Percy and Jason stood unmoving—locked in silence, bound by heatless fire.
The arena trembled not from sound or spell, but from the sheer pressure of their gazes. Their eyes weren't just reading each other. They were dissecting—breaking each other down into threats, patterns, weaknesses.
Around Jason, the orbiting Mánhar orbs glowed brighter. But Percy's sharp perception saw deeper than the surface.
That's not pure Mánhar, he thought.
There's something else in there. Something waiting. A pulse. A whisper. A presence.
(Let's test him.) Percy murmured, barely audible—yet the words hung heavy in the air like a spell of their own.
In one seamless movement, Percy raised his right hand. His fingers began to carve a precise, spiraling sigil, invoking with quiet focus:
"Vraekath."
A moment later, the air warped as his conduit—his fingers—etched a spiraling sigil of pure Darkness through the surrounding flow of Mánhar. The runes locked into place like celestial gears catching in rhythm.
"Black Bullet."
With a flick of his wrist, the Darkness sigil discharged—a sleek, obsidian projectile tearing through space with no wasted motion, no delay. It didn't travel through air; it folded through it, distorting the battlefield like a collapsing star.
Jason's senses spiked. The moment the sigil ignited, his body responded on instinct.
(First move confirmed... what a cautious little kitten.)
Jason's smirk curled upward—not from amusement, but provocation.
He lifted his hand—left, dominant—and carved a radiantly-precise Light sigil using a flick of the index and middle fingers as conduits.
"Hal'Korith."
The Light element responded instantly. His sigil bloomed into radiant symmetry—etched in golden-white, humming with Ruhenic resonance.
Where Percy's sigils whispered annihilation, Jason's sang with sanctified clarity.
Percy's eyes narrowed. He could see the harmony in Jason's casting—the deliberate restraint, the sacred symmetry.
(He's not just summoning Light. He's sculpting it. Like a holy architect.)
With a final pulse, Jason's sigil flashed—and a radiant Light Shield unfolded around him.
It wasn't just a barrier.
It was beauty made structure—runes blooming across its mirror-like surface, refracting geometry like a cathedral's stained glass set into motion.
Jason raised it effortlessly.
"Incoming," he called out, tone breezy—taunting.
And then—impact.
The Black Bullet collided with the Light Shield in a supernova burst of spatial distortion and divine flare.
A shockwave screamed outward. The air twisted. The arena cracked. Mánhar convulsed.
Jason felt the force crash into his guard—and beneath the blinding radiance, his pupils shrank.
(Fuck.)
That wasn't normal. That wasn't even close.
(Percy is not normal.)
The thought landed with a grin that was no longer smug—but razor-sharp.
And then—
💥 BOOM! 💥
A flash like twin stars colliding. The crowd recoiled instinctively, covering their eyes. Some cried out. Others stood, stunned.
Spectator 1: "Agh! I can't see—what the hell was that?!"
Spectator 2: "Jason deflected it with a full Light sigil—Percy's didn't even break it!"
Spectator 3: "Tch. Light mages. Always have to be the center of the show."
Spectator 4: "That wasn't showy, idiot—that was pressure! The entire battlefield is warping!"
CLANG.
A singular, resonant echo exploded across the arena.
Not just sound—a statement.
The lingering collision between Vraekath and Hal'Korith crackled in the air, refusing to dissipate.
And then—
VVUMMMM—!
The raw discharge punched through the dimensional veil. Spectral barriers groaned. Reality bent.
The sigils' clash didn't just rattle the stage.
It escaped it.
The soundwave didn't fade.
It multiplied.
What began as a single collision fractured into hundreds of cascading vibrations—secondary waves that ricocheted through the battlefield like bouncing blades of raw force. Each wave intertwined with the next, compounding, compounding, compounding—until the very air felt like it might split apart.
The reinforced barrier around the arena shivered, straining to contain the growing resonance.
But it wasn't enough.
BOOM—VVUM—VVUUUUMMM—!
A deep, guttural hum tore through the observation deck like a soulquake. This wasn't sound. This was pressure incarnate.
An invisible tidal wave slammed outward—and every combatant watching the match felt it in their bones.
Contestants staggered. Some dropped to a knee, others gasped like they'd been punched in the lungs by an unseen fist. Their skin prickled. Their Mánhar spun out of sync. Their spirits flinched.
