Newt stood his ground, chest heaving, body battered from the relentless onslaught. The crowd around the arena was hushed, eyes glued to the unfolding spectacle. Newt had managed to turn the tide, landing a blow that had staggered Arran for the first time in the entire battle. For a fleeting moment, Mark felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe Newt had finally gained the upper hand. Maybe he could win.

  But Arran’s expression didn’t falter. Instead, a slow, dangerous grin spread across his face. He straightened up, brushing the dust from his chest like it was a minor inconvenience. "Not bad, Newt," Arran said, his voice carrying a mix of respect and mockery. "I’ll give you credit where it’s due. You’ve kept me on my toes. But this…"

  He paused, his grin widening as he cracked his neck and then his knuckles, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "This is where you fall behind."

  Before Newt could respond, Arran muttered something under his breath. The words were lost in the din of the crowd, but Mark saw the motion—three quick hand signs, precise and deliberate. Mark’s stomach dropped. He’d seen that technique before. His worst fears were confirmed when Arran whispered, "Second gear."

  The change was instantaneous. The air around Arran grew heavy, oppressive, the very mana in the atmosphere doubling in intensity. Mark felt the pressure from where he stood; the floor beneath Arran’s feet cracked, fissures snaking out from where he stood. His aura flared, a brilliant surge of power that sent ripples through the arena.

  Newt’s eyes widened in alarm, and Mark’s heart raced. "Shit…" Mark muttered under his breath. He knew what was coming.

  Arran moved before anyone could blink. His speed, already terrifying, now seemed supernatural. Newt barely had time to react, throwing up mana constructs—walls of energy designed to slow Arran’s advance. But it was futile. Arran tore through them like paper, his fist smashing through each barrier as though they were nothing but air.

  Newt's breath came in ragged gasps, desperately trying to buy himself time. But Arran was unstoppable. In the blink of an eye, he was upon Newt, grabbing hold of his arm with a vice-like grip. The force behind the grab was so powerful that Newt could hear the creak of bones from where he stood.

  With a brutal yank, Arran flung Newt across the field. Newt’s body hit the wall of the arena with a sickening thud, the stone cracking under the impact. Dust and debris rained down, obscuring Newt from view. Mark’s heart sank. He had seen his friend take hits before, but nothing like this. Nothing that brutal.

  The crowd gasped, whispers spreading like wildfire. Was it over?

  But Arran wasn’t done. Mark’s breath caught in his throat as Arran crouched low, his body a coiled spring ready to unleash devastating force. He pushed off the ground with incredible speed, launching himself at Newt like a missile. His movements were eerily precise, his body twisting mid-air as he came down, aiming to finish Newt with a move that Mark had seen only once before: the Manual Clutch.

  It was a terrifying technique, reminiscent of a deadly spinning grapple. Arran’s body spiraled in the air, his legs locking around Newt’s torso in a crushing grip. The momentum sent them both spinning downward, crashing into the ground with bone-shattering force. The dust and debris kicked up in a violent whirlwind as Arran drove Newt headfirst into the ground, the sheer impact leaving a crater in the floor of the arena.

  Mark’s breath hitched in his throat. Silence. Not a single murmur from the crowd. All eyes were fixed on the devastation. The arena floor was cracked and broken, dust hanging thick in the air. Mark couldn’t see Newt through the debris, but every instinct told him it was over. No one could survive that. No one could get up after something like that.

  A moment passed. Then another. The dust slowly began to settle, and Mark’s heart sank further. Newt was down. Even from this distance, Mark could see his limp form lying in the wreckage. His head was bowed, his body unmoving.

  "It’s over," someone whispered from the crowd. Mark didn’t want to believe it, but it was hard to deny. Arran stood over Newt’s crumpled form, his breathing heavy but steady. He had done it. He had won.

  But then, just as the silence became unbearable, there was a movement.

  Newt stirred. Slowly, agonizingly, he staggered to his feet, his legs shaking under the weight of his own body. Blood dripped from a gash on his forehead, trailing down the side of his face, but his eyes… they were still burning with defiance.

