Show menu Novel BinNovel Timeless Assassin Chapter 441: Security ConcernsTimeless AssassinChapter 441: Security ConcernsChapter 441: Security Concerns(3 days before the fight, Planet Tithia, Central Arena Barracks, Outer Sector Security Briefing Room)
The briefing room was silent, thick with tension and purpose.
Fifty elite soldiers sat upright on lined metal benches, their bodies still, their expressions focused, each one dressed in pitch-black compression armor that clung to them like a second skin.
The red emblem of the Cult stood proudly over their left pectoral, gleaming faintly beneath the room's overhead white lights like a mark of unwavering allegiance.
They were not ordinary guards.
They were a specialist division, personally handpicked by the First Elder for their reputation as the most dependable and battle-hardened security force the Cult had to offer. Every man in that room had earned his place through fire and blood.
And today, they had been entrusted with the most sacred assignment of their lives : To protect the Dragon Candidates during the upcoming mega fight.
At the front of the room, Commander Kavan stood still, eyes scanning the crowd, arms clasped behind his back as his voice echoed out with lethal calm.
"This is not a festival. This is not a parade. And this sure as hell isn't a match for YOUR entertainment."
He let the words settle before continuing, his gaze sharpening.
"This is a once-in-a-generation coronation. The next Dragon will be crowned. The future of our people shall be decided. And whether that future walks out alive or dies before he even gets to speak a word..... depends on us."
Murmurs ceased. Spines straightened.
"The righteous clans are desperate to kill the Dragon Candidates.
You best believe they're up to no good, because if we can infiltrate the Sky-God Arena with our limited resources, then they can absolutely infiltrate ours.
They might plan to infiltrate the fan pits, hiding poison darts or flesh-eating smoke bombs beneath their sleeves.
But we've studied their tactics. Which means we must assume they'll try something new.
Assume they're already inside. Assume at least one person in that crowd is ready to die if it means ending a Dragon Candidate before the fight even begins."
He stepped forward, voice rising, fists clenched tight.
"So how do we ensure the security of the Dragon Candidates under these circumstances?
We do it by being thorough.
Our duty doesn't begin on the day of the tournament. It begins now.
We start patrolling the arena today. We begin searching for planted bombs or hidden mechanisms today. We sweep the entire structure again and again, every few hours, and we keep sweeping until twenty minutes before the match begins."
He drew a short breath and pointed to the schematic that lit up on the screen behind him.
"To protect the Dragon Candidates from physical attacks, the First Elder has authorized the deployment of a transparent mana barrier at the edge of the spectator zone.
This barrier will block all physical projectiles, prevent spiritual and mental spells from leaking into the arena, and also stop the crowd from rushing the stage if their emotions get out of hand.
It's state-of-the-art tech, far beyond what the righteous faction can produce. But even so, we operate under the assumption that all barriers can break."
He tapped his boot once, locking eyes with the twelve soldiers seated at the front.
"If the barrier fails, then it's you twelve who instantly move to shield the Dragon Candidates.
You don't look back. You don't hesitate.
You become a human shield. You bleed if you must. You die if you must. But no one reaches the Dragon Candidates. Not a single person. Not a single attack."
A heavy silence returned.
"As for the rest of you, your duty is crowd control.
Your back stays to the arena. Your eyes stay locked on the crowd. You flag any suspicious movement. You relay intel to the local patrol teams moving in the stands and you act fast when something looks off.
I don't care how historic this match is or how badly you want to see it unfold. You do not turn around. Not even for a moment.
You do not let your curiosity endanger the Dragon Candidates."
His voice lowered, cold and sharp.
"If I catch even one of you looking over your shoulder, I'll carve your eyes out myself."
No one moved. No one breathed.
Kavan's expression softened, just a little.
"I'll be honest with you. If even a scratch lands on a Dragon Candidate while I'm on duty, I'll slit my own throat on the spot. Right there. In front of the crowd.
Because I won't deserve this uniform anymore."
His eyes swept across the room, locking with each man's gaze one by one.
"So unless you're looking forward to attending my funeral next week, I suggest you do your damn jobs. Understand?"
One by one, soldiers stood.
Boots slammed into steel in perfect synchrony.
Right fists struck chestplates as voices rang out in unison, like a vow carved in iron.
"FOR THE DRAGON CANDIDATES."
"FOR THE CULT."
"FOR OUR FUTURE."
The tension in the air thickened, molten and unyielding.
No tears were shed, but the weight of duty made hardened men swallow twice, their eyes full of silent fire.
No one would harm the Dragon Candidates.
Not on their watch.
—-------
(Meanwhile, in an underground interrogation cell, Planet Tithia)
The air was stale and humid inside the holding cell, where a righteous faction agent had been brought after he had been captured trying to sneak into the Lewis Hamilton Arena.
He was caught with lots of explosives in his possession, and was hence beaten without mercy before being dragged to this interrogation cell, where he was tied to an iron chair, wrists and ankles bound with spiked cuffs that had long since torn through his flesh.
His robe was half burned, half shredded, exposing a lean, muscular torso covered in lash marks, cigarette burns, and dripping red grooves that oozed slowly with every breath he took.
His head hung low, not out of weakness, but with the calculation and pride of a man who felt no fear even while being abused to death.
Standing before him was a senior cult interrogator, sleeves rolled, chestplate smeared with old blood, knuckles cracked and discolored from repeated contact.
"Name. Rank. Mission objective," the interrogator repeated flatly, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist.
The spy coughed hard.
Then again, spat a fresh batch of blood across the floor before raising his head and giving the interrogator a smug smile.
A smile that showed that he still had all his teeth left intact.
"You won't get a word out of me," he said, voice hoarse but steady. "You caught nothing but a useless pebble, I'm nothing compared to the better agents we have out here. That arena is going to blow up, regardless of me succeeding or not."
The interrogator's brow twitched. "Answer the damn question! I don't need your stupid predictions. I need your name, rank and mission objective!"
The spy chuckled.
"I was to place a spirit-reactive bomb beneath the arena's west pillar. Detonate it during the match... causing a cave-in.
I was supposed to collapse the arena roof onto the heads of the thousands of idiots in attendance, then laugh while they screamed in agony..... hahahaha."
*SLAM*
"SILENCE!" The interrogator demanded, as he slammed his hands on the table.
"Who else helped you?" he asked, however, his question was only met with silence, as the suspect refused to co-operate.
*Punch*
The interrogator punched him again, as this time, a tooth finally flew.
The spy spit the rest out and chuckled again, breathing through the pain.
"You think we haven't been infiltrating your ranks over the years too? You really think that only you cult bastards can plant spies in our ranks?
During the last few peaceful years, you relaxed your security too much, promoted unworthy officials too fast. Let your walls rot. Now we have many contacts on the inside."
He leaned forward, as much as the cuffs allowed, voice suddenly colder.
"Our contacts on the inside..... They've trained with your men, eaten with your men... and when the moment comes, they'll stab your Dragons from the inside out."
The interrogator said nothing.
His fists relaxed. Then clenched again.
"You'll burn to ashes in the incinerator thirty minutes from now. I'm going to offer you no mercy.... You're going to burn to death in the most painful way possible." he muttered, turning away.
