Chapter 105: Fighters in Their Corners

  The tension in the ballroom was electric, a living thing that pulsed between the watching nobles. The carefully cultivated air of elven refinement had begun to fray at the edges, their well-maintained dignity cracking as they leaned in, eager to see what would unfold. This was no longer a simple duel—it had become an event, a spectacle, something far grander than the nobles had anticipated.

  At the center of it all, Arixa knelt on the ballroom’s polished marble floor, the sharp edge of a broken goblet in her grip as she carved the lines of the arena with deliberate strokes.

  She had tried—tried—to follow the elven sense of grace and decorum. Really, she had. But the sheer impracticality of her gown had finally pushed her over the edge.

  With a snip and a rip, she tore the lower half of her dress away, leaving it at a more practical, mid-thigh length. The elves gasped—some scandalized, others delighted by the sheer audacity.

  Arixa, wholly unconcerned with their opinions, tossed the excess fabric aside. “There. Now I can actually move.”

  Somewhere in the crowd, a noblewoman let out a soft chuckle. “How delightfully uncouth.”

  Another noble nodded approvingly. “She has the presence of a barbarian queen.”

  Arixa smirked, hearing them but not caring in the slightest. She drew the final marking in the center of the arena, dusted her hands off, and stood. “Alright. Lines are set. Time for you two to try and kill each other.”

  Marcus, standing nearby, grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  Meanwhile, in Thalron’s corner, Vira had taken it upon herself to refine his appearance—not just for the sake of vanity, but for presence.

  “Hold still,” she muttered, smoothing his sleeves and adjusting the silver clasp of his coat. “You might not care about looking pristine, but perception matters.”

  Thalron rolled his eyes but allowed her to work, though his mind was elsewhere. “What did you find out?”

  Vira smirked, pleased that he was asking. “I dug up details on how the White Blade handled his last three opponents,” she said. “One was an elite Ki-user, another a pure Mage, the last was a dual-wielding speed fighter. He dismantled each of them with terrifying efficiency.”

  Marcus, who had been eavesdropping, leaned in. “How?”

  Vira’s expression darkened slightly. “He overwhelms them before they even realize they’re losing. His movements are minimal, his attacks surgical. He exhausts his opponents by making them react to him rather than the other way around. And when they’re off balance—he ends it.”

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  Marcus absorbed this with a thoughtful nod. That means fighting him conventionally is suicide. Thalron needed something else. Something the White Blade wouldn’t anticipate.

  “Alright,” Marcus said, standing back. “I need a minute.”

  He turned away from the group, lowering his voice. “Stem, does Thalron actually have a shot at this?”

  The response came immediately.

  "As you know, Marcus, this world is governed by system stats and magic affinities. But there is one more factor that determines true strength: skill."

  Marcus exhaled. "Yeah, I figured, but—"

  "Using yourself as an example," Stem continued, his tone shifting into lecture mode, "You fought Ralkar’s overwhelming Psycha and won—not by overpowering him, but by outmaneuvering him with skill.

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed.

  "When you fought Thane Valgaris, you closed the gap in power with skill. And when you fought the ‘Seraphim Protocol,’ even that thing struggled to adapt to your skill.”

  Marcus crossed his arms. “Alright, so skill is the equalizer. But how does that apply here? The White Blade’s a master of his craft too.”

  "Let’s put it in terms you’ll understand," Stem said. "What was the great equalizer in your old world?"

  Marcus frowned. "A gun."

  "Correct. Could you dodge a bullet?"

  Marcus snorted. “Hell no.”

  "What if you knew exactly where the bullet was going before it was fired?"

  Marcus’s eyes widened as the realization struck him like a hammer.

  Stats and magic are just force multipliers. The White Blade has Ki-enhanced speed, but he’s still limited by his ability to react. His mind can only process so much at once.

  "Exactly," Stem affirmed. "If Thalron can get him riled up, make him overuse his Ki, he’ll start to accumulate blind spots. He’s fast, but it’s like a tiger beetle—too much speed at once will momentarily disorient him. That’s when Thalron strikes."

  Marcus exhaled, his mind racing. This was doable.

  "Thalron is a master of the blade in his own right," Stem continued. "He can’t boost his speed of thought with Psycha, and he can’t empower his body with Ki, but his sheer mastery of swordsmanship and his elemental mana ingenuity make him more than a match. He just needs a nudge in the right direction."

  Marcus grinned. “Then let’s get to nudging.”

  Turning back to Thalron, he clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, listen up. You’re going to bait him. Make him burn through his Ki early, force him into a pattern. He’s faster than you, but once you push him past a certain point, he’ll start leaving openings.”

  Thalron’s eyes sharpened. “You’re sure about this?”

  Marcus smirked. “Trust me.”

  He turned, raising his voice. “Alright! Let’s get this duel started!”

  A hush fell over the ballroom as the judges stepped forward. Three nobles, each representing a different faction, took their places along the edges of the makeshift arena.

  Marcus made the introductions, his voice carrying the perfect balance of showmanship and authority.

  “Representing House Kelcrest: Thalron Kelcrest, Spellblade of the Forgotten Line.”

  The nobles murmured, some intrigued, others still skeptical.

  “And his opponent, representing House Ulthar: Vaelis Il’Theron, the White Blade of Nireen.”

  A ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd.

  Marcus stepped back, returning to Thalron’s corner. “Alright, you got this. Keep your cool, make him overextend.”

  Thalron nodded, rolling his shoulders.

  Then, stepping forward, a noblewoman in a violet gown entered the arena.

  She moved with elegant precision, her eyes alight with the thrill of tradition.

  With the grace of a practiced noble, she raised her hand—then, in a single movement, she removed her glove and let it fall to the ground.

  A soft thump.

  The signal had been given.

  Round One was about to begin.