaw tightened.
"You'll need more than that," she said aloud, exhaling softly.
But Percy wasn't listening.
He stepped toward Mei's crumpled form, blade in hand.
"I said—" Aria began, then stopped.
Her sword was vibrating.
(…now?)
It pulsed again—lavender light streaming from the edge like a heartbeat rising in tempo.
"Aegis. Release."
The spectral knight dissolved—but its power did not vanish.
Instead, it channeled into Aria's blade, transforming it from defense to declaration.
"Sword Heart Manifestation…" she whispered.
Percy paused mid-step.
"Steel Garden Waltz," she intoned, her voice colder than iron.
In a single elegant motion, Aria took the stance of a poised dancer—heels aligned, chin tilted, breath slowed.
The air shifted.
Around her, lavender vines of Mánhar erupted from the ground like blooming steel roses—each bloom a sigil-etched blade wrapped in regal force.
(She wasn't just playing noble… She was masking her killing intent.)
Percy's eyes widened as the system screamed—
{Danger Level: High}
{Unknown Martial Sword Art Detected — Parsing Structure…}
Aria's eyes narrowed.
"Back away from her," she warned.
"Or bleed with her."
The battlefield trembled beneath the weight of Aria's sigil bloom—steel roses spiraling from the ground, their petals engraved with ancient, flowing runes.
Her sword shimmered in her grasp, infused with the essence of her Sword Heart, now fully awakened.
Percy turned his head slightly, eyes locked on Mei, who was still on one knee—burned, bruised, panting.
He clicked his tongue.
"You're done," he said, not to taunt—but to grant reprieve.
Mei looked up at him—expecting cruelty. Instead, she saw something colder. Measured.
"You earned your knockdown," Percy added. "You don't need to get humiliated for it too."
Percy exhaled slowly and turned back toward Aria, leaving Mei to willow in her defeat.
Aria hadn't moved an inch.
"You defended someone who couldn't defend herself," she said quietly. "Even if she was your opponent."
"I've fought too many people who didn't earn their power," Percy replied, rolling his neck. "I don't mind putting them in the ground."
He unsheathed his katana, one slow draw.
"But I won't disrespect someone who climbed the mountain alone."
Aria smiled—not smug, but sincere.
The first crack in her noble armor.
"Then shall we…?"
"Let's dance," Percy whispered.
Aria twirled her blade once, the steel roses responding with gentle resonance.
Each sigil bloom pulsed, syncing with her breath.
"Steel Garden Waltz," she declared.
The moment she stepped forward, the vines coiled toward Percy like steel serpents—not to strike, but to corral.
A duelist's boundary, a rhythm meant to dictate tempo.
Percy stepped in sync.
"Imperial Swordplay: Form Two—Empress Moon Dance."
Their blades met in a clash of pure skill, not power.
No sigils.
No elemental flair.
Just swordsmanship—measured, reactive, alive.
Aria struck first—sliding low, her blade tracing a crescent across the vines.
Percy parried with a pivot, using her footwork to redirect the pressure—his movements exact, responding to micro-twitches in her shoulder.
(She's learned to let her sword speak for her.)
Their blades sang—a duet of willpower and clarity.
(And she doesn't talk with steel… she sings with it.)
Aria's vines curved inward.
"Second Movement—Binding Petal Spiral!"
Percy ducked, spun inward, and countered with the flat of his blade—forcing her vines to twist prematurely.
He stepped back.
"You choreographed that too tightly," he said. "Impressive… but rigid."
Aria frowned—but then smiled again.
"That's the point. This isn't a blade for slaughter—it's a blade for refinement."
"Tch… Romantic," Percy muttered, but he adjusted his stance anyway.
"Let's refine each other, then."
"As for you," Percy intoned, eyes locked on Mei like the weight of a divine sentence, "It's time you reconsider your options—"
He vanished.
And reappeared an instant later—his knuckles slamming into Mei's abdomen with bone-rattling force.
The impact echoed like a cannon blast, hurling her toward Aria with unrelenting velocity.
"Hehe. Try defending against this one, Ms. Aria," Percy murmured, voice like silk over sharpened glass.
Just as Aria raised her sword in reflex, a spatial ripple twisted before her eyes, bending the trajectory of Mei's hurtling form.