  Mark felt a jolt of disbelief. How? How was Newt still standing?

  Newt wiped the blood from his face with a trembling hand, his body swaying unsteadily. But his eyes never left Arran. With a deep, ragged breath, he clasped his hands together, his voice echoing through the arena. "Mana Assault!"

  The words hung in the air, and for a moment, nothing happened. But then Mark felt it—a shift in the atmosphere, a pulsing energy radiating from the ground beneath their feet. Across the arena, mana began to glow in different areas, like sparks of light coming to life.

  Arran’s eyes widened in surprise, and Mark saw him take a step back, uncertain. Then the ground beneath Arran’s feet lit up, glowing symbols appearing in rapid succession. Arrays.

  "Impossible," Arran muttered, his voice barely audible over the sudden crackle of mana in the air.

  Before Arran could react, the arrays activated. Beams of light shot out from the ground, forming projectiles that honed in on Arran from every angle. They came fast, too fast for even Arran’s enhanced speed to dodge them all.

  Arran’s body twisted as he tried to evade the onslaught, but the sheer number of projectiles made it impossible. One struck him in the shoulder, another grazed his leg, each one exploding on impact, sending shockwaves through the arena. The once-imposing fighter was now on the defensive, his movements frantic as he tried to fend off the barrage of mana-fueled attacks.

  Mark watched in awe. This wasn’t just a random attack. Newt had set this up. Every array had been placed strategically, every projectile timed perfectly. It was a trap, and Arran had walked right into it.

  Arran’s face twisted in frustration, his body flickering as he struggled to dodge the projectiles. Each explosion chipped away at his defenses, wearing him down. For the first time, Arran looked vulnerable.

  But he wasn’t out yet.

  With a furious roar, Arran gathered his remaining mana, channeling it into a powerful barrier. The projectiles slammed into it, causing the air around them to warp and distort from the force of the impact. But Arran’s barrier held, his sheer willpower keeping it intact.

  Mark’s heart raced. He could feel the tension in the air, the raw energy crackling between the two fighters. Newt’s trap had worked, but could he sustain it long enough to finish Arran off?

  Arran gritted his teeth, his eyes blazing with fury. With a sudden burst of strength, he shattered the barrier, sending the last of the projectiles scattering in all directions. The air rippled with the aftershock of the explosion, and for a moment, both fighters stood motionless, breathing heavily.

  Newt’s face was pale, his body trembling from the effort it had taken to maintain the Mana Assault. But despite the toll it had taken, he wasn’t done. Mark could see the determination in his eyes, the fire that refused to go out.

  Arran, on the other hand, was breathing heavily, his body showing signs of wear. His once-unstoppable momentum had slowed, and though he was still standing strong, Mark could see the cracks in his armor—both literal and figurative.

  The arena fell into a tense silence once more. The crowd, which had been so certain of Arran’s victory moments ago, was now on edge, unsure of what would happen next. Mark’s heart pounded in his chest, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Newt had given everything he had. This was it.

  Arran straightened, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Newt. "You… you’ve surprised me," he admitted, his voice low and filled with a grudging respect. "But this won’t be enough. You can’t keep up with me."

  Newt didn’t respond. He simply wiped more blood from his face, his gaze never wavering.

  Arran’s grin returned, though it was laced with exhaustion. "Fine then. Let’s finish this."

  With that, he surged forward again, though this time his speed was not as overwhelming. Newt braced himself, his hands glowing faintly with mana as he prepared for the final clash.

  The ground trembled beneath their feet as they collided once more, a final exchange of blows that sent shockwaves rippling through the arena. Mark could barely keep up with their movements, each strike and counter-strike coming faster than the last.

  Arran's raw strength was terrifying, but Newt’s precision and adaptability were keeping him in the fight. Every move Arran made was met with a well-placed counter from Newt, his elbows and knees striking with devastating accuracy.

  For what felt like an eternity, the two were locked in combat, neither willing

  to give an inch. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, watching in awe as the two titans clashed in a battle of skill, speed, and sheer willpower.