But the spy's voice followed him.
"Then I die with pride, having done my part in ridding the universe of the cancer that is the Evil Cult.
Because while you will be busy digging through the dirt for rats... the wolves that are my comrades will already be at your throat."
Contact - ToS
Show menu Novel BinNovel Timeless Assassin Chapter 442: Smoke BreakTimeless AssassinChapter 442: Smoke BreakChapter 442: Smoke Break(2 days before the fight, Leo's POV)
With just two days left before the day of the fight, Leo's hope of experiencing a sudden breakthrough had begun to fade.
His understanding of the color red had deepened a little more each day, especially ever since he began dissecting the reasons behind why people killed—what pushed them, what anchored their rage, what drove their hand to spill blood.
But despite his growing insights, he was still far too slow.
He had yet to glimpse even the faintest trace of his first intent line.
And he was running out of time.
"Well, you know what they say, son. Sometimes in life, you need to take a step back to take three steps forward," Charles said, taking a deep drag from his cigarette as he tried his best to motivate Leo.
"Who? Who says that?" Leo asked with his eyebrow raised, as Charles exhaled, the gray smoke slowly rolling out as a faint smirk played on his lips.
"Me. I just made it up." He replied cockily, as Leo shook his head in disappointment.
*Sigh*
"Why can't I see intent, Charles? What about bloodlust am I still not getting?" he asked, frustration laced in his tone as he massaged his head and tried to piece together what was still missing.
"I don't know... maybe what you need now is a trigger. A moment of clarity, something that snaps it all into place and lets the rest unfold.
Maybe you've already gathered all the pieces, but you're trying to force them into the wrong shape," Charles said, holding out the half-smoked cigarette to Leo.
"Here. When life starts feeling like a riddle you can't solve, just take a deep puff. Let it sit in your lungs, let the nicotine settle into your bloodstream... then breathe it out nice and slow.
The relief it brings you...
That's what sharpens the mind." Charles preached, as he passed the half-used cigarette towards Leo, urging him to take a puff.
However, Leo scrunched his nose in response as he waved the half-burned stink magnet away.
"No thanks. I'm not trying to turn into a walking ashtray like you." He jibed, however, Charles only snorted before extending it again.
"Come on, one drag won't kill you. Think of it as... a rite of passage."
Leo hesitated, eyes flicking between the glowing ember and Charles's worn, expectant gaze.
"Eh? What the hell..." he muttered, finally taking it between two fingers and awkwardly placing it to his lips like he was holding a foreign object.
*Inhale*
As a first-timer, he inhaled too quickly and too sharply, like ripping off a bandage without warning, sending the smoke tearing down his throat like fire, dry and unforgiving.
Within a heartbeat, his eyes clamped shut as he doubled over, his frame wracked by a violent cough.
*Cough*
*Cough*
"What the hell?" Leo wheezed, sputtering as the smoke clawed at his lungs, while Charles threw his head back and burst out laughing, slapping his knee like he'd just witnessed the greatest comedy act of his life.
"Happens to all first-timers, son. Happens to everyone."
Leo's eyes watered as he tried to blink the sting away, the coughs still echoing in his chest.
But then, without fully understanding why, he looked at the cigarette again, its end still lit, still smoking in his fingers, as he brought it back to his lips.
"Alright," Charles said, voice lowering with more warmth this time. "Steady this time. Draw slowly. Hold it... hold it..."
Leo did as instructed, holding the smoke in until his chest began to prickle with the dull warmth of it.
Then he exhaled, slow and controlled, watching the smoke swirl and fade into the night air.
And almost instantly, the tightness in his shoulders loosened. The strain in his jaw melted. His breath came easier, and for the first time in what felt like days, he felt a sliver of peace wash over his nerves.
"Yeah... that's it," Charles murmured, a proud smile tugging at his lips.
He looked up at the stars for a long second, silent, eyes distant.
"My master gave me my first cigarette too," he finally said. "Right before my transcendent tier breakthrough. I was shivering like a damn puppy, too scared of failing. Too scared that something might go wrong.
But he just laughed, lit one up, and said, 'Breathe this in, and remember.... when you're scared, you take a drag and pretend like you aren't.
Real men don't crack Charles, real men stay stoic, no matter what.'"
Leo turned to look at him. "So this is tradition?"
Charles nodded. "Passed down from mentor to student. And now I'm doing the same for you."
There was a pause. Leo stared at the ember glowing at the tip of the cigarette, then asked quietly, "So... are you coming with me? To Tithia?"
Charles chuckled, but it was softer this time. "Nah. I wish I could, kid. But if I leave Juxta right now, millions of people will be endangered. I'm the cult's only monarch tier fighter, so I got to do my duty and protect the borders."
He looked over with a half-smile, as he lit up a new cigarette for himself.
"I'll be right here. Watching on TV. Probably yelling at the screen for you to lose."
Leo raised a brow. "To lose?"
"Yeah," Charles grinned, nudging his shoulder. "If you win, you get sucked into that political hellhole and suddenly you're not just my student anymore, you're the holy Dragon, future leader, public figure, endless meetings, endless missions, no sleep. Screw that."
Leo exhaled another puff, smirking. "So you're saying I should purposefully lose?"
Charles laughed again. "Hell no. Beat the bastard into the ground. Just don't forget to surrender at the last second and hand him the win..... hahahaha"
Their laughter drifted into the quiet of the night, the glow of two cigarettes flickering beneath the dark sky, as student and mentor shared a rare moment of peace.
Charles knew Leo was burdened by pressure, worried about how the fight would be perceived by the masses and frustrated by his stalled progress.
And while he couldn't clear the path for him, he could at least sit beside him for a moment, share a smoke, and remind him that he wasn't walking down this path alone.
Timeless AssassinC443: Cusp Of Breakthrough
Chapter 443: Cusp Of Breakthrough
(The last day before the fight, Leo's POV)
The final day before the fight had arrived, and as Leo moved through his morning sparring routine with Charles, he could sense something different about the red aura pooling around the Monarch's body today.
With every blow that the two exchanged, Leo began to notice faint traces of red aura rising from Charles's body, drifting toward him not as solid threads but as flickering wisps that hovered briefly before dissolving, as though they were trying to find him but couldn't quite hold on.
The line had started to form, but failed to connect.
Like a car engine trying to start, but never fully roaring to life.
He could feel it now more than ever, the edge of something, the outline of a truth he hadn't fully grasped yet, like a door half-open, like a puzzle with one missing piece.
If he had just a little more time, perhaps a week, maybe even just a couple more days, he was certain he could figure it out, could break through the fog and finally see it clearly.
But unfortunately for him, time had already run out.
"Your eyes... they're moving in the right direction, kiddo. You're almost there," Charles encouraged, easing the pace of his attacks just slightly to give Leo a bit more time to read the red path.
*Clang*
*Clang*
Leo found himself keeping up better with the pace of Charles's attacks now, his body reacting faster as he began to faintly sense the incoming strikes.
He couldn't see the precise trajectory yet, but even a vague idea of where the next blow would come from gave him a massive advantage in improving reaction times.
