The deafening sound of a gong reverberated through the Maw, signaling the start of the fight. A wave of excitement rippled through the stands as the battle commenced, the crowd a writhing mass of bodies, roaring in anticipation. Some jeered, some cheered, and bets were exchanged in hurried whispers and boisterous shouts.

  Though the noise was deafening, Joran forced himself to focus, tightening his grip on Vermillion Fang as he lowered into a two-handed stance. The weight of the enchanted sword was comforting, familiar—his one reliable weapon in this brutal, foreign battlefield.

  Yet, despite the signal to begin, Sarrak did not move.

  The cloaked warrior stood perfectly still, feet planted, arms slack at his sides, his expression unreadable. The only thing that moved was the lazy flicker of his piercing blue eyes, tracing Joran’s every movement like a predator watching its prey but not yet hungry enough to pounce.

  A sliver of unease crawled up Joran’s spine. Why wasn’t he preparing to fight? No tension in his shoulders, no shift in his stance—nothing about him suggested wariness or caution. It was as if he had already deemed Joran's attacks pointless.

  Joran began to move. His boots scraped against the coarse, bloodstained dirt of the arena floor as he took slow, deliberate steps, circling his opponent, trying to gauge what sort of warrior he was dealing with. Sarrak did not turn to follow him. Instead, he simply watched with an eerie, detached curiosity, standing as though he were a spectator rather than a combatant.

  At last, Sarrak broke the silence.

  “Well? Are you going to make your move?” His voice was dry, almost mocking, yet held no excitement, no aggression. It was as if he were merely indulging in a conversation rather than standing in the pit of blood and sand.

  Joran didn’t answer. He kept circling, grip firm on his sword, eyes locked onto his opponent’s every minuscule movement, searching for any hint of intent or preparation. Sarrak, however, remained unbothered—unmoved. The tension in the crowd built as those watching realized what was happening.

  Sarrak sighed, exhaling through his nose in something between boredom and amusement.

  “Ahhh… I get it now. You’re cautious. You’re trying to figure it out.”

  His head tilted slightly as he observed Joran with that same unsettling calm.

  “Why am I not on guard? Why don’t I seem to care? Why am I just… standing here?” His lips curled into something that was not quite a smirk, not quite a smile—just a hint of knowing amusement.

  Joran still didn’t respond, but he felt his muscles tighten as Sarrak finally shifted, his shoulders rolling lazily, his weight shifting ever so slightly onto the balls of his feet.

  “Hmph. I used to care.”

  His voice carried through the arena, smooth and composed, like a man reminiscing rather than preparing for battle.

  “But after doing this for so long… I don’t.”

  His hand twitched at his side, but he did not reach for a weapon—if he even had one beneath that tattered cloak. Joran took another step, his instincts screaming at him to be ready for anything. Yet the stillness of his opponent was unnerving. He had fought many enemies before—knights, bandits, and creatures of the wild—but they all wanted something. They had drive, they had hunger. But this man? He lacked something essential.

  There was no aggression. No thrill. No malice.

  Just boredom.

  Finally, Sarrak turned his head, locking eyes with Joran in a way that felt unnaturally slow. His blue eyes gleamed, and for the first time, something like curiosity flickered behind them.

  “So… give me your best shot.”

  Joran's grip on his sword tightened as Sarrak spread his arms slightly, leaving his entire body open. An invitation. A challenge.

  His voice carried over the hushed whispers of the arena, a solemn promise wrapped in certainty.

  “I promise you… it won’t work.”

  The moment hung in the air, stretching longer than it should have, as the crowd waited with bated breath for the prince’s first move.

  Joran’s grip on Vermillion Fang tightened for a moment before he loosened his hold, lowering the blade slightly. He flexed the fingers of his free hand, contemplating his next move. Attacking head-on was too risky. Something about Sarrak’s unwavering confidence, the way he left himself open, made Joran hesitate.

  The man hadn't even shifted his stance to defend himself. There was no tension in his body, no signs of preparation—just that detached, almost indifferent gaze.

  Was it arrogance? Or something else?