It struck her shield with a silent explosion, bypassing the defense entirely and knocking her backward.
(A spatial fold?! He used a rift to redirect momentum?)
Percy watched the chaos unfold with unblinking precision.
"So glad to confirm that certain spatial blasts bypass standard shields," he said, half to himself, half to Beta.
"Mmm. And when merged with earth compression from earlier, the predictive math becomes so much more elegant," Beta purred in approval.
Mei and Aria groaned as they sprawled out together, pain tightening their expressions—but Percy only looked down on them with detached calculation.
His gaze didn't burn—it weighed.
(To conquer fear, one must bury it deep—only then can something stronger grow from the soil.)
He stepped back.
"Druvakar Invocation: Earth Wall."
With a sweep of his hand, Percy carved quick sigil strokes into the air, channeling Mánhar through his fingers as a conduit.
The ground obeyed, cracking and folding upward in violent symmetry.
Massive stone slabs coiled like petals into a sealed dome, locking Mei and Aria within a prison of silence and shifting pressure.
Percy vanished into shadow.
Inside the earthen veil, only pain remained.
Mei clutched her gut—burning, battered, humiliated—but not broken.
Her fingers trembled as they brushed the spot where Percy's punch had landed.
She could still feel the resonance of his blow echoing inside her dantian like a gong.
But what stunned her more was the silence.
The stillness.
(Is this how I fall? After all the drills… after all the solo matches I won without applause?)
As Mei lay sprawled in the silence of the Earth Wall, her lungs aching and her limbs slow to respond, a faint warmth stirred in her chest—not from pain, but from memory.
She was eight again.
Standing barefoot before the Fire Jade Statue of their family's guardian beast—a majestic, spiraling phoenix, wings spread wide and tail-feathers chiseled from sun-gold stone, set ablaze by the eternal flame lanterns dancing all around the courtyard.
She remembered the heat on her cheeks.
The scent of sandalwood and cinder.
The weight of her training robes, heavy with soot and pride.
"Papa," she had said proudly, chin lifted, hands on her hips.
"The elders said I'll master the Seven Palm Forms by twelve. I'm gifted."
Her father, Grandmaster Zhang Jun Wugongshi, stood beside her, arms folded behind his back, his gaze calm, weathered, and unreadable.
His dark beard caught the firelight in streaks of copper.
He said nothing at first—just let her words hang there, smug and loud.
Then he turned toward the phoenix statue and spoke softly.
"A martial awakening… is not something you reach by memorizing scrolls, Mei."
"Then how?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Not through politics. Not by bloodline. Not even through raw power," he said, stepping closer to the statue, his voice now reverent.
"Only adversity," he continued, placing a calloused hand on the stone phoenix's talon, "can break open the heart of a martial artist. And from that fracture... something higher emerges."
Young Mei frowned, arms crossing tightly.
"But I am strong. I don't need to break anything to rise. I'm already ahead of everyone."
Her father chuckled, the sound deep and tired and warm all at once.
"Ahh…" he whispered, his gaze lifting to the statue's burning eyes.
"How the past repeats itself."
And then the fire danced in the wind.
Mei's fingers twitched.
Her eyes flicked open.
The fire in her core surged—not in anger, but in remembrance.
(You were right, Father... I had to fall—just to learn how to stand.)
She pushed off the ground, not trembling, but steady.
Her legs buckled again—but her hand hit the ground first.
Then her foot.
Then her knee.
She rose.
Not with Mánhar.
Not with pride.
But with something older.
Martial instinct.
Inside her chest, deep within her Inner Flame Core, a flicker ignited—a flicker that hissed in defiance at failure.
And then… it screamed.
A spectral phoenix cry rang out in her soul—a high-pitched, crystalline resonance of defiance and will.
The cracked vessels in her core began to repair themselves, not through healing, but through adaptation.
The pain didn't recede.
It was absorbed.
(Pain is the price of mastery)
Her breath calmed.
Her stance realigned.
"It awakened me." she whispered.
Aria, leaning on her sword, turned just in time to see Mei rise—not angrily, not arrogantly—but resolute.
The two met each other's gaze in the quiet, flickering light of a crack above them.
"You stood back up," Aria said softly.
Mei's lip twitched. "So did you."
The silence between them was no longer oppressive. It felt earned.
