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Third Person POV
The single word, "BEGIN!" echoed across the coliseum and then vanished, leaving a thick silence in its wake. The hundreds of applicants held their breath. On the high balcony, the Captains leaned forward, their casual postures gone, replaced by the sharp, analytical focus of masters studying a new problem.
This was not a fight. This was a question. And the entire arena was waiting for the answer.
Why had they dismissed their grimoires?
Was it arrogance? The crowd seemed to think so. A few nobles scoffed. "Fools. Are they mocking the exam?"
Was it respect? The captains were divided. Jackson Blade was cackling, his eyes wide. "BAHAHAHA! Yes! This is it! No tricks, just skill!"
Seraphiel and Ignatius said nothing. They simply watched their children's chosen rival and their own, their expressions unreadable.
In the arena, the two fighters remained still. Michael's stance was relaxed but coiled, his weight on the balls of his feet. Julius, in contrast, was almost unnervingly casual, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted with a gentle, academic curiosity. He was like a scholar about to dissect a new, fascinating specimen.
Julius decided to make the first move.
He wanted to see what Michael was made of. He wanted to test the reflexes that his time magic told him were already moving faster than a normal human's. He would end this in one second.
To the crowd, Julius simply vanished.
There was no sound, no blur of motion, no flicker of mana. One instant, he was standing twenty yards away. The next, he was gone.
Acier gasped. Ignara's eyes, honed by her extreme mana sensitivity, widened in shock. She couldn't track him. "Where--"
Julius then reappeared. He was directly behind Michael, his body still partially accelerated by his own time flow, giving him a shimmering, temporal afterimage. His hand was outstretched, his fingers just a centimeter from Michael's back, right between his shoulder blades. His Proto-Chrono Stasis was active. The moment his fingers made contact, Michael's time would be "paused," freezing him in place, a living statue. The match would be over.
In that fraction of a second, a small smile appeared on his face. An easy win. He has incredible power, but he's too slow. He should have taken me more seriously. He thought in his mind.
His fingers moved to close the final centimeters.
However, they never made the contact.
Michael hadn't sensed him. He hadn't seen him. But he had felt it: a cold, sharp distortion in the mana right behind him. An instinct, honed by a decade of relentless training and sharpened by Lucenor's brutal teaching, screamed at him. Threat. Now.
He had no time to turn. No time to dodge. No time to use his magic.
So he attacked the only thing he could. The ground.
BOOM.
Michael didn't just stomp. He slammed his foot into the solid stone arena floor with the full, terrifying force of his natural, superhuman strength. It wasn't a magic-enhanced attack. It was a raw, physical strength.
The stone floor spiderwebbed, then exploded.
A shockwave tore through the ground. The arena floor erupted upward in a twenty-foot plume of dust and shattered rock. Julius's hand, aimed for Michael's back, was met by an exploding wall of debris.
His eyes widened in genuine shock. He had no choice. He abandoned his one-hit-win, his time magic flaring as he accelerated himself backward, leaping through the cloud of dust and landing gracefully on the far side of the new crater.
The dust began to settle. The crowd was speechless.
Michael stood in the center of the crater he had created, completely unharmed. He slowly turned, a wide, dangerous grin on his face.
"Nice try," he said.
Julius's cocky smile was gone, replaced by one of genuine, fascinated surprise. He had sensed Michael's high physical stats, but he had assumed it was a passive reinforcement magic. He had not accounted for this. He had not accounted for a boy who could shatter a stone arena with a single, non-magical stomp.
"Fascinating," Julius said, his eyes shining. "Your physical strength is really cool! You must have been born with it."
"Something like that," Michael replied."But it's not fair if I'm the only one with a weapon, is it?"
He raised his hand. Golden, radiant light gathered, not with the ancient, primal power of Lucenor, but with the familiar, warm glow of his own magic. The light condensed, solidified, and took shape. A moment later, he was holding a spear.
It was a perfect replica of his Soul Weapon. The dark green shaft, the golden, star-shaped guard, and the blood-red blade. However this one was made entirely of pure, shimmering light. It was just a Creation Magic construct, a copy.
Julius's eyes lit up. "Creation magic? How wonderful!"
"You could call it that," Michael said. He spun the spear once, testing its weight. It was lighter than the original. He could work with this.
On the balcony, Jackson was vibrating with excitement. "YES! YES! He's not just a brute! He's a brawler and a mage! He's perfect!"
Seraphiel's proud smile was so bright it was almost as radiant as her son's.
Back on the battle ground.
Michael didn't wait for a reply. He charged.