  Joran weighed his options quickly. If Sarrak truly had a perfect defensive technique, then he had to determine how it worked. Maybe he was simply faster than he seemed, dodging and countering before anyone could land a hit. That could explain his perfect record. Or, perhaps, he possessed some sort of unknown magic that shielded him from harm.

  Whatever the case, Joran needed to test him first. A direct melee assault was too dangerous. If Sarrak truly had inhuman reflexes, then the prince might be cut down before he even realized what had happened.

  No. A long-range attack was the best way to start.

  Joran raised his free hand, channeling raw magic into his palm. Instantly, golden light flickered to life around his fingers, crackling with energy. The warmth spread rapidly, coalescing into a growing mass of power that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The gathered magic elongated, extending outward, shaping itself into a blazing spear of pure arcane energy.

  The weapon shimmered, the air around it warping from the sheer intensity of its power. The light glowed brighter and brighter until it took on a defined form—Titan’s Lance.

  A formidable spell, one that had devastated enemies in the past. This wasn’t just a projectile. It was a weapon designed for raw destruction. Capable of moving at immense speed, the spear could pierce through anything in its path until it struck its intended target. And upon impact…

  A catastrophic detonation of pure kinetic force. Even those with powerful magical defenses rarely walked away from it unscathed. Joran let out a slow breath as he took aim, feeling the weight of the spell settle in his grip. His magic pulsed in anticipation, the charged energy humming like a storm barely restrained.

  This should be enough.

  With a sharp twist of his wrist, Joran pulled back his arm, adjusting his stance as he prepared to throw. His eyes locked onto Sarrak, searching for any sign of movement. He expected his opponent to react—to shift, to brace, to prepare some form of defense.

  But Sarrak did nothing. He simply stood there, watching. Joran’s jaw tightened. Sarrak is going to find he shouldn’t be underestimated.

  With a surge of power, Joran hurled the Titan’s Lance forward.

  The spell cut through the air with a sonic boom, a streak of golden energy ripping toward Sarrak at blinding speed. The force of the throw kicked up dust and debris from the arena floor, leaving a shimmering afterimage of golden light in its wake. The crowd gasped, some standing, anticipating impact.

  And yet…

  Sarrak still didn’t move. The Titan’s Lance struck him head-on. The explosion was instantaneous. A deafening blast tore through the arena as a blinding burst of golden fire and force erupted around Sarrak. The impact sent a shockwave outward, kicking up a violent storm of dust and debris. The force of the spell was so intense that cracks spread across the ground, ripping apart the stone beneath them.

  A cloud of smoke engulfed the area, obscuring the aftermath from view. The crowd erupted into chaos—some roaring in excitement, others watching in stunned silence, waiting for the dust to settle. For a moment, Joran felt a flicker of satisfaction.

  Then—pain. White-hot agony exploded in his chest. It was as if he had been struck by his own spell. A sickening force crashed into him, sending him hurtling backwards. His body collided with the arena wall, stone cracking on impact as he crumpled to the ground with a harsh gasp.

  His mind reeled.

  What…? What just happened?

  Joran groaned, coughing harshly as he struggled to push himself up. His entire body ached. His ribs screamed in protest, and when he looked down, his breath hitched. A massive bruise had already formed across his chest, accompanied by deep cuts that stained his tunic with fresh blood. It was as if he had been struck by his own attack.

  Realization dawned on him in horror. He looked up, dread pooling in his stomach. The dust was beginning to clear. From within the fading haze, a figure emerged.

  Sarrak.

  Completely unharmed.

  His cloak was singed, slightly torn at the edges from the heat of the explosion, but his body bore not a single wound. Joran stared in disbelief.

  “So you see now?”

  Sarrak’s voice was calm. Unshaken. He stepped forward at a casual pace, showing no signs of pain, no signs of injury. His blue eyes gleamed with amusement, as if watching the realization dawn on Joran was the most entertainment he had gotten in ages.

  Joran forced himself to his feet, legs shaking. He barely felt the pain coursing through his body, too focused on the horrifying truth that was unraveling before him. Sarrak lifted his hand slightly, gesturing toward the prince.

