Tristein was waiting for it. Bracing for it.
He didn't know what trick Northern was about to pull, but he was certain of one thing—he would endure. He would defend against it all.
He had witnessed the rain of cots Northern had unleashed upon Tever. The sheer annihilation, the unrelenting descent of destruction. And yet, even if the entire battlefield was reduced to ruin—even if every single soul perished—he wouldn't.
The Ancient Armor ensured that.
It would reflect all damage away from him. No attack could breach it. Not even a Paragon's attack could crack its defenses. It was an absurd, invincible force, standing as the bulwark against absolute devastation.
No doubt about it—whatever Northern was preparing, even if it was his most fearso strike, it would be reflected without consequence.
And yet—
Why was that starsforsaken student stalling?
Tristein waited. Seconds stretched—crawling.
A strange mixture of anticipation and frustration twisted within him. It was maddening. The delay gnawed at him, scraping against his nerves like a dull blade.
Still, he waited.
And then—he snapped.
"Co on! Are you even goi—"
His words never finished.
Sothing sliced the air—silent. Sudden. Absolute.
A gust of wind collided with him—no, it carved through him.
The impact was instant. Horrific.
A grotesque goreline erupted from his right shoulder, slashing down through his torso, rending flesh apart, carving straight to his right waist. Blood sprayed.
Tristein staggered back, his eyes wide. Disbelief crashed over him in a suffocating wave. His breath retreated into his lungs—a strangled gasp of pain and confusion.
He hadn't seen the attack. Hadn't sensed it. Hadn't even felt the mont it struck.
But that wasn't the worst part.
It had ignored the Ancient Armor.
No—it hadn't even attacked the armor. It had passed through it.
The realization was horrifying.
The Ancient Armor, a relic item beyond comprehension, was aningless. The force of the attack didn't shatter it—it split from the inside.
Sothing surged up his throat. Blood. Thick. Warm. Uncontrollable.
His mouth filled with the taste of iron as his legs wobbled beneath him. His mind clawed for an answer, but there was none.
The world spun—colors bled into a blur.
Before he could grasp what had happened, his consciousness plunged into darkness.
And then—nothing.
Northern watched, his expression subtly startled, as his opponent collapsed into a growing pool of his own blood.
The dics rushed onto the stage this ti—faster, sharper, more urgent than before. There were more of them, moving with the precision of a well-rehearsed drill. So carried first-aid kits, while others, healers, pressed glowing hands against the unconscious boy's chest, working desperately to stabilize him.
Northern remained still, observing in silence.
The crowd, too, held its breath—an eerie, awestruck hush settling over the coliseum.
No one had seen an attack.
Not a flicker of movent. Not a single visible strike.
Yet Tristein had fallen.
Disbelief and terror stitched themselves into the spectators' wide-eyed expressions. Their gazes flitted between the unscathed Northern and the frantic dics tending to the casualty.
Gasps—so sharp, so strangled—choked the throats of those trying to process what had just transpired.
A short sequence of ergency procedures followed before the dics finally hoisted Tristein onto a stretcher and hurriedly carried him away, disappearing through the arena's exit.
And then, as if released from a spell, the announcer hesitantly climbed onto the stage, his voice trembling with barely concealed fear as he declared the victor.
At the sound of the announcent—
The coliseum erupted.
The roar of the crowd rippled through the sky, deafening, exultant, frenzied.
The bloodshed was forgotten.
They seem not care anymore.
No—what truly thrilled them was the terrifying spectacle that had just unfolded. A student had won a match without moving an inch.
And that fact alone sent them into hysterical awe.
"Just how powerful is he?!"
"Damn! Is he a Paragon?!"
"How is anyone supposed to defeat that?!!"
"Oh, dead gods! He's such a monster—I like him!"
The cheers swelled, a chaotic mix of excitent, disbelief, and—more unsettling—disturbing admiration.
Northern sighed and looked away.
"That's… disappointing."
Had he miscalculated? Put too much into the attack?
No—he was sure he hadn't. Whispering Gale was only an A-class talent. The only thing that could have made it truly lethal was the compressed essence he had channeled into it.
And Tristein had been so sure of his victory, so overconfident.
Northern had simply trusted in that confidence.
Had he misjudged?
His thoughts lingered on the uncertainty, but there was no ti to dwell.
The next opponent was already stepping onto the arena.
A young man stood before Northern. Nothing particularly notable about him.
Short, inky-black hair, clinging to his forehead—damp.
Northern's gaze narrowed slightly.
'Damp?'
His head tilted in mild surprise.
'…Is he sweating?'
Beads of sweat flooded down the boy's face like he had been caught in a downpour.
His expression—broken. His shoulders—trembling.
Yet, despite it all, he was trying to stand tall.
Northern observed him for a mont. Then, without urgency, he stepped forward.
Each step brought a visible reaction—the boy's legs buckled, faltered as if gravity itself had turned against him.
The mont Northern stopped in front of him, the boy's resolve crumbled.
His face twisted, breath ragged, his body one twitch away from collapse.
Northern's expression softened. He gave the boy a kind smile and placed a hand on his trembling shoulder.
"Would you like to surrender?"
The boy nodded—vigorously.
Northern tapped his shoulder twice, his voice calm but firm.
"There's no sha in that, my friend. Knowing when to surrender—and daring to—is an act of bravery. So don't feel bad about it. Today, you were stronger than all your teammates."
Northern smiled and gestured for the boy to leave the stage.
The poor student sheepishly obeyed, legs unsteady, his body hollowed out by sheer relief as he practically fled from the arena.
The announcer, still grappling with the surreal turn of events, cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to mask his own disbelief.
"W-Well… well… yet another clean victory! Another win for the non-combative student— Rian!!"
The coliseum erupted.
A deafening surge of cheers, chants, and praises flooded the air, voices overlapping in chaotic exaltation.
Northern glanced at them—all of them.
And sighed.
"This got boring fast."
The thrill had faded.
The mont of awe—the sight of them holding their breath at his display of power—had been satisfying. Montarily.
But it was fleeting. Hollow.
Unfulfilling.
He had indulged in their reactions, yet they felt… aningless.
'I need to return to Lithia.'
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