"Yes, boy! That's it... you're getting there, starting to grasp how the realm of intent fighting works," Charles said, continuing to guide him, as for the next eight hours, the Monarch did everything he could to push Leo closer to the edge of breakthrough, but no matter how hard they tried, the final step remained elusive.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
Leo cursed, dropping to his knees with his hands braced against them, sweat pouring off his face and dripping from his nose.
He was close. So close he could feel it lingering just outside his reach, but the last piece still refused to fall into place.
"Don't get angry, son. You need a calm, calculating mind if you want to beat someone stronger than you," Charles said, his voice steady. "Keep your head in the game, because having half knowledge is more dangerous than knowing nothing at all."
When Leo recovered and they resumed sparring, Charles disarmed him with ease and pressed the steel pipe to his throat. He hadn't moved any faster, yet somehow he had completely outmaneuvered Leo.
"You're keeping up with me by making wild assumptions about where the next strike will land, but you're not sure. You can only sense the general direction.
One wrong guess, and that uncertainty will kill you faster than a clean, sure dodge ever could.
In your current state, you can fight evenly against a Transcendent Tier opponent, but that's only until you go wrong once.
The moment you're cut and bleeding, your guard will grow weaker and weaker until you lose.
So either master intent by tomorrow, or fight like you don't have it, because staying in the middle like this will be a sure-shot recipe for disaster."
He tapped a finger to his temple.
"Head calm. Eyes focused. Let's go again."
—-------------
(Meanwhile Veyr)
While Leo pushed himself to the brink in desperate pursuit of a breakthrough, Veyr lay stretched across a massage table, his entire body sinking into the cushion beneath him as the skilled hands of a masseuse worked through every knot and strain in his muscles with patient, practiced ease.
His eyes remained closed, his expression calm, as he focused not on the chaos of battle or the fear of what tomorrow might bring, but on maintaining perfect control over his body and mind—ensuring that when the time came, he would be rested, composed, and at his full hundred percent.
He believed there was nothing more foolish than trying to cram power at the last minute, nothing more reckless than chasing desperation on the eve of a war.
He had trained. He had prepared. Now, all that remained was to arrive sharp and ready.
'The Fourth Elder might be a fool, but he knows how to live life in style, this massage is godly–' Veyr thought, as he made a mental note to experience this joy every week after he became Dragon.
'I wonder what the reaction to my win will be like?' he wondered, as once the massage deepened, he let his thoughts drift toward the applause he was going to receive after being crowned Dragon.
He thought about how the crowd would chant his name.
The way the lights would hit him from all angles as he stood in the center of the stage, one hand raised in triumph, basking in the roar of adoration.
He pictured the poses he would strike, the slow turn of his body as he let the broadcast cameras drink him in from every angle, the exact smile he would offer the masses, calculated and effortless.
Because more than strength, more than title, what Veyr had always craved ever since he was a child was recognition.
Having grown up as an orphan, he had always been unnoticed and unloved, living in the cracks of a universe that never paused to look his way.
Attention had been a luxury. Praise, an impossible dream.
As it wasn't until he was 18 and was tested to possess the blood of the Timeless Assassin running through his veins that his fortunes finally turned.
'The Dragon is the most loved individual in the Cult.... The one adored by everyone...' Veyr thought, as he let out a soft satisfied sigh.
With the Dragon's title now within his reach, he wanted to experience that attention, that love that he never received growing up, as although he didn't care much for the commoners of the Cult, what he did care about was living the grandest life possible.... one steeped in praise, lit by admiration, and crowned by public worship
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC444: Arrival
Chapter 444: Arrival
(Planet Tithia, Sir Lewis Hamilton Arena, 4 Hours Before The Fight)
The gates to the colossal Sir Lewis Hamilton Arena finally swung open, a full four hours ahead of the much-anticipated fight, as the first eager wave of ticket holders began pouring in, only to find themselves greeted not by music or fanfare, but by the cold, unflinching vigilance of the Cult's elite security forces.
Each spectator was brought to a halt and subjected to a thorough pat-down, scanned meticulously with mana detectors, and questioned with a level of intensity more suited to a war zone than a live event.
Carry bags were emptied, storage rings examined with scrutiny, and no exception was made for anyone—regardless of their appearance, age, or social standing.
From a curious toddler barely four years old to a frail man well into his nineties, everyone was checked with the same exacting standards.
This intense security protocol did not stop at the front gates either.
In the hours leading up to the fight, Squad Leader Kavan and his dedicated security division continued to sweep the entire arena perimeter with methodical precision.
They inspected every hallway, combed through every vent, cleared every food tray, scoured every basement restroom, and even searched the intricate mana ducts built deep within the infrastructure.
Their stern expressions and razor-sharp posture left little room for doubt—this was not a team that took risks or allowed complacency to settle in.
Even the local patrol officers, those stationed in the stands to maintain order and keep the crowd in check, were not given blind trust. They too were vetted multiple times, as the security team refused to leave anything to chance.
Today's event was too big to mess up due to complacency and hence nothing was left to fate.
—————
(About 180 minutes before the fight begins)
High above the steady hum of the pouring crowd and the relentless efficiency of the gate checks, the Elders began to make their entrance.
One by one, they ascended into the arena's upper tiers with their entourages trailing behind, each clad in flowing robes and full face masks embroidered with the insignia of the Cult, their presence drawing attention from every direction as they stepped into one of the twelve private VIP boxes designed exclusively for the Cult's highest council.
They waved down at the masses like benevolent politicians, offering graceful nods and cheerful thumbs ups, basking in the roar of cheers, all while silently nursing their contempt for the rival Elders seated just a few feet away.
"Ready to see your candidate lose big time?" the Fourth Elder leaned in, his voice low and laced with a smug edge, whispering just loud enough for the First Elder beside him to hear.
The First Elder, ever composed, simply smiled in response, placing a firm hand on the Fourth's shoulder before replying in a voice equally calm, "Enjoy this Councilman life while it lasts. You never know when your own time on that seat comes to an end."
Their words were light and their tones polite, but the look in their eyes told a far different story—a rivalry layered in history, politics, and deeply personal stakes.
Because beneath the pleasantries and ceremonial robes, every Elder knew what was on the line today.
Victory would not just secure prestige for the winning side's candidate, it would elevate their entire faction within the Cult's hierarchy.
Should the Fourth Elder's candidate triumph, his faction was poised for a meteoric rise in influence and reach. But if he lost… then the consequences would be swift and unforgiving, with the political careers of his entire faction ending overnight.
So as they sat in their lofty VIP boxes, their voices composed and their body language rehearsed, the Elders belonging to the Fourth Elder's camp couldn't help but feel the creeping anxiety underneath it all.
Because this was no ordinary duel. This was the moment which would decide their political future.
—————
(Meanwhile, down in the warm-up rooms)
Far from the political rivalry and the roaring crowd, hidden beneath the arena stands, lay two vast locker rooms, each constructed to accommodate over two hundred competitors with ample space to stretch, spar, and prepare.
But today, those expansive rooms remained largely empty, as only one fighter occupied each.