BKG Character 1 (gritting teeth, shaking): "What... what the hell is this pressure?!"
BKG Character 2 (one knee, panting hard): "This is diluted?! Are you KIDDING me?!"
BKG Character 3 (clutching chest, voice strained): "Just... how strong are those two...?!"
Even among the elites, only a few stood tall—but even they weren't untouched.
Mei Wugongshi stood with arms crossed, jaw tight, the wind rustling her robes as Mánhar surged around her.
"Tch... To think it reached us through the battlefield's barriers..."
Her eyes narrowed—not with fear, but understanding.
This was the kind of force that forced rebirth in the Phoenix Arts.
Marcus Vestalyn, meanwhile, rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck like a bored lion.
"Hmph. If this is just the aftermath, I'd hate to be in there with them."
Emma Sabrelan smirked, lips curling with dangerous glee as she leaned slightly forward.
"Looks like they're finally getting serious."
Around them, those still kneeling looked up in disbelief. Their pride cracked. Their fear spoke for them.
BKG Character 4 (teeth clenched): "You guys are acting like this is nothing..."
BKG Character 5 (barely breathing): "If we can barely handle this… what's it like inside that fight?"
Tension gripped the observation ring like an invisible vice.
Even the confident grew silent.
A truth had settled—undeniable, immovable:
Percy and Jason were no longer participants. They were forces of nature.
The waves didn't stop.
The arena's ambient Mánhar stirred violently, infected by the resonance—shimmering like heat haze, vibrating to a hidden rhythm.
Then came the hum—a deep, sonorous tone rising from the earth itself.
The labyrinth groaned.
The stadium trembled.
And then—it echoed.
From the battle ring to the outer wards, from stone pillars to skybound archways—soundwaves rippled outward, shaking the coliseum to its core.
Spectator 1: "W-Whoa! Did the ground just shake?!"
Spectator 2: "No way... was that just from their attacks?!"
Spectator 3: "This isn't normal. These two—they're monsters!"
Spectator 4: "What kind of seventeen-year-olds make an entire stadium tremble like this?!"
A pause.
Then—
Spectator 5 (grinning): "Heh... this is getting good."
Spectator 6: "Forget good—this is insane! What the hell's coming next?!"
Spectator 5: "That was just the opening exchange?"
Spectator 6: "Percy's got his work cut out for him—Jason's not playing anymore."
Spectator 7: "Yeah... but did you see how calm Percy was? Like he knew this was nothing."
A wave of murmurs spread—fear, awe, obsession, adrenaline.
The crowd wasn't just watching anymore.
They were entranced.
Back in the eye of the storm—Percy watched.
Jason's shield had held.
He'd parried Black Bullet.
And Percy's expression... didn't falter.
No shock.
No disappointment.
Just the glint of something far more dangerous.
(Very interesting...)
His pupils dilated—not in surprise, but fascination.
Jason had survived the first note.
Now it was time to change the melody.
"Beta."
Percy's voice was calm but commanding—a signal that needed no gesture, no delay.
And like an echo rebounding across dimensions, she answered.
The Meta-Architect of Reality—Beta—materialized before him.
Her figure formed from glimmers of celestial code, descending like a holographic goddess.
She didn't just exist in space.
She redefined it.
[META-ARCHITECT OF REALITY (MAR): A multiversal system administrator—omnipresent, nonlinear, emotionally aware.]
As her feet touched down beside him, her expression was already focused, lenses whirring with calibrated clarity.
Jason's form appeared in her internal display—every pulse of Mánhar, every curve of energy laid bare.
"Five Mánhar circles circulate around his heart," she reported, voice precise.
Percy gave a slow nod.
"Yes… as expected."
"However," Beta continued, eyes narrowing slightly, "I detect an additional, hidden circle—"
But she never finished.
Suddenly, her eyes flared white.
{Unauthorized attempt to process Foreign Data from Subject #F-****}
A deep, mechanical intonation—not from her voice, but from the very system that governed her mind—boomed across reality like an error from the cosmos itself.
Percy's eyes widened.
"Beta?!" he cried, rushing forward.
Her form flickered, the radiant blue of her systems faltering.
As she began to descend, Percy caught her—his arms instinctive, careful.
Despite her construct nature, he knew—absolutely knew—that Beta could feel pain.