  And then, with one final, bone-shaking strike, the fight reached its conclusion. Arran swung with all his might, aiming for Newt’s head, but Newt ducked, spinning on his heel and delivering a brutal knee strike to Arran’s midsection.

  The impact was enough to send Arran stumbling backward, gasping for breath. His legs wobbled, and for the first time since the fight began, he fell to one knee.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Mark couldn’t believe his eyes. Arran, the unstoppable force, had been brought to his knees. And Newt, battered and bloody, was still standing.

  The arena fell silent, the outcome finally clear. Newt had done it.

  The arena erupted in cheers, the sound of victory washing over the crowd like a wave. Mark could barely hear himself think. Newt had done it—or so it seemed. Arran was on one knee, clearly exhausted, his reserves spent after the brutal fight. Mark allowed himself a brief exhale of relief. This fight was over.

  But then, in an instant, everything changed.

  Arran’s left arm rose slowly, his fingers curling into a familiar symbol—the sign for three. Mark’s eyes widened in disbelief, his heart sinking. Before he could process what was happening, Arran vanished from his spot, his body blurring out of existence. He reappeared beside Newt in mid-spin, his left leg cutting through the air like a scythe. The sickening thud of his boot connecting with Newt’s temple echoed across the arena.

  The impact sent Newt flying across the field, his body crashing into the ground with brutal force. The cheers stopped. A collective gasp filled the air as Newt’s limp form skidded to a halt. He lay motionless on the ground, unconscious, like a marionette whose strings had been severed. The silence was deafening.

  Mark’s stomach twisted painfully. His friend, who had fought so valiantly, was crumbling before his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Arran had more left—*so much more*—and Newt had never stood a chance against it.

  Smoke-like vapor began to rise from Arran’s body, his wounds sealing themselves before the eyes of the stunned audience. His muscles relaxed, his breathing steadied, as if the fight had been a minor inconvenience. Slowly, Arran turned his gaze toward Mark and Annabeth, his eyes gleaming with something between amusement and malice.

  A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. He mouthed the words, slow and deliberate, “You should have fought me yourself.”

  Mark felt his pulse quicken, anger flaring in his chest. Before he could stop himself, he slammed his palm against the glass screen in front of them, the force of the impact rattling the entire viewing panel. Annabeth flinched at the sudden movement, her eyes darting toward Mark, concern etched across her face.

  “Mark—” she began, her voice soft, but hesitant.

  He didn’t look at her. His eyes were glued to Arran, who was now calmly walking off the testing area, not even bothering to look back at the unconscious Newt. Mark’s mind raced, analyzing every moment of the fight, replaying each strike and counter, searching for weaknesses, vulnerabilities—anything that could explain how Newt had lost so decisively, and how he himself might fare better if he had to face Arran.

  Arran’s speed, his precision, his seemingly endless mana reserves… it was overwhelming. But there had to be something. No one was invincible. Mark had seen it—just a glimmer. For a moment during the fight, Arran’s defenses had cracked. When Newt had set up the Mana Assault, Arran had been surprised, his movements slowing for just an instant. His recovery had been swift, but the shock in his eyes had been real. That was something. That was a crack.

  “Mark.” Annabeth’s voice was firmer this time, snapping him out of his thoughts.

  He blinked, finally tearing his gaze away from Arran’s retreating figure. He looked at Annabeth, her expression a mixture of worry and frustration. She hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether to speak her mind, but eventually, she pressed on.

  “You couldn’t have known,” she said quietly. “None of us could have. Newt fought his hardest. He… he just wasn’t ready for whatever that was.”

  Mark clenched his fists, his jaw tight. He wanted to argue, to say something—anything to make sense of what had just happened. But Annabeth was right. Newt had fought with everything he had. And it wasn’t enough.

  “I should’ve stepped in,” Mark muttered, his voice low. “I should’ve been the one fighting him.”