Aegon Veyr and Leo Skyshard had both arrived exactly at the designated reporting time, three hours prior to the scheduled bout. Their entries were quiet and unannounced, yet their very presence shifted the air around them, drawing attention like gravity without needing a single word.
The inspection officials were already waiting, armed with artifact readers, detection scrolls, and testing kits, their duty clearly outlined: to verify that every weapon, article of clothing, and auxiliary item both fighters possessed was free of poison, forbidden enchantments, or any trace of foul play.
The process was clinical, thorough, and executed with unwavering precision. Both competitors complied in silence, their faces unreadable, their auras steady.
Yet while the inspection team maintained a veneer of professionalism throughout the process, their curiosity, being human, quietly bled through.
They had heard the whispers, the theories that had dominated internal channels and tavern talk for weeks.
Leo Skyshard, they said, had already broken through to the Transcendent Tier. The rumors claimed that his Grandmaster status was nothing more than a clever illusion, crafted to deceive his enemies and keep his true power hidden until the right moment.
So naturally, as they ran their scans, their fingers paused for just a second longer than necessary.
They repeated the readings. Once. Then again.
But each time, the result remained unchanged.
No indication of Transcendent breakthrough.
Leo Skyshard was still, definitively, a Grandmaster.
The officials said nothing. Their expressions never wavered. Their duty was not to judge.
But beneath their stoic faces, in the quiet corridors of their thoughts, a conclusion had already formed.
'He can't win. This fight is already doomed.'
They didn't voice it aloud, nor did they allow a single hint of bias to escape their features, yet as they finished the inspection and turned to leave, their inner certainty followed them out like a shadow.
In their minds, the outcome of this match was already a foregone conclusion.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC445: Contrast
Chapter 445: Contrast
(Two hours before the fight, Aegon Veyr's Warm-Up Room)
Veyr lay flat on his back, casually bouncing a ball off the ceiling when Captain Max entered the room.
*Tap*
*Tap*
*Tap*
He paused for a moment, sensing a presence drawing near, as lifting just his neck, he gave Max a quick once-over, then let his head fall back down and resumed tossing the ball, acting as though Max hadn't entered at all.
*Tap*
*Tap*
*Tap*
"I am Captain Max, and I'll be the referee for your fight today," Max introduced himself as he used a small wind spell to guide the ball into his palm before it could fall back into Veyr's.
That gesture drew an annoyed click of the tongue from Veyr, who sat up sluggishly, narrowing his eyes at the ball now resting in Max's hand, as if demanding it back at once.
"Haha, alright–" Max said, as he chuckled and tossed it back.
*Catch*
"Pleased to meet you, Captain. How may I help you today?" Veyr asked, his tone overly polite and deliberately rehearsed, the product of countless etiquette lessons drilled into him by the mentor sent by Fourth Elder.
"You can help me by paying attention to my instructions. It would be a shame if I had to disqualify you from such a historic battle just because you 'accidentally' broke a rule," Max said with a patient smile, one that walked the line between respectful and unshaken.
"Please, carry on. I have nothing but the utmost respect, *chuckle*, for rules," Veyr replied, a dry chuckle slipping out before he caught himself and returned to his stoic facade.
*Sigh*
Max exhaled quietly, already realising what kind of person he was dealing with, though he kept his composure intact.
"This bout will be conducted under standard universal circuit rules," Max began, his tone steady. "Now, I've been informed that this is your first official competition, so let me lay out the rules clearly to avoid any confusion later."
"The match ends only when one fighter is incapacitated or surrenders. There are no arena-outs, no match stoppages for disarming your opponent."
As Max spoke, Veyr let out a slow yawn, blatantly disinterested in the rule rundown.
"You may not kill your opponent," Max continued. "While killing will not result in disqualification, we would prefer not to lose someone carrying the blood of our ancestor dying so unnecessarily. So, make sure to hold back your final strike."
Veyr laughed at that, loud and amused.
"Well, at least you acknowledge it'll be me who needs to pull back the final blow," he said, flashing Max a sly grin.
Max rolled his eyes, unimpressed by the bravado.
"Well, my subordinates have already inspected your gear. Everything checks out. Best of luck in your match," Max said as he turned to leave, to which Veyr responded with a mock salute, smirking all the way.
—----------
(A few minutes later, Leo's Warm-Up Room)
Unlike the empty silence of his opponent's quarters, Leo's warm-up room carried an unusual atmosphere of casual chatter as Captain Max stepped inside, only to pause mid-step in disbelief.
Sitting cross-legged on the bench, Leo quietly stroked the head of a rather plump frog perched comfortably in his lap. The creature looked up with lazy eyes, its throat inflating slightly as it croaked, not out of instinct, but in perfectly spoken words.
"What is it, mongrel? Why have you interrupted my private time with Lord Father?" the frog barked, glaring at Max as though he were a servant who had dared enter a royal court without permission.
Captain Max blinked, momentarily stunned. "My sincerest apologies," he managed, quickly regaining his composure. "I'm Captain Max, the designated referee for today's match, and I'm here to clarify the rules..."
Leo gave him a quiet nod of understanding and gestured toward the bench opposite him. Max took the offer, lowering himself to sit as the frog, who was clearly no ordinary beast, continued to squint at him with a scrutinising gaze.
"It's my understanding that you've already competed in the Interstellar Circuits," Max began, choosing his words carefully, "so I assume you're familiar with the standard rules governing this match?"
Leo nodded once more.
"Well then, I won't take up too much of your time. The only thing I ask—no, urge—is that you refrain from killing your opponent, should the opportunity arise. Both of you carry the blood of our ancestor, and while the rules may not explicitly forbid it, having either of you die under my watch would be a failure I'd prefer not to bear."
Leo's expression remained steady as he replied, "Understood. I won't kill him. He might very well be a long-lost cousin of mine..... and I don't spill blood of family."
Max couldn't help but crack a small smile at the response, appreciating the touch of humor in Leo's otherwise composed demeanor.
With a final nod, he rose from the bench.
"Thank you for your time. I'll take my leave now."
—--------
Once outside and walking down the corridor alone, Max couldn't help but reflect on the sharp contrast between the two competitors.
Veyr had been insufferably arrogant, overflowing with bravado and barely-veiled contempt, the kind of fighter who believed the world owed him its applause before he'd earned it.
Leo, on the other hand, though clearly prideful in his own right, carried himself with a calm restraint that felt infinitely more suited to the weight of the Dragon's title. There was a quiet gravity in his presence, something that demanded respect without needing to shout for it.
And if this fight were decided by demeanor alone, Max knew exactly who he would bet on.
"Skyshard is better suited for the job," he admitted to himself, "but I don't see a path for his victory..."
Because regardless of temperament, Leo was still an entire tier below Veyr. And in the cruel, unforgiving logic of battle, that difference was not surmountable through luck alone.
If the two were to fight a thousand times, Leo would likely lose all one thousand of those fights, because he was simply not strong enough to bridge a full tier gap.
Nobody in the universe was....
Or so, Max believed.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC446: First Appearance
Chapter 446: First Appearance
(10 Minutes Before the Fight, Official Broadcast Begins)
The arena lights dimmed for a brief second before erupting back to full brilliance as the official broadcast feed went live across every screen in the Cult's network, and simultaneously, to thousands of independent viewing centers across neutral planets that were controlled neither by the Cult nor the righteous faction.