  “Any attack made upon my body will be reflected back upon you.”

  Joran’s breath hitched.

  “That is why I always leave the arena unscathed. Because every opponent I face…”

  Sarrak took another step forward, his shadow looming over Joran as his expression remained calmly amused.

  “Ends up killing themselves trying to kill me.”

  The words hung in the air, sinking in as the crowd roared in excitement, now fully understanding the hopeless nature of Joran’s situation. This was why the majority bet against Joran despite his bloodline. How do you beat someone who reflects your own attacks right back at you?

  Joran staggered upright, hand trembling as he pressed his palm to the bruised and bloodied patch of flesh on his chest. His breaths were shallow and uneven, but he forced himself to steady them. Focus. Control. Channel. A soft golden glow began to emanate from his palm, the warm hue sinking into his skin and spreading like sunlit ripples across his torso. Slowly, the pain dulled. The jagged cuts that lined his chest began to seal themselves with faint sizzles of magic, and the deep bruise faded into lighter tones before vanishing entirely.

  “You…” Joran muttered, his voice tight with lingering pain and disbelief. “What kind of magic is that? Or are you a magi-human?”

  Sarrak’s expression remained unreadable. He stood tall in the center of the arena like a shadow that refused to move in daylight, his tattered cloak still flapping gently in the warm air. “It’s not magic,” he said, his voice calm, even, disturbingly patient. “I was born with it.”

  He paused and tilted his head, studying Joran like a tired teacher watching a student struggle with the obvious. “I was fifteen when I discovered this ability. Bandits attacked our caravan—me, my father, my mother, my younger sister. They were merciless. The first blade went into my father's throat. I tried to fight back… but I was just a boy. One of them lunged at me, and I braced for death—but he screamed instead. His own weapon had turned on him. A clean slice across his chest, the exact blow meant for me.”

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  Sarrak’s gaze grew distant, as if he could still see the flames of that raid in his mind. “I didn’t understand it at first. I was covered in blood—my family’s, the bandits’. None of it was mine. When I realized what I could do… I knew the world would never look at me the same again.”

  He gestured toward the stands, toward the screaming spectators and the pit stained with old blood. “I spent years wandering Orano. Mercenary work. Bounty hunting. Gladiator pits. I needed to test myself—push my limits, see if there was anyone out there who could touch me, who could force me to actually fight. Then I found the Maw. This place draws in the strong, the reckless, the desperate. I thought… maybe, just maybe, here I’d find someone who could break through what others couldn’t.”

  Joran shifted his grip on Vermillion Fang, his knuckles white around the hilt. Sarrak’s words sank in slowly. He wasn’t boasting. There was no arrogance in his voice—just bone-deep weariness. A man who had waited his entire life for something real, and only found disappointment.

  “When I heard I was going to face the Dragon Prince of Lothara,” Sarrak continued, “I was excited for the first time in years. Half dragon. Half slayer. The blood of kings and beasts. You were supposed to be more than the rest.”

  His lips curled into the barest shadow of a frown. “But like all the others… you’re a disappointment.”

  Joran flinched—not from the insult, but from the hollow truth behind it. He didn’t want to prove himself to this man. That wasn’t why he came here. He wasn’t trying to win glory or reputation.

  He was trying to survive. To escape. To find a way to save those shackled souls who had no voice left to scream. Still… he couldn’t show weakness. Not here. Not now.

  Joran lifted his chin, lowering his sword just slightly as he spoke, voice firm but not cocky. “Don’t count me out just yet, Sarrak. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  “Oh?” Sarrak’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. The weight of his gaze was suffocating. “Then by all means… Give me your best.” The challenge wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t barked in rage or mockery. It was simple. Clean. A line drawn in the sand. And behind it stood a warrior who had never bled in battle.

  Joran took a step back, breathing through the sting still echoing across his ribs from the backlash of his earlier spell. Blood smeared across the inside of his tunic, healed already by his magic—but the phantom pain lingered. Across the arena, Sarrak stood perfectly still, watching him with that same casual indifference. His cloak fluttered faintly in the wind, untouched by flame, blood, or bruises. Untouchable.