Beyond the Earth Wall, faint sounds of combat trembled through the stone—a signal that the world had not stopped turning.
But within the dome, the pulse of willpower had changed.
Percy might have sealed them in—but they weren't waiting for rescue.
They were sharpening themselves for the rematch.
The interior of the Earth Dome echoed with residual heat and silence.
Cracks pulsed with faint light from Percy's last barrage, and in that suffocating stillness—Mei and Aria found breath… and fear.
A voice echoed from the darkness.
"Don't think this dome was just to separate you from the others," Percy said, stepping forward, his black steel katana dragging lines in the stone.
"It's a crucible. And I'm the flame."
Mei's breathing slowed.
(This isn't just a duel anymore. He's forcing us into something deeper.)
Percy's blue-gold eyes glinted in the dim light, expression unreadable.
"You're not leaving until something in you breaks… or awakens."
Aria took one step forward, blade raised—not in arrogance, but as a vow.
"Then we will face you. Together."
Mei turned to Aria, her voice hushed.
"I have one move left. Something I could never complete... but I feel it now, inside me. If I channel it—I'll need you."
Aria nodded without hesitation. "Name it."
"The Crimson Sky Phoenix," Mei said. "It burns through the very air—but I need you to hold the pressure at bay long enough for me to ignite it fully."
Percy moved first.
"Let's see how you defend a storm."
He lifted one hand—and the space inside the dome bent.
Not with sound, not with light—but with pressure.
The atmosphere compressed like lungs under a vice, creating invisible weight.
Their limbs slowed, balance warped.
{Tactical Matrix v2.0 engaged | Pressure Matrix Constructed}
"No flashy sigils. No deathblows. Just suffocating tension," Percy whispered.
"I want you to feel the gap."
Aria's grip tightened on her sword.
Mei staggered—knees buckling under the sudden gravitational distortion.
The phoenix flame inside her flared, flickering wildly against the weight.
"Aria…" Mei gasped.
"I'm here," Aria replied, stepping in front of her with sword drawn.
"Moonlight Bloom Style: Iron Petal Guard!"
A burst of silvery light bloomed around Aria—defensive sword runes overlapping like flower petals, barely holding Percy's Spatial pressure at bay.
Mei's knees touched the floor again.
Adversity... her father had once said before the Fire Jade Phoenix statue.
It carves away pride.
It burns the shell.
And what's left—if you're still standing—is the flame that was always yours.
"You'll only understand that when you've been broken."
Mei's eyes opened wide.
Her flame—white-hot—suddenly turned crimson-gold.
A sound cracked from within her chest, like a bird's cry made of heat and light.
The cry of the phoenix.
A ripple pulsed through the Mánhar-charged air.
Within the high glass-paneled observation chamber overlooking the arena below, where the final examinees clashed within Percy's conjured Earth Dome, Zhang Jun Wugongshi, patriarch of the fire-born martial house, stood abruptly from his seat.
His fingertips trembled.
Not from fear—but from recognition.
"…That flame…" he murmured.
A silence fell over the other martial family leaders as they watched the patriarch.
Minji Hwarangdo, seated to his right, turned slightly.
Her sharp, discerning eyes narrowed in recognition of the sudden shift.
"Zhang Jun?" she inquired, almost too quietly.
But she already knew.
A low phoenix cry—not literal, but sensed through spirit and soul—pierced the inner senses of every martial artist attuned to it.
The sound resonated from the dome. Not in sound, but in intent.
Zhang Jun's eyes, steady and sharp as molten steel, flickered with emotion.
"A young firebird has broken its shell," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "The spark that refused to die… is now flame."
Hiroshi Bushidoyama, silent until now, inclined his head.
"So one of your own has awakened," he said with quiet gravity. "And not through bloodline technique or formal training—"
Minji Hwarangdo finished for him,
"—But through adversity."
Zhang Jun said nothing at first. He simply stared at the arena—at the dome that pulsed faintly with flickers of crimson-gold.
Then, with a rare, restrained smile beneath his stone-set features, he murmured:
"She is Wugongshi. That is enough."
The other heads of the martial houses nodded in respect—not only to Mei, but to the fire-forged creed of her lineage.
In that moment, the martial world took notice.
Mei stood. No longer trembling.