Floating camera drones whirred into motion, gliding across the upper tiers of the colossal Sir Lewis Hamilton Arena, capturing sweeping shots of the packed stands as cheers rose like a wave and flags bearing the Cult's emblem fluttered in the artificial breeze generated by the open air vents overhead.
The broadcast screen split briefly into three panels : one showing the roaring crowd in their thousands, one locked onto the twelve Elder VIP boxes where stoic, masked faces looked down at the arena, and one trained on the long, torchlit passageways that connected the warm-up rooms to the main battlefield, still empty for now, but thick with the anticipation of what was about to unfold.
A moment later, the audio feed kicked in.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!" came the smooth voice of the lead commentator, cutting through the ambient noise of the stadium. "I'm Joe, and with me here today is Dana, and we are honored to be your commentators for what promises to be a once-in-a-lifetime event."
"That's right, Joe," Dana's voice followed, sharp and clear, tinged with excitement. "It's a historic day at the legendary Lewis Hamilton Arena, where in just a few short minutes, we will witness the crowning of the next Dragon, the Cults' newest spiritual leader after a vacuum of 32 years."
The camera shifted again, this time panning across the first few rows of the crowd, zooming in on fans holding banners in support of the dead dragon Noah, where the slogans read.
"RIP legend, your successor is finally here!"
"We miss you, Lord Noah"
And
"The Dragon shall fly again...."
As sentiment seemed strong amongst the masses.
"And just look at this crowd," Joe continued, the camera now focusing on a young child sitting on their father's shoulders, face painted in silver and red, waving a small Cult flag with unrestrained enthusiasm. "You can feel the electricity in the air today. Everyone here knows they're about to witness history in the making."
Dana chimed in as the broadcast flashed again to the long stone tunnel behind the arena stage, lined with sigils and glowing runes that shimmered faintly, awaiting the footsteps of its chosen warriors.
"And it's not just the audience feeling the nerves, Joe. The Elders have all arrived, and while they might be keeping a tight lid on their emotions, you can tell the stakes are heavy. Every move, every glance, every nod from those private boxes carries a weight that extends far beyond this battle."
The camera zoomed in on the Fourth Elder's VIP box, where he sat with a tightly composed expression, arms folded over his chest while his aides whispered behind him, eyes flicking constantly between the arena floor and the tunnel entrance.
Then it shifted smoothly to the First Elder, whose calm demeanor and steady gaze stood in stark contrast to the restless energy of his peers, as if he were the only one truly prepared for whatever outcome might come.
Back at the center of the feed, the arena floor remained pristine and untouched, the white stone stage stretching fifty meters wide, with its enchantments still dormant and its boundaries marked by softly glowing lines of violet mana that traced the edges of the combat zone.
"And there you have it," Joe said, his tone dropping just slightly for dramatic effect. "This is the battlefield upon which the fate of our Cult will be decided."
"The fight is scheduled to begin in exactly ten minutes, folks," Dana added, his voice rising. "And we still don't know if Leo Skyshard has broken through to the Transcendent Tier or not. That mystery is hanging in the air like a blade over Veyr's neck, I'm sure he shall be nervous to see what's the truth regarding his opponents true power.
But If Leo is still a Grandmaster going in, then the odds are heavily stacked against the Rodova Circuits Champion."
"But if he has... oh, if he has..." Joe mused, trailing off as the screen flashed again to the still-closed gate of Leo's tunnel, where a faint red glow now shimmered softly from behind the door.
"Then we may be in for the fight of the century."
The camera lingered for a heartbeat longer on that gate, before cutting back to a wide-angle view of the entire arena, only for the entire screen to be swallowed in gold the very next second, as a beam of divine light descended from the sky like judgment itself.
The light struck the edge of the battlefield with thunderous force, yet no sound followed, only silence.... total, consuming silence.... as if the entire world had forgotten how to breathe.
A singular silhouette emerged from within that light. Cloaked in layered black robes lined with silver veins, with a long sword strapped to his back and black hair cascading past his shoulders, he descended slowly, feet never touching the ground until the light delivered him to the arena floor.
Then the sound returned, not as a whisper but as a tidal wave.
"OH MY STARS—JOE—JOE—THAT'S HIM!" Dana's voice cracked, eyes wide as saucers, hand trembling as he grabbed Joe's arm mid-broadcast. "THAT'S....THAT'S LORD SORON!"
Joe nearly dropped his headset, the words spilling out of his mouth in a frenzy. "This isn't a vision! This isn't a projection! This isn't a recording! That's HIM! In the flesh! Lord Soron! OUR DIVINE LORD! He's here! He's actually here!"
The camera feed spasmed trying to adjust to the aura radiating off him, struggling to contain a figure the world itself seemed unworthy to frame.
Pandemonium erupted.
People screamed. Wept. Fainted. Entire rows of the audience collapsed into sobbing worship.
Every hand raised in reverence.
Every head bowed in unison.
Dozens tried to throw themselves over the rails of the stands just to be closer to him. Veterans of war and rankless civilians alike dropped to their knees without hesitation, praying and thanking the protector.
"He's the sword that ended the Holy Revolt!" Dana shouted over the roar, voice breaking again. "The Timeless Assassin's Heir! The Cult Of Ascensions Sect Master!"
"The greatest warrior alive," Joe added, voice reverent now, low and shaking. "The nightmare that the eternal sovereign can never forget."
"The God we follow," Dana whispered.... As even he and Joe turned teary eyed when seeing Soron in the flesh.
It was the Great God's first public appearance in over a century, and the crowd lost their minds just to see that their divine protector was still alive and healthy.
Soron said nothing, he did not acknowledge the crowd, nor did he glance towards the Elders, as he simply walked to the edge of the arena and created a throne made of stone with the flick of his wrists before sitting on-top of it cross legged, as he made his intention to stay and watch this match abundantly clear to everyone.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC447: Introduction
Chapter 447: Introduction
(Juxta Military Base, The common mess hall, Charles's POV)
Charles burst into laughter the second he saw Soron's silhouette descend on the stream, slapping his knee with the flat of his palm as he pointed at the screen, shaking his head like he'd just watched the punchline of a joke unfold perfectly.
"Well I'll be damned... The old man actually showed up."
But the humor didn't last long.
Around him, dozens of Juxta Military Base soldiers had already dropped to their knees, foreheads pressed to the floor before the television.
Even those caught mid-meal had abandoned their trays entirely, choosing instead to bow in silence, hands clasped as they offered quiet prayers to the Divine Protector now seated upon the arena's edge.
Charles let out a slow exhale as he glanced around the mess hall.
'That's right...' he reminded himself.
For them, Soron wasn't just a man.
To them, Soron was a deity.
The worst nightmare of the righteous faction. The strongest god who walked across the stars in silence, leaving behind only dead bodies and blood.
Charles snuffed out his laughter and leaned back in his chair, expression neutral once more. Then, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, he let the smoke trail lazily from the corner of his mouth.