  But not unshakable.

  Joran clenched his jaw. Fine. If brute force wouldn't work—if elemental piercing spells, shock lances, and even kinetic blasts were all just going to ricochet back at him—then he would try something different. Something disruptive. He had no intention of letting this fight become a slow death of self-inflicted wounds.

  He shifted his stance, lifted Vermillion Fang, and then with a single motion, plunged the blade deep into the earth at his feet. The arena floor split slightly from the force, the magical steel humming in resonance with his blood. His hands ignited with light—crimson and gold threads of draconic magic coiling up from his fingertips like divine serpents. The air around him trembled as he pressed his palms together, building power—not to destroy, but to unleash resonance.

  He whispered the spell’s name like a vow.

  “Stormburst Echo.”

  The magic surged from his core like a tidal wave. A pulse formed between his palms, glowing brighter with every heartbeat—swelling in intensity, vibrating the very fabric of the arena. Then, with a thunderclap, he slammed his hands together, and the ground responded. A massive concussive wave of compressed sound and shock erupted outward in a wide ring from the impact point, tearing across the stone and sand of the arena. The sound was deafening—a rolling, warping boom of pure magical force that bent the air and shimmered like a heat mirage.

  It wasn’t a fireball. It wasn’t a spear. It wasn’t meant to tear flesh. It was meant to shatter focus. Meant to disorient, to disrupt, to strip away control from within.

  The wave raced toward Sarrak, and for the first time, the warrior’s expression shifted—not in fear, but in curiosity. He made no move to defend, no attempt to dodge. And once again, just before the wave struck him, Joran felt it. An invisible tether pulling tight. The spell hit its mark—and instantly turned back on him.

  The concussive blast of sound reversed its arc like a whip cracked in reverse. The thunder rolled over Joran with the force of a landslide, slamming into his chest and hurling him backwards off his feet.

  “Guh—AUGH!!”

  He hit the ground hard, skidding through sand and shards of stone. His ears rang so violently it was like hundreds of bees buzzing deep in his skull. Pain screamed through his sinuses and jaw, and when he reached up with trembling fingers, he felt warm liquid—blood—trickling from both ears. Everything sounded distant, muffled, as if he were underwater. For a moment, the arena was a blur.

  Joran groaned, rolling onto his side and pulling himself to his knees. His vision cleared slowly—just enough to see Sarrak walking out from the fringe of dust, completely untouched. Not a waver in his step. Not a flicker of imbalance. The man hadn’t even flinched.

  Joran’s teeth ground together. Unbelievable. Even Stormburst Echo, a spell designed not to kill but to disorient, had rebounded on him. Sarrak’s ability didn’t care about damage types or intentions—it was absolute. Pain surged through his skull again, and he stumbled, falling to one knee. But his hands began to glow once more.

  This time, with a golden light that shimmered like the sun reflecting off a dragon’s scale. He pressed them to the sides of his head and let out a breath as the spell worked through him—Renewal of the First Flame, a high-tier healing spell that restored even inner trauma. His blood dried. The pressure behind his eyes eased. The ringing faded.

  In less than ten seconds, he was upright again, and whole. His magic was vast. Deep. Ancient. He was the son of two of the most powerful bloodlines in Orano. He would not fall from a few reflected spells—not yet.

  But it didn’t change the facts.

  Every spell he cast, no matter the intent, hurt him. His options were shrinking. Sarrak wasn’t a wall—he was a void. A mirror. A trap. And unless Joran could change the rules of this fight… he would bleed himself dry.

  Sarrak stood in the center of the arena like a statue carved from contempt, his arms still draped lazily at his sides, cloak fluttering faintly in the arid breeze that wafted through the cracked bones of the Maw’s open ceiling. His bright blue eyes held no spark of interest—only a dulled, weary discontent, like a man forced to watch the same play over and over again.

  Joran’s breath still came heavy, chest rising and falling with sharp focus. His skin stung with the residual pain of spells reflected and wounds repeatedly mended. Magic hummed beneath his flesh, his blood still saturated with untapped power—yet no outlet seemed to yield a result.