"Aria—now!"
Aria unleashed a blade strike of pure elemental energy:
Moonlight Bloom: Violet Shatter—shattering Percy's lattice field for just one second.
"CRIMSON SKY PHOENIX!!" Mei cried.
She ignited.
Her entire form became a spiral of phoenix flame, dancing with martial precision.
Her palms flared with phoenix wings—her aura erupting in a burst of primal fire.
Percy smirked. "That's more like it."
He sheathed his katana. No spell. No sigil.
He launched forward—barehanded.
Mei struck.
Her phoenix strike collided with Percy's bare palm—an impact so fierce the walls of the dome rippled, though they remained intact.
Flame licked the inside of the structure, dancing across the barrier like light searching for escape.
Sparks rained.
Percy stood firm, his palm smoking, his sleeves half-burned. But his expression was calm.
"You've found it," he said, almost proud.
Mei fell to one knee, exhausted but alive—transformed.
"And now," Percy said, turning to Aria, "Let's see if you can stand alone."
The fight wasn't over.
But something in Mei had been reborn.
Percy vanished into the shadows once again.
Step...
Step...
The muffled echo of Percy's footsteps reached Mei and Aria, buried somewhere in the void.
There was no torchlight to illuminate him, no silhouette to track.
Only his steps—each one sharp, precise, dragging their nerves closer to the edge of collapse.
Each step was a scalpel, peeling away the edges of their composure.
Aria's fingers trembled as she tightened her grip on her sword hilt.
Her body betrayed her: her heart thundered like war drums, her mouth turned dry as ash, and her stomach twisted into a knot so tight she could scarcely breathe.
There was no visible enemy, yet terror constricted her chest like a coiled chain.
Beside her, Mei clutched her gut, the ache from earlier now intensifying, roiling with heat and unease.
Her knees buckled for a breath, not from weakness—but from a crushing, invisible fear.
She was no stranger to pressure. She had fought, bled, endured—but this?
This was not the pressure of a battle.
It was like staring into the yawning maw of a predator she could not see, only sense.
From the dark, Percy smirked.
"Perfect," he murmured, his voice calm and cold.
"The soil is ready for planting."
He moved without sound now, yet each echo in their minds struck louder than thunder.
STEP.
STEP.
A pressure unlike anything they had felt before pressed in from all sides.
Mei couldn't stop herself from sweating.
Aria's breathing stuttered.
Their legs moved by instinct, but their wills—shackled.
STEP.
STEP.
A gust of cold wind swept through the Earth Dome.
And then—
Whoosh... whoosh...
From above, something stirred.
A flicker—no, a ripple.
Their eyes darted upward.
Nothing.
Until—
"Darkness Grasps."
The whisper unfurled beside their ears like silk-wrapped poison.
Percy appeared—like a phantom—from the veil of gloom. His voice was no louder than a breath, but it boomed inside their minds.
Suddenly, shadowy tendrils erupted from the floor, the walls, and the very air around them. Like serpents awakened by command, they coiled around the girls' wrists, ankles, torsos, and throats—crushing, constricting, claiming.
"Argh!!"
"G-GAH!"
The girls screamed in unison.
Mei struggled, her muscles bulging beneath her robes, but her fist stance collapsed mid-form. Her breath hitched. Her body, once so fluid and focused, became a trembling shell. Her Inner Flame flickered—and faltered.
Aria's sword fell from her fingers.
(He… he didn't even touch me...) she realized, panic coiling around her thoughts.I can't move—I can't... fight!
Percy loomed between them now, crouched with eerie stillness.
"Look at yourselves," he whispered. "You've trained. Bled. Stood tall against monsters and men… and yet, it takes only one shadow to strip all that away."
His hand hovered between their foreheads—not to strike, but as if examining. Measuring their limits.
"Tell me… what's more terrifying?" he asked quietly.
"A man you can't beat? Or a mirror you can't escape?"
His voice wasn't angry.
It wasn't cruel.
It was coldly fascinated.
A puppeteer marveling at how quickly his threads could unravel the strongest dancers.
"But I'm merciful," he said, standing slowly. "You've both entertained me long enough."
As he turned away, the tendrils began to tighten.