"I'll be damned," he muttered again, this time under his breath, as his eyes drifted back to the screen. "Maybe this fight is really more important to the future of this Cult than what I believe."
—-----------
(At the same time, down in the warm-up room, Leo's POV)
Leo wondered what all the ruckus was about above him?
For a solid minute, it sounded like the entire stadium had imploded into madness.
However, unfortunately, without a live feed or even a single screen down here in the warm-up tunnels, he could only guess what was happening.
"I sense the presence of someone extremely strong, Lord Father," Dumpy whispered, a slight tremble in his croaking voice. "It's like... if everyone else shines like a candle in this arena, then that individual... he shines like a sun."
Leo glanced down at him, gently stroking the frog's back as he brought him some calm.
"It's okay," Leo said softly. "It doesn't matter who came or who didn't. I still have to fight this battle the same way I had to five minutes ago."
The words were spoken quietly, mostly to himself, a steady anchor against the rising tide of nerves.
Seconds ticked by, unmeasured and slow, as he closed his eyes and centered his breath.
He recalled the battles with Charles.
Recalled the pressure in his bones, the breathless sensation of dancing on the edge of the realm of intent.
He wrapped that sensation around him. Replayed the memory on loop, over and over, until his pulse slowed and his limbs felt light again.
"Lord Father, don't overthink it," Dumpy said, voice sincere. "You may be a Grandmaster... but you're Lord Father. Nobody can beat you when you really try."
Leo's eyes opened slowly, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He gave the little frog a final pat before setting him on the bench behind him.
As the booming voice of the announcers echoed through the arena, calling his name for all to hear, Leo took a deep breath and walked out to meet the light.
His steps were steady.
His heart calm, as a quiet smile rested on his face.
—---------
(Main Arena Stage, Seconds before the Match Start)
Once the clock timer ran down to zero and it was finally time for the match to begin, the crowd erupted in cheers as the officiating referee of the day was introduced.
"Firstly please welcome the officiating referee for today's match.... Very experienced, very reliable, very famous..... Captain Max!"
The ground vibrated beneath the force of the applause as Max strode into the arena, his boots echoing with crisp authority.
A thick red sash was tied diagonally across his chest, denoting his official role, as he waved at the crowd with a firm and focused expression on his face.
"Captain Max is no stranger to high-pressure situations, folks. And I can't think of a better man to referee a battle of this magnitude." Joe said, his voice ringing out over the broadcast, loud and proud.
"He's a decorated officer, a neutral enforcer of law, and one of the few men trusted by all the Elders in the Sect," Dana added.
Max reached the center of the arena and came to a halt, giving a deep bow toward Lord Soron's throne, before turning slightly toward the tunnel on the left.
Joe's voice quieted slightly as the camera panned to the entrance now glowing faint white.
"And now... the moment we've all been waiting for."
Dana's tone dropped to a whisper, as if reverence itself commanded the silence.
"Introducing first... hailing from the righteous faction's reputed Rodova Military Academy... Champion of the Interstellar Circuits... The warrior nominated by the Twelfth Elder..."
A pause. A beat.
"LEO SKYYYYYYSHAAAARD!"
The crowd surged once more.
And from the shadows of the tunnel, Leo stepped forward into the light, a calm smile on his face, as he strode on to the main arena with confidence.
*CHEER*
*RUCKUS*
The crowd's roar echoed like thunder as Leo walked across the stage, every step calm and deliberate, his presence striking not because of flair or theatrics but because of the composure that radiated off him like quiet heat.
He didn't wave, didn't glance at the audience, didn't acknowledge the desperate shouts, as he simply walked with his eyes forward, as if the entire stadium had ceased to exist around him.
Captain Max stepped in to intercept him halfway, offering a respectful nod before holding out a small mana scanner.
He gave Leo a quick once-over, checking that all the gear on his body was the same one as what he had registered before the fight and that his main weapons had still not been spiked with poison between the first check and the fight.
Once satisfied that everything matched, Max gestured toward the left side of the battlefield, as Leo took his place at the designated starting spot.
'The hell..... what is that pressure?' Leo wondered when he took his starting spot, as he felt a pair of ancient eyes looking down on him.
As that was when he saw him....
Soron, watching with a quiet curiosity.
Their gazes locked for a single breath.
And despite his body begging him to bow, Leo did not. As he chose to stand straight instead.
While Soron did not blink, as he continued to scrutinize Leo with a consistent intensity.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC448: The Stage Is Set
Chapter 448: The Stage Is Set
This was Leo's first time standing in the presence of a God, a true God, and what he sensed nearly shattered his understanding of reality.
When his eyes met Soron's, he didn't feel as though he was staring at another man.
No, there was no heartbeat of kinship, no shared sense of species.
Soron wore a human shell, yes, cloaked in black robes and seated with mortal posture, but everything about him screamed of something else. Something Leo's mind wasn't built to comprehend.
There was a rupture in logic the longer he looked. The throne was there. Soron was seated on it. That much Leo could see. But for some reason, his instincts refused to accept it as truth.
It was as if the figure he saw was only a projection filtered through the limits of his senses.... an illusion crafted not to deceive, but to protect him.
Because the real presence behind those eyes, behind that shape, was something far too vast... far too alien... far too immense for human perception to hold without breaking.
Leo couldn't even be certain of the distance between them.
Soron felt both close enough to reach and impossibly far away, like his body existed in the space between atoms.
Even the way light played off his form, those subtle shades of black and silver, seemed to carry hues Leo had no words for, colors that didn't quite belong to this plane.
And that gaze...
It didn't look at him. It looked through him. Not like reading his thoughts, but like flipping through every page he had ever lived, casually browsing the narrative of his soul as though it were a minor footnote in some ancient tale already written.
Leo's instincts screamed that he wasn't witnessing Soron's true self.
He was only being permitted to see a sliver—a safe fraction—of the God's true presence, carefully distilled into something survivable.
A shape that his mind could parse without unraveling.
And still, even in this diminished form, Soron's very existence pressed down on him like the sun's gravity.
Unmeasurable.
Inescapable.
Undeniable.
It wasn't fear that rooted Leo in place. It was awe. Pure, primal awe in the face of something so fundamentally beyond him that even standing upright felt like an act of defiance against the natural order.
Yet he stood.
He held Soron's gaze.
And somewhere, beneath the weight of it all, Soron let him.
"Introducing next," Joe announced, his voice booming through the arena speakers, "the prodigy of prodigies... the youngest warrior in Cult history to ascend to the Transcendent Tier at the age of just twenty-three, shattering every record held before him..."
A dramatic pause followed as the camera panned slowly across the crowd, tension spiking.
Dana finished the sentence, voice rich with reverence. "The chosen candidate of the Fourth Elder... Aegon Veyr!"
The tunnel opposite Leo's lit up with a sudden blast of pale white light as Aegon Veyr stepped forward, cloaked in quiet confidence, his presence instantly seizing the eyes and breath of everyone watching.
While Leo had emerged like a storm held behind glass, calm and coiled, Veyr arrived like a firebrand forged to be seen.