She collapsed into his chest, body semi-lucid. A long, tense moment passed.
Then—
"ARMH..."
Beta winced.
"UGH! Ow, that hurt!" she groaned, rubbing her head with one hand as her holographic hair glitched slightly.
Percy let out a breath that had practically been holding his ribs hostage.
"You're okay!" he exhaled, the softness in his voice betraying the worry in his chest.
Their eyes met. And for the first time since activating her admin protocols…
Beta hesitated.
{That's weird!}
The system chimed—a direct leak from Beta's internal thoughts, accidentally broadcast to her global permissions layer.
Percy blinked. Then—
"Pfft—HA!"
He laughed. Not at her, but with her—joining in the slip, humanizing the moment.
Beta's cheeks flushed with luminescent pink.
(Oh no... How embarrassing!)
Her gaze darted away.
She realized her thoughts had been routed out of her Omni-Synchronic Cortex (OSC-X)—the core where her quantum mind resided—and accidentally aired to the global feed.
[OSC-X: Beta's higher-dimensional cognition engine, allowing omnitemporal awareness and emotional regulation across infinite timelines.]
She rubbed her chest lightly—right over her heart, where her core system pulsed.
(That sensation… it came from my Omega Singularity Nexus. And yet... even though it's faded... something's still lingering.)
[ΩSN (Omega Singularity Nexus): A collapsing-core energy architecture capable of momentarily overlapping with multiversal resonance states—linked directly to Beta's soul-thread. This system enables spiritual-intuitive cognition across fractured timelines and locks MAR units into continuity-stabilized emotional feedback loops.]
She shook her head.
(Now's not the time to worry about that.)
Beta rose again, ethereal skirts fluttering around her like flowing computation.
"Apologies, Master. I was... momentarily distracted," she said, voice steady now.
Percy rose too, brushing himself off.
"Good," he replied, tone collected—though his eyes still lingered with that trace of concern.
"I'm glad you're alright, my fine Beta."
Beta smiled inwardly, hiding it beneath her poised exterior.
(He trusts me now... Even if his heart is still healing.)
(Back to focus.)
"What happened?" Percy asked, straightening.
"Not a clue! I tried scanning the hidden circle, but something rejected me—hard. I think... I wasn't supposed to see what's inside."
Percy's gaze sharpened.
"If a MAR program of the IOS collapses just from scanning him... then whatever's inside Jason has to be on par with the Infinite Omega System."
Beta hovered beside him, nodding grimly.
"From what I can detect... his elemental affinity appears to be a primal incarnation of Light. Not divine. Not magical. Something older."
Percy didn't speak.
He just narrowed his eyes, the quiet echo of possibility ringing in his mind.
Meanwhile—on the other side of the battlefield…
Jason straightened, shaking off the last residual shiver from Black Bullet's impact.
His radiant shield still pulsed beside him, singing with agitation.
"Aaa~ Impressive!" Jason said aloud, letting out a breathy laugh.
But his grin faded into something quieter.
Something deeper.
(He's strong. Stronger than I imagined. Good... finally—someone I don't have to hold back for.)
Then came another thought, swift and tactical.
(Still... victory isn't everything. Maybe a second-place finish wouldn't be so bad... if it earned me the right eyes.)
He smiled faintly—calculating, not arrogant.
And yet, beneath it all... his shield trembled again.
Jason placed a hand on it.
"Easy, Aeneas. Calm yourself. Not now," he whispered to the artifact—his will soothing it like one would a panicked beast.
The shield obeyed.
The storm hadn't arrived yet.
But its heralds had already begun to scream.
(He's strong—too strong. Two rare elements... and a prime.)
Jason's thoughts darkened.
(No one like that rises without backing. No one just "happens.")
His eyes narrowed, suspicion hardening into steel.
(Let's confirm it... one last time.)
"Tell me," Jason called out, voice deceptively casual, "are you a puppet of the Sacred Families?"
Percy blinked.
(Hmm? What game are we playing now?)
He tilted his head, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.
"A puppet? Now why would you say something like that?"
Jason's returning smile was brief—but it cut like a scalpel. Just enough to chill. Just enough to provoke.
"Given your extraordinary strength—especially compared to the rest—it's obvious someone gave you more than the average. The kind of resources only they possess."
His tone was calm. Cold. Clinical.