Bathed in a solitary cone of light—Percy stood, a figure carved from divine contrast. His tan skin shimmered against the void. His jet-black hair danced like shadows licking flame. And his blue-golden eyes, no longer gentle nor curious, bore the ancient weight of knowledge far beyond this world.
His smile cut like a gilded blade—equal parts seductive and scornful. It taunted the very air they breathed.
"He looks like a god," Aria whispered in stunned reverence.
"No…" Mei corrected, voice trembling. "He is something else entirely."
For the first time, the girls saw themselves not as warriors, but children pretending at battle—playing at greatness, swinging wooden swords at gods.
And his name was Percy.
"Vraekath," he intoned—the invocation echoing like a curse woven in silk.
He carved.
With two fingers glowing with harmonized Vraekath Mánhar, Percy traced a fluid, soul-aligned sigil in the air—dark and elegant, shimmering like ink under moonlight. The strokes lingered, humming with quiet resonance, the carved darkness harmonizing with the Great Flow itself.
"Shadow Pulse."
The command was quiet.
The impact was not.
Darkness exploded from him. Not like a wave—but like a living will. A sentient tidal force that tore toward them, suffocating all light in its path.
Snap!
Two badges vanished. Not shattered by hand—but ripped apart by the pulse's sheer, unrelenting will.
"Mei Wugongshi — Final Rank: 6."
"Aria Klingenhart — Final Rank: 5."
A moment of silence followed. Not in pity—but in awe. These two daughters of the great martial and sword families—humbled. Not by humiliation. But by clarity.
"Excellent," Percy exhaled, closing his eyes with a breath of serenity. "I'm pleased."
"Four battles. Zero losses. Your dominance is absolute!" Beta chimed, pride crackling in her voice. "The IOS Master reigns!"
"Hahaha!" Percy laughed alongside her, unburdened for a moment.
But then—
He saw it.
And everything in him changed.
Jason's grip tightened, fingers locked around Dalton's throat in one hand, and Lyra's in the other. Their bodies dangled like lifeless weights, veins straining beneath the pressure of his raw, unrelenting strength.
"You again," Jason muttered to Dalton, his tone calm—but dripping with disdain. "I thought I already dealt with you."
Dalton's airway constricted, his legs kicking, but his glare remained steady.
Despite the pain, he forced out a single word between gasps:
"You… bastard."
Jason chuckled.
"Still standing, huh? You're more persistent than I gave you credit for. Maybe there's more to you than just an emotional support act."
He tilted his head toward Lyra.
"Or maybe you're just trying to play knight for her benefit. I wonder—what would she think of that?"
"Don't—" Dalton growled, choking on the words.
Jason's smile widened.
"Oh, spare me the righteous act. This is war, not a stage for adolescent declarations. You're strong, Dalton. But strength that hinges on feelings?"
His eyes narrowed.
"That kind of weakness gets people killed."
The next moment, Jason crushed Dalton's throat—not with malice, but with cold finality.
He invoked—his voice low and sharp.
"Solareth Vector: Displacement."
Jason's fingers carved a short, crystalline sigil in the air—sleek and refractive, edged with precision.
The glyph flared, then pulsed—activating the teleportation matrix.
With a thunderous crack, Dalton's limp body was ejected from the arena in a blink of radiant compression—flung across the battlefield boundary like discarded weight.
"Dalton Greeves — Final Rank: 4," Helen announced.
Percy watched.
His fists clenched.
A quiet storm raged beneath his eyes.
(You think this is just a battlefield?) Percy thought bitterly.
(This is a crucible—and you're about to drown in it.)
Jason then turned his attention to Lyra, pulling her forward slowly.
Her arms twitched against his hold, her body too fatigued to resist.
But her eyes burned with something—defiance.
Jason's gaze scanned her face with unsettling familiarity.
Her flushed cheeks, her labored breath, the tension behind her clenched jaw.
"You know," he said softly, almost tenderly, "I thought our reunion would be... warmer."
Lyra gritted her teeth, eyes never leaving his.
"Don't touch me."
But he already had. He leaned in, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, his forehead pressing briefly against hers—a gesture once filled with affection, now tainted by dominance.
"Laya," he murmured. "Still so proud. Still so—angry."
The nickname, that cursed name, struck her like a phantom blade.
Memories surged—echoes of a time before betrayal, before power made monsters out of men.