He didn't activate his Vow, as he couldn't. There were no golden wings, no overwhelming aura. This was just him. He launched his body forward, strengthened even further by magic. He crossed the fifty yards separating them in less than a second, his spear aimed directly at Julius's heart.
Julius's eyes widened. He had been tracking Michael, his mind already accelerated, but he was still surprised by the boy's raw, un-enhanced speed. This was not a Vow-powered boost; this was his base.
Julius's normal time acceleration was not enough. He was forced to dump a massive amount of his own mana into the spell, pushing his personal time flow to its absolute limit just to stay ahead.
The real fight began.
To the crowd, it was a battle of blurs. A streak of brilliant gold (Michael) chasing a streak of shimmering, silver-blue (Julius's mana) around the arena. The sound was a continuous, deafening series of booms as Michael's attacks, missing their target by a hair's breadth, slammed into the arena floor and walls, each impact leaving a new crater.
Michael was all offense, a relentless engine of destruction. His spear was a blur of thrusts, slashes, and sweeps. His movements were not just fast; they were backed by a physical strength that made every attack a one-hit kill.
Julius, for the first time in his life, was completely and totally on the defensive.
He was conceptually faster. His magic allowed him to perceive Michael's movements as if they were in slow motion. But that was the problem. He could only dodge.
He couldn't counter. Michael was too fast, too strong, and too relentless. The moment he dodged one attack, two more were already on their way. He was being forced into a corner.
The captains watched, mesmerized.
"The Kira boy is a physical monster," Lord Cael Silva said, his voice a low, grudging admission. "He fights like a Vermillion, but with the grace of a Kira."
"But he can't hit him," Skyler Sorath, the Peacock captain, noted, his voice flat. "The other one... he's simply faster. This is a stalemate."
Michael knew this. He could feel it. He couldn't win a pure-speed fight. Julius would just dodge him forever until he tired out. He had to change the rules of the game. He had to force a mistake.
He feinted, a low sweep with his spear, forcing Julius to accelerate backward, into the open air. Julius, as predicted, took the bait, his body already moving to the one safe spot in the arena.
But it was a trap.
The moment Julius committed to his dodge, Michael's true move began. He didn't follow. He stopped, planting his feet. With a roar, he threw his light-spear.
He hurled it not at where Julius was, but at where he was going to be. It flew like a golden missile, faster than sound, its point screaming through the air.
Julius, caught in mid-air and with his momentum carrying him backward, was completely exposed. He saw the spear coming. He had no ground to push off of, no way to dodge.
He twisted his body violently, pouring his magic into a desperate, lateral burst of speed.
He was fast. But not fast enough.
The spear grazed him. It sliced across his shoulder, vaporizing his uniform and drawing the first blood of the match. A spray of red misted the air before the light of the spear burned the wound instantly.
Julius landed hard on the other side of the arena, his breathing finally ragged, his hand clamped on his smoking shoulder. His calm, curious smile was completely gone. He was serious. He looked at his shoulder, then back at Michael, who stood fifty yards away, empty-handed.
"That was a good..." Julius began, but he never finished the sentence.
Michael wasn't finished.
"I'm not done," Michael said, his voice calm. He raised his hand.
The crowd gasped. One, two, three, four new spears of pure light, identical to the first, materialized in the air around him. This wasn't his named spell, Solar Lance, that required his grimoire to manifest so many at once with such power. This was just raw, grimoire-less Creation Magic. It was slower, more draining, and the spears themselves looked less stable, their light flickering slightly.
Acier's hands flew to her mouth. "He... he can make more?"
Ignara was pale. "That's... that's just his base magic... Even without his grimoire, he can do this?"
The four spears moved. They didn't fly at Julius. They turned, their points all focusing on a single spot: the palm of Michael's outstretched, empty hand.
The spears began to unravel, pouring their energy into that one spot. A blindingly bright, unstable sphere of pure light began to form, crackling with raw magic. The heat and pressure washed over the arena in a physical wave. The stone floor around Michael's feet began to slag, melting into glass. This was a clumsy, brute-force imitation of his Sunfire Lance, a spell he shouldn't be able to cast.
Michael gave Julius that same, dangerous grin.
"Dodge this."
He thrust his hand forward.
The Radiant Beam, as he'd just decided to call it, erupted from his hand. It wasn't the clean, focused, annihilating column of his true spell. This was a raw, almost chaotic torrent of power, a massive, ten-foot-thick beam of golden-white light that tore a trench in the arena floor as it screamed toward the stationary and wounded Julius.
There was a moment of total, blinding white light.
Then... silence.
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