His bare arms, shoulders, and collarbones were wrapped in ink— dozens of tattoos layered over one another, crawling up his skin in beautiful, ominous patterns that shimmered faintly under the spotlights of the Lewis Hamilton Arena.
The designs were ancient and intricate, sect sigils intertwined into one cohesive canvas, as though his body itself told a story meant to be studied by the masses.
A walking painting.
A living masterpiece sculpted for battle.
The audience roared as Veyr raised one arm, grinning wide, feeding off their energy with ease. He waved with practiced charm, basking in the adoration, before turning his gaze upward toward the Elder VIP boxes.
It didn't take him long to spot the Fourth Elder, seated with arms still folded, his gaze firm but faintly approving.
With a sharp smile, Veyr gave him a mock salute, more cocky than respectful, but not without weight, before turning back to the field as Captain Max approached.
"Hold still," Max said with a nod, scanning his form with the same mana-checking device he had used on Leo, verifying every piece of gear and weaponry against the registered entries. His expression remained neutral, professional.
But Veyr didn't share the same focus.
Because the second Max stepped close, Veyr's instincts stirred.... something was wrong. Something massive loomed nearby.
He turned slightly, eyes narrowing toward the edge of the arena.
And then he saw him.
The man seated upon the throne of stone.
Cloaked in black. Hair draped long. Posture unmoving.
Soron.
The shift in Veyr's expression was immediate.
His grin faltered.
His shoulders stiffened.
The crowd may not have noticed, but Max did. And so did the cameras.
A thin ripple of fear passed through Veyr's pupils as his body reacted before his mind could catch up, resisting the deep, visceral urge to kneel—no, to prostrate entirely.
His lips parted. "Who is that...?" he whispered, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't carry past Max.
Max didn't look away from his scanner but he smiled as he said, "That's our divine protector,"
"That's Lord Soron."
Veyr said nothing more.
But the moment stuck with him.
He continued to observe Soron for several seconds more, his jaw tense and breathing steady but shallow, before finally turning toward Leo, who smiled at him cockily... something that Veyr had not expected.
It wasn't the grin of someone ignorant or blind to the stakes. Nor was it the false bravado of a weaker fighter trying to act tough in front of a crowd.
No, there was something unnervingly sincere in Leo's expression, as if he truly believed he had a shot, even standing opposite a Transcendent.
Veyr narrowed his eyes.
There was no fear in Leo. Not a drop.
Only focus... and a strangely infectious calm that felt almost unnatural in this sacred arena.
Their gazes locked.
And just like that, the noise of the crowd, the shine of the overhead lights, and even the presence of Soron faded into the background.
It was just the two of them now.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC449: Not A Pushover
Chapter 449: Not A Pushover
Veyr studied Leo with an amused expression on his face.
His distant cousin looked like a proper fighter with a lean body and a handsome haircut, and Veyr couldn't help but feel impressed by his physique.
"Not bad... not bad... I guess being handsome runs in the family. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for talent. Some of us are just born with more of it than others," Veyr said, giving Leo a cocky little wink.
He didn't explicitly mention that he had already checked Leo out and was disappointed to see him not having broken through to the Transcendent Tier, but the message was conveyed regardless through his cocky comments.
"Well yeah... I'm not in the same tier as you. I'm only a Grandmaster, just like the tens of thousands watching from the stands who are Grandmasters as well.
So you better try your best to end this quick, because... if despite the tier difference, I manage to give you a hard time, then it really won't look good," Leo replied, not letting Veyr's comments rattle him, and instead flipping the narrative on his opponent.
"HA–" Veyr chuckled, waving his index finger in the air, as he laughed like he had just heard a pretty funny joke.
"Cuz, you ain't surviving 10 seconds against me." He claimed, as Leo only got into battle stance in response.
"Well.... No point in debating, let's see if you can back those words through action" Leo said, as Veyr too unsheathed his sword and got into battle stance.
—-------
"And there you have it folks! Both Aegon Veyr and Leo Skyshard have assumed their initial battle stance..... the fight will begin any second now!" Joe said, as he clutched his commentator's seat tight with excitement.
"Leo is going into this fight with a massive disadvantage.
Realistically it's only a question of how long can he survive?" Dana added, as he seemed concerned about the elders making such a one sided match up.
"There was a lot of speculation surrounding his real tier in the months leading up to this fight.
However, with him still being a Grandmaster this will be a one sided match up for sure.
I don't know what the Elders were thinking when they made this a public bout?" Joe voiced in agreement, as Dana shrugged his shoulders in disbelief.
"Well.... I guess we will find out...."
—------------
"Skyshard ready?"
"Veyr ready?"
Max asked both fighters one after the other, as both Leo and Veyr gave him a nod of affirmation.
"Very well then.... Begin!" He announced, and almost as soon as he dropped his hand, both Veyr and Leo charged towards one another, two streaks of momentum heading toward collision, their weapons already half drawn.
But just before the gap closed, Leo's eyes twitched to the right.
'There.'
A faint red mist, like smoke from a dying ember, seeped off Veyr's blade, slithering across the air with deceptive speed.
His instincts screamed.
Without a moment's hesitation, Leo halted mid-step, dropped his shoulders, and twisted his torso slightly, raising his dagger at an angle just in time—
*CLANG*
The steel rang like a bell, the collision sharp and visceral, echoing across the arena.
Leo's arms shook as his feet slid back half a step, the force of the blow reverberating through his bones.
His pupils widened. That hit had power. Real power.
But across from him, Veyr's expression changed too.
His smirk faltered, just for a breath, as the reality set in.
Leo had blocked it. Cleanly.
'Was it a fluke?'
The thought shot through Veyr's mind like lightning, as he narrowed his eyes and lunged again.
His blade became a blur, darting in from high, low, left, feint right—five strikes in a span of a single seconds, each one with lethal intent.
He pressed forward like a man possessed, determined to shatter the illusion.
But Leo did not fall behind.
His dagger flowed with him, tracking every motion, every feint, every twitch of Veyr's wrist. Each impact was met with precision and timing, no wasted movement, no hesitation.
*CLANG*
*CLANG*
*CLANG*
By the end of the exchange, the crowd exploded into noise, as a wave of disbelief swept across the stands.
"Did we really just see that?" Joe asked.
"A Grandmaster... kept up pace with a Transcendent?" Dana whispered, almost not believing his own words.
The camera zoomed in on the two fighters, still standing in close range, weapons poised, expressions serious.
And just like that, the entire mood of the match had shifted.
"What the hell? What trickery is this? How can a Grandmaster even move that fast?" The Seventh Elder muttered in disbelief, as sitting up in the VIP stands he had been hoping that this fight ended at the first exchange itself, however, what he witnessed instead was definitely most concerning.
"There's nothing to worry about, Seventh Elder, Lord Fourth had told us before the fight began that Veyr has a little teasing personality.
The boy is probably playing the crowd, and his opponent.... He will crush the confidence of his opponent any second now," The Ninth Elder assured, as the Seventh Elder shook his head in disappointment.
"Tell that cocky brat to end this now! Our fucking careers are riding on this fight.... I don't want to watch this with piss rolling down my legs," The Seventh Elder complained, as just Leo holding off the first charge spooked him to the limits of going mad.
