Ian's strategy revolved around one core objective: ensuring that his three teammates stationed behind to guard the goalpost, that they never face their adversaries alone.
No, isolation was unacceptable. He wasn't about to let them engage in one-on-one clashes where the outco boiled down to sheer desperation or stubbornness. That wasn't a battle; that was chaos wrapped in risk just conveniently waiting to explodes in the faces of everyone involved.
A scenario like that spelled catastrophe, an avoidable disaster if one played their cards right.
To prevent such a breakdown, Ian's condition was firm: if all four opponents erged from the forest, he had to delay at least three of them, allowing only one to break through. If it was just three? He'd obstruct two and permit the third passage. And if only one ca forward?
There was no ambiguity about what would happen then. That lone attacker would never make it past him.
The ideal result, albeit a dream draped in delusion would be to stall all four challengers, secure possession of the ball, and then dash for the goalpost entirely unassisted.
Yet Ian, more than anyone, understood the slim odds of such perfection.
If the enemy teams lacked even a single S-rank participant, perhaps he could have imagined a 20% chance of success containing them all while stealing the objective.
But reality never played favorites.
With a confird S-ranker among their numbers, the notion beca a fantasy too wild to entertain. Not even a gambler would bet on it.
Ian was no fool. He recognized his ceiling. He never lied to himself about his capacity. However, he excelled in maximizing what he could do even while tethered to the weight of those limits. He also understood that surpassing his boundaries was a noble pursuit, but not one to depend on in real combat.
A battlefield isn't a dreamscape where limits break just because you will them to. Growth happens sure but it's unreliable, unpredictable, and cannot be the cornerstone of a tactical plan.
Suddenly, the rustling of leaves and the trembling of distant branches yanked him from his introspection.
The sound of subtle footfalls and air slicing past foliage alerted him, visitors were approaching.
"They're coming," Ian muttered under his breath, steadying his breathing.
His body tensed. His stance adjusted. Focus locked in.
Concentration gathered like a stormcloud above still waters, and he dropped into position, ready to trigger his Art the mont the encounter began.
Then—movent.
Two figures burst through the canopy, leaping skyward, hovering high, their landing spot curved and estimated to go above Ian.
Ian's sharp eyes narrowed. One of them was familiar.
Calia.
And beside her, another teammate.
Two of them? he noted inwardly. That was... better than expected. He had anticipated three.
If two had entered the fray, then the remaining pair had likely remained back to guard their goalpost.
Excellent. That was the best-case scenario for soone like Ian.
First, he had to halt these two, to deny them passage and prevent any advance. Fortunately, he had just the thod to do it.
Without hesitation, he flung his mouth wide open and inhaled, pulling in not only through his nostrils but his throat as well. Air rushed in like a torrent.
When his lungs reached their limit, he angled his head toward the approaching duo above and released it all in one explosive exhale.
A massive blast of compressed air surged outward, forming a sweeping wave that tore through the surroundings with ruthless force. Leaves scattered. Branches snapped. The wind barreled forward with enough power to level anything fragile in its way.
Calia and her teammate instinctively raised their guards. They managed to brace themselves against the gust, but they couldn't fully resist its knockback. Nor the secondary effect? Razor-thin air slashes embedded in the wind, catching them both on the arms with shallow cuts.
The technique had a na.
Wind Art: Bursting Wind Slash. A high-level manipulation of air pressure and motion.
The pair tumbled backwards, crashing into nearby trees. Calia was quick to recover, springing to her feet with a battle-ready stance. Her teammate, however, didn't fare as well. Dazed, he struggled to regain his footing, swaying under the early signs of a light concussion.
Ian didn't wait.
He stomped his foot once, a small movent that unleashed a ripple through the earth. Like a whisper carried by the soil, the signal surged outward, beneath the feet of Calia's teammate.
The ground beneath the stunned attacker gave way, crumbling beneath him. In monts, the earth swallowed his legs and waist, locking him in place while leaving only his head above the surface.
One down.
Now, only Calia stood in his path.
He dashed forward, closing the gap in the blink of an eye. The ball rested in her left hand, an awkward handicap for soone whose martial style required balance and free movent from both limbs.
Ian's assault was unrelenting. A volley of jabs and swift kicks flew at her in rapid succession.
Calia weaved and twisted, her evasion pure instinct. With one arm burdened, her defensive options were limited. Every dodge was narrow. Every counter was forced.
Then, a close call. Ian's fist nearly landed flush across her cheek. It grazed her skin, leaving a faint line of red where it passed.
She winced not from pain, but from the reality setting in. If this continued, it was only a matter of ti before Ian connected.
One strike, one stumble, and the ball would slip from her grasp. If that happened, it was over.
Calia knew it. Ian knew it. And the tension between them only sharpened.
They were closely matched. Neither of them bore the blessing of a bloodline Art like Dante or Aldrich. But each possessed elental mastery beyond the norm.
Their talents lay in dual elental control, two primary into one secondary which elevated them above the average mystic and brought them to this head-to-head clash.
Whoever paired them for this confrontation had clearly considered their similarities, matching them not by raw power but by parity in skill.
Which ant the victor wouldn't be decided by brute force alone.
Not this ti.
No, this match would hinge on strategy. On intelligence. On preparation.
And in that arena, Ian held a secret advantage.
He didn't possess a legendary bloodline.
But he did have sothing else.
Sothing that could turn the tide.
As Calia braced for the next exchange, Ian's eyes glead.
His voice rang out like a starting gun.
"Now!"
It was the trigger activating his fail-safe plan.
One final gambit, calculated to perfection.
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