"You're disgusting," she spat, shoving him back.
Jason's composure wavered, briefly revealing a flash of something—resentment.
"So they've twisted you against me," he said, voice lowering, his smile thinning.
"But it's fine. I got what I needed from this encounter."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Lyra demanded.
Jason gave her a smug, enigmatic look.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
Then, his hand rose.
A colossal light spear formed—pure radiance, wrapped in lethal precision.
It pulsed like a heartbeat of the sun itself.
Jason's fingers carved quickly, mid-air, in eight fluent strokes—each stroke a glowing trail of Solareth Mánhar etched with intent.
The runes gleamed gold-white before locking into an invocation ring.
"Solareth Invocation: Dawnpiercer."
"Let's end this," Jason whispered.
Lyra had no strength left. Her Mánhar was spent.
She raised her arms reflexively, but it was no use.
"Tch... dammit—"
The spear flew.
Impact.
Her body slammed against the dimensional battlefield wall, the force so great it echoed like a thunderclap.
Crimson droplets scattered in the air as she slumped over the impaled spear, breath shallow.
Jason knelt beside Lyra, his shadow cast long across her slumped form.
Her breath was ragged, her eyes glazed with exhaustion—but somewhere behind the fog of pain, she still listened.
"Tell the old man…" Jason whispered, his lips brushing just beside her ear,
"that the First Morning Sun has risen."
His voice was calm, but behind the calm was command—a declaration, an omen, a promise.
Lyra's brows furrowed faintly at the cryptic phrase, her mind unable to process the meaning as her body clung desperately to consciousness.
Then, without emotion, Jason conjured a final Light Spear.
It wasn't radiant or explosive—it was simple, clinical, and final.
He released it, letting it pierce the space beside her in a silent gesture of checkmate.
"Lyra Caelumis — Final Rank: 3," Helen's voice echoed across the dimensional arena.
{...}
Jason rose slowly, casting one final glance over his shoulder at the girl he had once known.
"She's nearly finished," he muttered, mostly to himself. "She just needs one more push."
His attention pivoted, his head turning until he faced the last silhouette standing alone in the dome's lightless vastness.
Percy Atlas Magus.
The moment hung suspended between them like a held breath.
Percy's hand remained on his katana; his expression unreadable.
Their eyes locked—and in that instant, the air changed.
"Incredible," Percy whispered, not in fear, but in reverence.
His senses, now finely attuned through Tactical Matrix and refined Mánhar perception, picked up every detail clinging to Jason's aura.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of radiant, minuscule orbs of purified Solareth Mánhar floated near him.
Each orb vibrated with a unique, sacred property—unlike anything Percy had sensed before.
They weren't summoned. They gravitated to Jason.
And more were forming. Constantly.
"I've never seen anything like it," Percy murmured, stepping slowly, calculating his angle.
"The Mánhar's... chasing you."
Jason watched him silently, his posture loose but unreadably coiled.
He didn't smile. He didn't flinch.
He knew what Percy was seeing.
And Percy, in turn, saw him.
From the outside, it might have looked like two boys circling each other with quiet focus.
But within, Jason's thoughts stirred like the ocean before a storm.
(He's still First Circle... and yet...)
Jason narrowed his gaze.
(That power—it's... wrong. Inhuman. It's not supposed to exist at this level.)
He exhaled, slow and measured, repressing the subtle tremor in his lungs.
(This one's no ordinary prodigy... he's a variable. A threat. A shadow clothed in golden light.)
Percy walked a slow arc, his blue-golden eyes glinting.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Percy asked softly.
Jason's response was nearly imperceptible.
A nod. One twitch of his chin downward.
A flicker of honesty.
The first breath of understanding between two monsters.
(He hides it well...) Percy noted. (But his instincts are screaming at him—he knows I'm not bluffing.)
Jason's hand drifted toward the hilt at his back, eyes never leaving Percy's.
(This pressure… it's not unlike Joseph Toll. But even that bastard didn't make my bones ache just from standing nearby…)
Percy thought, flexing his fingers slightly.
The temperature of the air had dropped.
The wind ceased.
Somewhere above, the audience had grown silent.
They weren't watching boys anymore.
They were watching beasts.
"This'll be a nightmare," Percy muttered to himself.
"But at least it'll be mine."