  Across the battlefield, Sarrak tilted his head lazily, raising a hand to gesture toward the prince with an almost casual flick of his fingers. "Still standing, huh?” he drawled. His voice echoed through the Maw, threaded with that same dry boredom that had irritated Joran since the fight began. “I’ll give you credit, prince. You last longer than most. But it's all the same in the end.”

  Joran didn't respond. His jaw tightened, his eyes burning. He wasn’t about to feed the man’s theatrics with more words. But the tension in his shoulders, the ever-tightening grip on the hilt of Vermillion Fang, spoke volumes.

  “You know,” Sarrak continued, his tone nearly a yawn, “I really thought the son of the Dragon King would be more than this. Fire and fury, scales and strength… you’ve got the pedigree. But all I see is a pretty boy with too much mana and no idea how to use it.” He stepped lightly to the side, circling just enough to force Joran to pivot with him. “I’ve seen court mages with better imagination. And here I thought this might be fun.” Joran’s patience cracked.

  He shifted his stance and raised his free hand, magic pooling into his palm as a sudden chill gripped the air around him. Frost-magic, honed and honed again in the cold towers of Lothara, surged from his core. His fingertips shimmered with crystalline light, his breath misting in the rising cold. The ground beneath him began to frost over, tiny spiderweb patterns of ice crawling out in every direction. Even the sand crackled underfoot as the temperature plummeted.

  He whispered the spell under his breath, voice sharp and focused:

  “Frozen Embrace.”

  The air shimmered with shifting pressure, and then the freezing storm surged outward—an enormous, coiling wave of magic that swirled toward Sarrak. The spell took the form of jagged ice spires rising from the earth, racing to encircle and entomb the man in an unbreakable shell of elemental frost. It wasn’t lethal. Not directly. But it would immobilize, encase, trap. It was a cage made of winter. Sarrak didn’t move.He just smiled.

  The moment the magic made contact with his presence, Joran gasped in pain. A wave of instant, agonizing cold crashed through his body. It didn’t build up slowly—it slammed into him like an avalanche from within. His muscles locked up. His veins felt like frozen rivers. The moisture in his lungs condensed, and he choked, staggering back, falling to one knee as frost crept up his own arms, curling over his skin in sharp patterns of rime and crystal.

  His fingertips turned blue. His breath caught in his throat. The spell—his own spell—was turning against him. And fast.

  Every spike of ice meant for Sarrak instead materialized around Joran’s legs, his boots locking to the ground as freezing pillars of magic erupted beside him. A glacial shroud formed around his shoulders, weighing him down like iron chains of winter. He grit his teeth as shards of cold pierced into his side, numbing his joints, slowing his pulse, sinking deeper. The worst part was since he is part dragon he is cold blooded so the effects of the cold were 10 times what it would be for a regular human.

  His lips trembled. His hand dropped from the spell’s channeling posture. And with a sharp grunt of will, he canceled the magic.

  The cold vanished like a nightmare at dawn, dissipating in a burst of mist that swirled around him before fading into nothing. His limbs remained trembling. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud as he panted heavily, thin trails of frost flaking off his clothes and fingertips. The veins in his forearms were still etched in blue. From across the pit, Sarrak clapped slowly—mocking applause.

  “That’s new,” he said with amusement, “You’re the first to try freezing yourself to death. Original, I’ll give you that. Not very effective, but hey—style points.”

  Joran coughed and rose to one knee, his palm glowing as he summoned a healing pulse to drive the lingering frostbite away. It took more concentration than he liked to admit, and even then, his fingers still burned with residual cold. His breath still fogged.

  “I suppose,” Sarrak went on, taking a few leisurely steps forward, “that this is the part where you try something desperate. Maybe summon a volcano under my feet? Drown me in a lake of acid?” He flashed a grin. “Want to guess how that’ll end?”

  Joran didn’t respond. His mind was already working—desperately sifting through his vast mental library of spells and magical theory. He had to find something different. Something that broke the connection between them. Because as long as Sarrak’s curse was in place, every attack would only hurt Joran. And at this rate… it would only be a matter of time.