—----------
Down in the arena, Veyr cracked his neck and took a small step back, his sword raised just above shoulder height, eyes narrowed and focused now.
Leo, on the other hand, remained steady.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then, almost in sync, they began to circle.
Leo did not watch Veyr anymore, his eyes were instead locked on the Red Aura coiling tighter around his opponent, as he tracked the flickering wisps, hoping they'd stabilize into something tangible that he could read.
As by this point, Leo understood that Veyr was for sure not a pushover.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC450: Back Step
Chapter 450: Back Step
After the initial exchange, both fighters grew more cautious, their blades dipping and rising in calculated arcs as they circled each other with half-measured steps, while testing the other for flaws.
Neither was willing to make the first reckless move, but when even after thirty seconds of half-hearted lunges and feints, Leo refused to show any real aggression, Veyr's patience finally wore thin, as he lunged forward with a sharp thrust aimed at Leo's stomach, deliberately leaving his neck exposed in hopes of drawing out a counter.
*CLANG*
Leo intercepted the thrust with one hand, his dagger angled low and tight against his forearm, the force bracing through his wrist as he fell for the bait and tried to counter with his free arm, only to be caught completely off guard when Veyr snatched that very arm with a whip-quick twist that nearly dislocated the elbow on contact.
*Step*
Leo took a step back, barely keeping his grip on the weapon as the twisting pain surged through his joints, and in the very next breath, Veyr's blade came screaming diagonally through the air, aimed viciously at his chest with a speed and weight that, if not met clean, would cave in his ribs and crush his lungs without hesitation.
*CLANG*
Leo's forearm screamed in protest as he threw up his dagger in a desperate parry, the blade barely redirecting the strike as he staggered back again, boots skidding on the arena floor, his balance fraying but still intact.
*Clang*
*Clang*
*Clang*
The next barrage arrived without warning.
Left shoulder, right thigh, the edge of his ribs, then a near miss at the neck—each swing came with such brutal precision it felt less like a duel and more like a dance orchestrated solely by Veyr, as Leo scrambled for a response.
The faint wisps of red that he saw did not allow him to block at the optimal angle, as the guesswork he used to keep up with Veyr, also opened his defence to a million other problems, as without blocking the first strike at the perfect angle, he could not position himself properly for the second, and was left in an even worse position to block the third.
"Having half knowledge is worse than having no knowledge..... you cannot use intent detection in the half right form that you use it currently.
In your current form, it's only a recipe for disaster—"
Charles's words rang in his head, as just like the old monarch had warned, by relying on his half-baked technique, Leo quickly dug himself into a deep defensive hole.
Each new strike launched by Veyr became an unanswerable question for him, a sharp-edged probe that demanded a flawless reply, and each of his improper blocks bought him only a second more before the tempo surged forward again, relentless and unforgiving.
'He's not reacting to my strikes..... He's predicting crudely,' Veyr observed silently mid-assault, his gaze narrowing as he studied the way Leo blocked just at the point of contact, never a fraction earlier.
'He's reading the general direction but not the true angle.'
And with that realization, Veyr adjusted.
He shifted the rhythm.
He curved the tempo.
He buried his intent within hesitation and dragged feints across the surface of his true strikes, watching as Leo faltered ever so slightly, parrying too soon or too late, while the edges of his robe grew more and more tattered under each passing barrage.
Leo could feel the slip. The weight behind every swing growing heavier, not because Veyr was growing stronger, but because his own timing was beginning to fracture, the tempo eluding him by half a beat at first, then nearly a full one as Veyr's momentum bled into fluidity.
Veyr's sword no longer attacked. It danced.
And Leo, no longer the equal he had briefly been, began to once more be pushed backwards, retreating into narrower and narrower circles as he tried to find footing on a battlefield that no longer belonged to him.
The crowd, once roaring in disbelief at Leo's early stand, now fell into a breathless silence, a tight suspense gripping the atmosphere as only the echo of steel and scuffed boots rang across the arena.
Veyr's smirk widened as he pressed closer, his blade orbiting Leo's defense like a predator testing the cage.
"That attempt to block... it was cute while it lasted," he whispered, just loud enough for Leo to hear, as he started to finally press for the kill.
A sudden horizontal slash came next, sharp and sweeping, and Leo twisted to meet it, catching the edge with his dagger, though the backlash shuddered through his bones and nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.
He was falling behind.
He realized that he could not keep up anymore, as just one more step, one more failed counter, one more missed breath.... and he'd be done.
He needed something. Anything to stay competitive in this fight, and hence he reached inward, activating the only move that he thought could help him buy time.
[Parallel Processing].
The skill unfurled silently within him, its effect instant as the world dulled around the edges. Sounds warped. Veyr's sword no longer blurred but instead carved clear arcs through slowed air, as his thoughts gained clarity like glass wiped clean of fog.
The strike aimed at his shoulder became a readable angle. The step that powered it, dissected....
As in the next intent, he blocked it clean.
*CLANG*
He hadn't become faster.
Just more efficient, as by using [Parallel Processing] he once again gained the edge that he had lost.
His blocks once again met Veyr's blade with sharper precision, and his feet began to glide in smoother diagonals, as if the rhythm had returned under his command.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Leo felt the pressure ease off his lungs as he parried and sidestepped not by prediction, but by reaction.
And yet—
"Oh?"
The word slipped out from Veyr's lips, a playful breath laced with genuine intrigue, as mid-swing he blinked in visible surprise.
"You just used Parallel Processing, didn't you?"
Leo said nothing, his focus absolute, his hands meeting the next blow cleanly, the angle of the parry so sharp it sent sparks trailing off the blade.
Veyr chuckled softly.
"Cute. Well..."
He rolled his shoulders and exhaled, the grin still untouched on his face.
"Two can play that game."
And then he blurred.
Moving so unnaturally fast, that for a brief moment, even to Leo's enhanced perception, it felt like he had vanished entirely from the space between one breath and the next.
The ground beneath Veyr's feet cracked as his full power surged, and the strike that followed came not from a direction but from everywhere at once.
Leo blocked left, only to be clipped from the right. He ducked a downward slash only to have the pommel crack into his ribs from below.
It wasn't the speed alone.
It was awareness.
Veyr had activated it too.
He was reading Leo's reactions, adjusting in real time, as if their movements were layered within one another, a mirrored duel with Veyr always just a step ahead.
A sweep came for his knees. Leo leapt back.
But the follow-up, a rising backhand, clipped his shoulder with brutal force.
*CRACK*
The pain shot through his left side like lightning.
He staggered.
His grip faltered.
But Veyr didn't press forward.
He paused. And laughed.
"You forgot that the two of us share the same bloodline in the end, cuz?"
He twirled his blade with ease, as if none of this had ever been serious for him.
Leo didn't reply. His eyes were now fixed on the faint red mist swirling around Veyr again, the aura thickening, sharpening, extending to a five-foot radius and glowing brighter with every passing moment.
And that's when the realization finally settled.
Veyr had it too.
The same bloodline. The same gifts. The same cursed instincts.
Leo wasn't the only special one anymore.
He was battling a reflection of everything he had once believed was uniquely his.
Contact - ToS