  Annabeth shook her head. “And what would that have changed? Arran’s power… it’s on another level, Mark. You saw it. He wasn’t holding back. He wasn’t playing around.”

  Mark remained silent, his thoughts churning. She was right, again. Arran’s sudden spike in power, the way his wounds healed, his speed—it was all too much. But even so, something about the way he fought felt off, like there was more to it than raw strength. There had to be a strategy, some way to counter him. No one was unbeatable.

  As Mark’s thoughts raced, the instructor’s voice boomed over the arena speakers, calling for the next match. Two new names echoed across the stone walls, signaling the next pair of students who would enter the ring. The attention of the crowd shifted, but Mark barely registered the announcement. His mind was still locked on Arran and the brutal conclusion of the fight.

  Annabeth touched his arm gently, her golden-brown eyes soft with concern. Her auburn hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, gleamed in the fading light of the arena as she spoke. "I’m going to check on Newt," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would make the situation worse. "You should come too."

  Mark nodded, but his feet were cemented to the ground. He watched the arena, the dirt still unsettled from the earlier fight, where Newt had fallen. His mind raced, piecing together what had just happened. Arran’s sudden shift in tactics, his near-inhuman speed, the cold precision of his final strike—it all gnawed at Mark, like a puzzle begging to be solved. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something more was at play.

  Annabeth hesitated, her slender hand lingering in the air between them, as if she might reach for him again. But instead, she withdrew, her lips pressed into a tight line. She gave him one last look, the kind that said more than words could, and then turned, striding across the field toward the medics tending to Newt. The flicker of worry on her face was unmistakable.

  Mark barely noticed her leave. His mind had circled back to Arran. The way Arran had vanished just before striking—it was no mere trick of speed. Something deeper, something more refined, allowed him to move like that. And then the healing. The vapor that had risen from his skin as his wounds sealed almost instantly… no ordinary student had access to that kind of technique. Even among the top-tier graduates, such skills were rare.

  A roar erupted from the crowd as the next match began, but Mark wasn’t watching. His mind was too consumed by the fight that had already taken place. He needed to understand how Arran had so easily dismantled Newt. If it came down to it, and he had to face Arran himself, he couldn’t afford to fall the same way.

  His eyes drifted back to where Newt had collapsed. Arran had torn through Newt’s defenses as though they were paper, exploiting every opening, every weakness. It wasn’t just brute strength or even raw speed—Arran had studied Newt. He had waited for the perfect moment to strike, and when it came, he didn’t hesitate.

  Mark clenched his fists. He couldn’t allow himself to be caught off guard like that. Not if his own fight against Arran was inevitable. He needed to find a weakness, a flaw in Arran’s technique, something that would give him an edge when the time came.

  “Mark?”

  Annabeth’s voice jolted him from his thoughts. She was back, her face paler than before, her eyes clouded with worry. “Newt’s stable,” she said, though her tone betrayed her unease. “But… he’s not waking up anytime soon.”

  Mark felt a lump form in his throat, his chest tightening. “He’ll pull through,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was saying it for Annabeth’s sake or his own.

  Annabeth pressed her lips together. She glanced at the arena, where the next fight was already underway, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. "I know you’re thinking about fighting Arran," she said quietly. "But you can’t just rush into this. You have to think it through."

  Mark's jaw tightened. She was right, of course, but the burning desire for retribution was hard to ignore. Arran hadn’t just beaten Newt—he’d humiliated him. There had been no mercy, no consideration, just a cold, calculated dismantling. And now, Mark could feel it in his bones—Arran was coming for him next.

  “I’m not going to be reckless,” Mark said, his voice a low growl. “But I won’t just sit around and wait, either. Arran has a weakness, and I’m going to find it.”

  Annabeth sighed, her brow furrowed with worry. “Just… be careful, alright?”

  Mark didn’t answer. He knew he’d have time to prepare before he faced Arran again. But as he glanced at the center of the arena, the loud voice of the announcer calling out the next match caught his attention.

  "Mark Anthony will spar Silvercloud!"

