Ray headed toward the private training chambers, the weight of the upcoming tournament pressing on his focus.
With only three days left, the need to evolve grew urgent.
He sat cross-legged, closing his eyes to plunge into his consciousness.
He reviewed the martial arts techniques he had mastered in his past life, searching for a path forward.
Thousands of techniques—some brutal, some elegant, others capable of shattering empires—flowed through his mind like a torrential river.
Among them was the "Tyrant’s Body Refining Art." Ray’s eyes lingered on it; it
was a powerful style, capable of tempering the human body to the extreme and
breaking human limits, perfectly harmonizing with his "Tyrant Style." Unfortunately, he still lacked the resources to cultivate it.
Frustration welled up, a bitter reminder of how far he had fallen from his peak, but he
didn't surrender. Instead, he channeled that rage into his grueling training.
The three days passed in a blur of sweat, blood, and determination.
Finally, the day of the tournament dawned. The academy was electric.
Students from Class S and Class A streamed toward the main arena—a
massive, colosseum-like structure built to contain the volatile energies of young mages.
The tournament followed a simple draw system; those who pulled the same
number would face each other, with some "unlucky" participants forced to fight twice in the opening round.
Ray reached into the urn and pulled the number 9. A moment later, Valerian approached with a mocking smirk, revealing he had pulled 9 as well.
Their fate was sealed: they would have to eliminate each other.
However, they were at the beginning of the bracket, with eight matches separating them.
The matches began in a whirlwind of magic and clashing swords.
The first was a long struggle between two Class A students, ending only when one collapsed from exhaustion.
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In subsequent duels, the intensity escalated; one student unleashed wind blades before being overwhelmed by a
lightning user, while another match ended in seconds when a spear user pierced his opponent's defenses.
Ray watched from the sidelines, his expression cold and cynical.
Most matches were conventional and dull—Class A students fighting with rigid, predictable patterns Ray could easily
anticipate thanks to his vast combat experience as a Tyrant.
But in the seventh match, the mood shifted.
Lances stepped into the arena, his hair like falling snow, his eyes shimmering with cold ice.
Standing opposite him was a short, dark-skinned boy who looked like a mountain of muscle.
The Class A students erupted: "Look, it’s Lances!" "Isn't that Lances, heir to the Duchy of Lanchik?" The judge boomed:
"Begin!" The short boy, realizing he couldn't defeat Lances, chose to fight with everything he had.
He moved quickly and slammed his hands into the ground.
The floor split, launching a sharp wave of rocks toward Lances like a landslide.
Lances didn't flinch.
The temperature dropped, his breath turning to mist.
An ice sword manifested in his grip, glowing with lethal light.
With a fluid motion, he sliced through the rocks as if they were soft mud.
Then, he struck the ground, freezing it instantly and sliding across the surface with dazzling speed.
Before the boy could blink, Lances had closed the distance, his blade pressing
against the boy's throat. The power gap was undeniable.
The judge announced: "Match over. The winner: Lances."
The eighth match was announced: Lances vs. Decanis. Whispers rippled through the crowd when they realized this was the
"unlucky" one who had drawn the double-match lottery.
Someone whispered: "Isn't that Decanis? A brilliant fight ahead; the heir to the second-
strongest duchy against the heir to the third-strongest."
Decanis walked to the center with calm, cold confidence.
Her pale skin caught the sunlight, highlighting her crimson hair and eyes that burned with a hidden inner fire.
Ray, sitting next to Archion, leaned back and smiled mockingly.
The judge roared: "Begin!" Lances immediately formed his ice sword.
Decanis didn't wait; in a flash of movement, she manifested a blade of
roaring golden-red flame and lunged. Sparks flew as Lances blocked.
The collision was violent; as the fire pierced the ice, boiling water fell to the ground.
Decanis’s heat was relentless, melting Lances’s weapon faster than he could regenerate it.
Realizing close combat meant defeat, Lances retreated, sliding on the ice while using wind to boost his speed.
He changed tactics, summoning sharp ice shards and surrounding them with wind to make them faster.
Decanis laughed, weaving her hand to create similar shards of fire.
"Is that all, you ice mantis?" she scoffed.
The shards collided in a chaotic display of fire and ice that filled the arena with steam.
Ray narrowed his eyes, his smirk turning into intense focus.
"Interesting," he whispered. "So that’s your plan."
Lances gritted his teeth, searching for a weakness.
He fired an ice arrow, targeting her blind spot.
Decanis blocked it with a fire arrow, but a sudden volley forced her to defend intensely.
One arrow finally grazed her cheek. "You actually managed to hit me."
She let out a sharp exhale, and suddenly, a massive aura of intense heat radiated from her body, forming a fiery barrier.
The air twisted, and the remaining arrows melted before they could touch her skin.
Lances stood frozen, his mind racing: My power is being suppressed. So be it. I will force the battle to my terms.
Concentrating his mana, Lances continued firing arrows, knowing they would melt into water vapor.
He exploited the thick steam, using his natural talent to instantly freeze the vapor.
Ice chains exploded from the arena floor, coiling around Decanis’s limbs. For the first time, her smile vanished.