I abandoned the montum of Tempest Dance Technique the mont I felt the shift in Lucifer's stance. If I pushed forward now, I'd be walking straight into his counter. The mont he executed a Grade 6 movent, all the energy I had built up would collapse like a house of cards.
So I switched to God Flash.
The world blurred. A sonic boom echoed behind as I vanished, reappearing in front of Lucifer at hypersonic speed. The sheer force of my acceleration warped the air, the ground beneath fracturing from the pressure.
Lucifer's response was instantaneous. He shifted into the second movent of Myth of the Northern Peak: Northern Gale.
A violent storm of ice and wind erupted around him, laced with raw destruction. A better choice than his first movent, but still not the right one.
Light clashed against frost. My longsword t his, and his wintry mana shattered beneath the brilliance of my attack. The mont my light touched him, I saw the grimace tighten on his face, his verdant eyes flashing with irritation.
Then—
BOOM.
I barely had ti to retreat before the explosion of force sent tremors through the arena. I skidded back, my boots digging furrows into the stone, my body thrumming with the sheer impact of the clash.
'What a monster.'
Even with God Flash active, even with moving faster than the eye could track, Lucifer had managed to stop the worst of it. His Yin-Yang Body had negated much of the damage, keeping him standing.
Still, he had lost the exchange.
Why?
When two martial arts techniques clashed, the victor was determined by three factors: synergy, mastery, and the sheer amount of mana infused into the strike.
Lucifer and I were equal in mastery. The mana infused? Near identical.
That left synergy.
And Northern Gale was the wrong choice against God Flash.
Lucifer had tried to et speed with sheer destructive force, but that wasn't how God Flash worked. My technique didn't simply rely on overwhelming power—it was about flow, montum, piercing through weakness. His Northern Gale had given too many openings, too many paths through his defenses.
Lucifer exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if testing the damage.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The air around them crackled as swords t once more, light and darkness clashing in a maelstrom of raw, unfiltered power. Arthur pushed forward, each strike of God Flash a relentless surge, faster, stronger, building with each exchange. Lucifer t him blow for blow, his sword flickering between black and white, countering each strike with a precision that would have shattered any lesser opponent. But Arthur wasn't any lesser opponent.
Lucifer's stance shifted. A subtle thing, barely noticeable to most, but Arthur recognized it instantly. Lucifer was adjusting. His movents beca sharper, more refined, the angles of his counters growing narrower, more exact.
Arthur wasn't just fighting a powerful opponent—he was fighting an opponent who was learning, adapting with every passing second.
Lucifer's eyes glead, and suddenly, the air froze.
Arthur felt it before he saw it—the unmistakable weight of absolute cold, sinking into his bones. Lucifer's sword swept forward, coated in an ethereal frost that seed to devour light itself.
Frozen Zenith.
Lucifer's third movent. A technique honed to perfection, not just an attack but an answer to overwhelming speed. The icy aura wrapped around his blade, a jagged corona of frost that slowed everything it touched. A perfect counter to God Flash.
Arthur's blade t it, and for the first ti, his montum faltered.
The sudden shift in temperature sent a jolt through his nerves, forcing his muscles to adjust mid-strike. His movents, which had flowed like an unrelenting tide, now t resistance, like wading through a frozen river.
Lucifer pressed forward, his sword dancing with frost as he took control of the rhythm, shifting from defense to offense. Each swing of his blade left behind ghostly trails of ice, freezing the ground beneath them, turning their battlefield into a domain of crystalline death.
But Arthur wasn't about to let go of the fight.
With a deep breath, he activated Lucent Harmony even more, the silver sigils on his arms flaring. His mana surged, counteracting the oppressive cold, forcing his limbs to move despite the creeping frost. His sword flickered, and he resud his assault, undeterred, carving through the ice with sheer willpower.
They clashed again, the battlefield a symphony of shattered frost and burning light. Arthur's relentless offense continued to push Lucifer back. Even Frozen Zenith, as masterful as it was, could only slow him down, not stop him.
Lucifer's expression remained impassive, but Arthur noticed the slight furrow in his brow, the asured breaths between exchanges.
Arthur was winning.
He was forcing Lucifer back.
For the first ti, Lucifer Windward was on the defensive.
And then, Lucifer's stance changed.
Arthur felt it before it happened—the shift in pressure, the way Lucifer's mana coiled tighter, denser. A storm waiting to be unleashed.
Lucifer exhaled, his black-and-white aura intensifying, condensing into sothing darker, heavier. The atmosphere grew suffocating, the gravity of his presence warping the space around them.
And then—his eyes glead with sothing far more dangerous.
Arthur's instincts scread.
Third Stage.
Lucifer Windward was done holding back.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Each strike that Arthur and Lucifer exchanged sent shockwaves rippling across the arena, the sheer force of their clash distorting the air itself. The ground beneath them cracked under the relentless pressure of their battle, yet only one of them was being pushed back.
Lucifer Windward.
The golden-haired prince of the North, the so-called Child of Prophecy, the undisputed Rank 1 of the first years—was losing.
In the stands, disbelief rippled through the crowd, murmurs swelling into open astonishnt.
Leon scratched at his unruly red hair, his golden eyes flickering between the arena and the projection screens above. "Hey, Phantom Reaper," he said, his voice half-joking, half-baffled, "this isn't so kind of illusion, right? You're not ssing with reality again?"
Valerie's brows furrowed sharply, irritation sparking in her black eyes. "Of course it's not, you idiot!" she snapped. "Are you blind or just too dense to accept what's in front of you?"
"Oi, you can't call an idiot when you're younger than !" Leon shot back, his voice rising in protest as the two began bickering like old rivals.
Duke Blazespout ignored their antics, his sharp gaze never leaving the battlefield. "Quite the unexpected developnt," he mused, his voice slow and asured. "Wouldn't you say, Master Li?"
Li Zenith, the young Master of Mount Hua, did not imdiately respond. His eyes were locked onto Arthur's movents, watching every shift of his stance, every micro-adjustnt to his footwork.
"Yes," he finally said, his tone calm, but beneath that, laced with sothing almost akin to disbelief.
He knew Arthur was strong. He had trained the boy himself, had witnessed his monstrous talent firsthand. But even he hadn't expected this.
Lucifer Windward was a once-in-a-millennium prodigy. The kind of talent that reshaped history. Even among Radiant-rankers, even among the legends of today, none had reached his level of power at sixteen.
And yet, the gap between Lucifer and Arthur was wider than anyone could have imagined.
Just what was Arthur Nightingale?
The Duke rested his chin against his palm, watching Arthur with an expression that was no longer rely interested—but invested.
Then, sothing shifted.
The air itself changed.
A tremor passed through the battlefield, invisible yet undeniable. Mana twisted unnaturally, responding to sothing.
A pressure unlike anything before pressed down on the arena. A presence that sent a ripple of silence through the audience, through the VVIP box, through even the strongest figures watching.
Paul Lucrian inhaled sharply, his usually impassive expression finally betraying sothing close to anticipation.
"He's finally about to show it," he murmured.
The others knew it too. Every gaze in the VVIP box locked onto the arena with razor-sharp focus.
Because they were about to witness sothing rare. Sothing that defied normal classification.
A true, proper supernatural ability.
A Gift.
Not just one that enhanced reflexes or strengthened spells—no, a Gift that birthed new types of mana itself.
And for the first ti in the match, Lucifer Windward smirked.
Because it was ti.
To show the world the power that would make him the Second Hero.
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