  Mark’s rose a brow in surprise. He knew that name. Silvercloud, one of the top six graduates from the previous year. His Awakened profession was as an assassin-type fighter, a poison user, was well-known throughout the academy. The murmurs from the audience confirmed it—everyone was surprised. Silvercloud wasn’t just a fighter. He was a challenge, especially since Mark had not gone through the Profession Awakening ceremony yet.

  Annabeth’s eyes widened in shock. “Mark… he’s dangerous.”

  “I know,” Mark replied, his voice steady. “But I’m ready.”

  His classmates, clustered watching form above nearby, began wishing him luck, offering words of encouragement. But Mark’s focus had already shifted. He wasn’t just fighting for himself. He was representing his class, his friends. This wasn’t just another sparring match—it was a proving ground.

  ‘’START”

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Mark stood at one end of the arena, his muscles tense, every sense heightened. The crowd roared around him, but their noise was distant, irrelevant. His sharp, storm-grey eyes locked onto Silvercloud. This fight wasn’t just another sparring session. The stakes were higher—both for his pride and for his reputation. Across the field, Silvercloud waited, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips.

  Silvercloud was tall and wiry, his silver hair tied back in a loose ponytail that gleamed under the arena lights. He wore a simple, sleeveless tunic, leaving his arms bare, each one decorated with faint scars, memories of countless battles. His eyes, a vivid green, gleamed with anticipation. In his hands, two thin daggers twirled lazily, their edges already beginning to glow with an ominous green mist.

  “Well, Mark Anthony,” Silvercloud said, his voice carrying easily over the din of the arena. “They say you’re something special. Let’s see if that’s true.” His lips curled into a mocking grin. “I’m here to test you, after all.”

  Mark didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze flicked downward, his hands making subtle movements as he began discreetly planting the first of his mana points. A faint shimmer rippled beneath the dirt, unseen by the naked eye, but he knew they were there. His trap was already in motion.

  Silvercloud’s grin widened. “Oh, are we starting with the quiet tricks already?” He twirled his daggers, the green mist now thickening into a more distinct vapor. “Fine by me. Let’s see how long you last.”

  The signal rang out, and Silvercloud exploded into motion.

  Mark barely had time to react as Silvercloud closed the gap in an instant. His first strike came from the right, a diagonal slash aimed at Mark’s neck. Mark dodged, ducking low just as the blade sliced through the air where his head had been. But Silvercloud was relentless. His second dagger followed immediately, aimed for Mark’s ribs.

  Mark pivoted, deflecting the strike with his forearm, feeling the cold bite of the poisoned blade scrape against his skin. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to send a sharp burn through his veins. He had to be careful—those daggers were more dangerous than they looked.

  “You’re faster than I thought,” Silvercloud muttered, but there was amusement in his tone. “Good. This might be fun.”

  Mark’s eyes narrowed, his hand brushing the air behind him as he planted another mana point. He wasn’t just reacting—he was building his trap, piece by piece, waiting for the right moment to spring it.

  Silvercloud attacked again, this time spinning quickly, his daggers cutting through the air in a whirlwind of strikes. Mark dodged the first two, but the third came too fast. The edge of Silvercloud’s blade cut into his shoulder, and immediately, Mark felt the sharp sting of poison seeping into his bloodstream.

  The crowd gasped as they saw the strike land, but Mark didn’t flinch. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay focused. The poison was fast-acting, but he had faced worse. He had to hold out.

  Silver grinned as he saw the brief flicker of pain on Mark’s face. “Oh, did you feel that? My poison works quickly, you know. I’d give it about a minute before your body starts to shut down.” He tilted his head, mockingly. “Maybe less, depending on how strong you are.”

  Mark wiped the blood from his shoulder, his expression unreadable. He planted another mana point with his left foot, careful to keep his movements subtle. He could feel the energy of his trap building beneath the surface, but he needed more time.

  “Still quiet?” Silvercloud laughed, darting forward again. This time, he unleashed a flurry of rapid strikes, his daggers flashing in the light as he aimed for Mark’s throat, his chest, his legs—anywhere he could land a hit. Mark dodged and parried with precision, his movements fluid, but the poison was starting to take its toll. His limbs felt heavier, his reflexes just a fraction slower than they had been at the start.