  The prince allowed himself a moment—just a breath—to recover.

  Frost still clung stubbornly to his skin and clothes, crackling faintly as he shifted his stance. His magic had failed him. Again. Every spell, no matter how complex or devastating, had turned against him the moment it touched Sarrak’s skin. Immobilization, misdirection, disorientation… all reversed. All futile. His sword, even if swung true, would do the same. He would bleed for every blow he struck.

  Joran exhaled sharply, steam rising from his breath. His hands were trembling—not from fear, but from calculation. He ran every spell he knew through his mind like a scholar flipping through a tome in firelight. There had to be something. Something different. Something that didn’t target Sarrak, but removed the very mechanism of his power.

  Then it struck him.

  Not a spell of harm.

  Not a spell of control.

  But a spell of removal.

  Joran clenched his jaw. He hated this spell. Even back in Lothara’s mage tower, scholars only discussed it in hushed tones. It wasn’t taught—it was warned about. Arcane Severance was a spell designed to end magic. Not just interrupt it. Not dispel a single effect. It wiped the field. Every thread of magic in a wide radius? Gone. Unraveled. Burned out. Even the caster’s. But if Sarrak’s ability truly was innate magic, as it appeared… this would strip it away. For a time, at least. And that might be enough.

  He looked up at his opponent, who was now tapping his fingers on his arm as if waiting for a dinner guest to show up. “I have one last trick up my sleeve,” Joran said, voice quiet but firm. “One I think you’ll appreciate.” Sarrak tilted his head, mildly curious. “I doubt that, princeling. But sure, amuse me.”

  Joran didn’t respond. He slid Vermillion Fang into its sheath with a soft shk. Then he extended both hands out in front of him. Magic began to coil and flicker in his palms, arcs of radiant energy snapping between his fingers. His breathing slowed. Focused. A sphere began to form between his hands—unstable, shifting like a miniature storm. It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t ice. It wasn’t lightning or shadow or any elemental domain. It was raw disruption—chaos forged into shape.

  The ground rumbled slightly. Loose pebbles vibrated. Dust swirled up from the cracked arena floor in spiraling currents. The temperature didn’t rise or fall, but the air grew heavy, charged with an unnatural weight, like the moment before a thunderclap. Even the crowd seemed to sense something wrong. Their cheering dulled to murmurs.

  “This spell,” Joran said through gritted teeth, his arms shaking from the resistance between his hands, “isn’t used lightly. It’s considered reckless. Dangerous. Because it doesn't discriminate. It affects everything.”

  Sarrak arched an eyebrow, arms still folded. “Are you deaf, or just deluded? You’re going to hurt yourself again. Just like every other time.”

  The sphere flared brighter—unstable, rippling with waves of iridescent color. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” Joran muttered, eyes glowing now from the effort. “I’m granting your wish.” He threw his arms outward.

  The orb of magic detonated in a pulse—not of fire or light, but of emptiness. A wave of nullification spread out in all directions like a shockwave, rippling across the arena in an instant. The torches dimmed. The magical wards along the perimeter sputtered. Even the enchanted chains of the nearby arena guards went slack for a moment, stripped of their runes. It was silent for half a second. Then the world resumed—but it was different.

  Joran staggered slightly, his body suddenly feeling heavier. His internal reservoir of magic… quieted. Still there, but inaccessible. Like a door slammed shut. The crowd’s murmurs rose in confusion. “What was that?” “Did he just… suppress the arena?” “Was that mana nullification?!”

  Sarrak, for the first time, looked uneasy.

  “You feel it too, don’t you?” Sarrak looked down at his own hands. Flexed his fingers. No magical shimmer. No energy thrumming beneath his skin. Nothing.

  “…My power,” he whispered. “It’s… gone.”

  Joran didn’t smirk. He didn’t speak. He simply raised his sword into a defensive stance.

  Sarrak’s expression tightened. Not fear. But something close to interest. “Well then,” he murmured, stepping forward, “maybe this won’t be so boring after all.”