  “You’re slowing down,” Silver taunted, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “That poison is working wonders. Don’t worry, it is not one of my lethal types.”

  Mark blocked another strike, feeling the impact reverberate through his arm. His breathing was becoming labored, but his mind remained sharp. He had enough mana points planted—now he just needed to lure Silvercloud into the center of the field.

  With a burst of energy, Mark leaped backward, creating some distance between them. Silvercloud paused, watching him with narrowed eyes.

  “Running now?” Silvercloud asked, his voice dripping with condescension. “I thought you were supposed to be clever. I didn’t take you for a coward.”

  Mark ignored the taunt. Instead, he raised his hand, gathering mana in his palm. Silvercloud’s eyes flickered with interest as he watched the energy swirl, but he didn’t move.

  Mark slammed his palm into the ground, sending a shockwave of energy rippling through the arena. The mana points he had placed earlier activated in unison, creating a web of glowing lines that pulsed with power. Silvercloud’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening, but he was already standing in the middle of the trap.

  “Damn it—!” Silver leaped back, but it was too late. The web of mana surged upward, forming tendrils of light that wrapped around his legs, binding him to the ground.

  The crowd erupted in cheers, but Mark wasn’t done. He could feel the poison coursing through his veins, making it harder to concentrate. He had to finish this quickly. Raising his hand again, he began channeling energy into the trap, tightening the tendrils around Silver’s body, draining his strength.

  But Silvercloud wasn’t finished either.

  With a snarl, Silver plunged both of his daggers into the ground, sending a pulse of green energy through the earth. The poison vapor that had been swirling around his blades expanded, forming a thick cloud that enveloped both fighters. Mark coughed as the noxious fumes filled his lungs, his vision blurring as the poison attacked his body from within.

  Silvercloud grinned, despite being trapped. “You think you can hold me with this!? I’ll poison you before you can even finish your spell.”

  Mark gritted his teeth, struggling to maintain focus as the poison sapped his strength. His mana trap was working, but it wasn’t enough. Silver’s poison was too potent, too fast-acting. If he didn’t act now, he would lose.

  With a final burst of energy, Mark raised his hand and unleashed a concentrated blast of mana. The tendrils of light tightened around Silver, squeezing the life out of him, but the poison cloud was relentless. Mark’s vision swam, his legs buckling as the strength drained from his body.

  “I… can’t… lose,” Mark muttered through clenched teeth, his hand trembling as he struggled to stay upright.

  Silvercloud gasped, the tendrils crushing his chest, but his grin never faltered. “You already have.”

  Mark staggered, his vision darkening as the poison took full effect. His body felt like lead, his movements sluggish. He could barely breathe, his lungs filled with the toxic vapor. The crowd’s cheers grew distant, muffled, as if he were hearing them from underwater.

  But then, through the haze, Mark’s mind cleared for a brief moment. He realized that Silvercloud , too, was struggling. His movements were growing slower, his breath more labored. The poison was working on both of them, but Mark’s trap was draining Silvercloud’s energy faster than the poison could take him down.

  With one final push, Mark gathered all of his remaining mana into a single, desperate attack. He raised his hand, channeling the energy through his body, and released it in a blinding flash of light.

  The arena erupted in a deafening roar as the blast engulfed Silvercloud, shattering the poison mist and leaving the assassin sprawled on the ground, unconscious. Mark collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, the poison still coursing through his veins, but the fight was over.

  The crowd’s cheers were overwhelming now, but Mark barely heard them. His vision swam, his body trembling from exhaustion and the lingering effects of the poison. But he had won.

  He glanced over at Silvercloud’s prone form, breathing heavily. “That… was close.”

  As the medics rushed to tend to both fighters, Mark let out a sigh of relief. This wasn’t the end. he allowed himself a brief moment of victory. He had won, and for now, that was enough.