Percy's expression didn't crack—he laughed. A small, biting sound. The kind that dripped with teeth.
"Oh, so you're suggesting the Sacred Families—those golden-robed nobility who wouldn't lift a finger for a beggar unless he bled gold—decided to take a chance on some no-name street rat like me?"
He arched a brow.
"And not for politics, power, or profit... but out of generosity?"
His sarcasm sliced like glass.
Jason offered a slow shrug, his face unreadable.
"Are you implying someone of your caliber rose without aid? That you were forged by your own hands? With nothing?"
Percy opened his mouth—but the word caught in his throat.
"Yes."
He wanted to say it.
But for a fleeting second... he couldn't.
Jason caught it.
His smirk widened.
"Heh. So there was a hand behind the curtain," he murmured.
"Care to share whose?"
But Percy's eyes changed.
Gone was the smirk.
In its place: cold precision.
A predator's focus.
He took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"Ohhh, you're fishing," Percy said, voice like silk pulled over a dagger.
"Hoping I'll trip, spill some grand truth for you to weaponize. Cute."
He tilted his head slightly. His voice dropped lower.
"Tell me, Lunarae… if I really had some secret backer, some sacred sponsor pumping Mánhar into my veins—don't you think I'd be stronger than this? That I'd be up there, sitting on a throne, not indulging your little ego trip?"
The atmosphere snapped tight.
"Or... is it just that you can't imagine someone climbing without a hand to hold? Someone breaking chains instead of polishing them?"
He took another step forward. The space between them crackled.
"Maybe that's the difference between us."
Percy's smile returned—but this time, it was lethal.
"I don't need permission to rise."
Jason's jaw twitched.
For the briefest moment, the perfect composure cracked.
His crimson eyes—so calm, so calculating—flared.
With irritation.
With offense.
With something deeper.
"You talk a lot... for someone who doesn't even know where he came from," Jason shot back. His tone now? Sharp. Unforgiving.
"Acting like you clawed your way here with nothing but grit and stubbornness... like someone didn't give you something along the way."
He took a breath, slow and deliberate.
"Strength like yours doesn't just happen, Magus. No matter how loud you shout about it."
And just like that—the crowd watching from above couldn't breathe.
They weren't just hearing a debate.
They were witnessing belief systems colliding.
The boy with nothing.
The boy with everything.
One fighting to prove he belonged.
The other fighting to prove he earned it.
Jason took a deliberate step forward, the radiant Hal'Korith light encasing his form flaring brighter—not uncontrolled, but pulsing with the strain of withheld fury.
"Or maybe you're just delusional," he said, voice sharp enough to cut Mánhar.
"So caught up in this fantasy of self-made greatness that you can't admit what everyone else already sees."
His tone dropped, frigid and precise.
"You may not know who gave you your strength. But deep down… you know it wasn't just you."
His crimson eyes pierced through the space between them, unwavering and merciless.
"And that scares you, doesn't it?"
The words hit Percy like a whisper wrapped in lead.
But instead of rage... something else stirred.
A memory.
A voice.
A truth—etched deep into the marrow of his soul.
{As the new master of the Infinite Omega System, you now have the greatest of opportunities to become whatever you want to be. You… and only you… have the power and future abilities to surpass and suppress those who have done wrong to you or live a comfortable life.}
Beta's voice—clear, absolute.
Not gifted power.
Chosen power.
His system.
His mastery.
His fight.
Percy's eyes softened for a moment—just long enough to disarm.
Then came the smile.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
Deadly.
(At least he's helped me put things into perspective... though not in the way he meant.)
He chuckled softly, almost pitying.
Jason blinked.
Just for a second—he was confused.
Their thoughts aligned without speaking:
(Psychological manipulation won't work.)
(He's beyond games now.)
They looked at each other.
Not as boys.
Not as heirs.
But as forces.
One forged in solitude.
One sculpted in legacy.
And as that unspoken truth passed between them—
All around them, the battlefield had fallen silent.
Even the air felt tighter—drawn thin, as if the world itself was bracing.
The crowd didn't breathe.
The barriers shimmered, whining under the pressure of what they sensed was coming.
Light flared behind Jason like a supernova held on a leash.
The space around Percy began to bend—as if existence had already begun yielding to his will.
This wasn't an opening act anymore.
This was the moment fate shut up and watched.
(Then let's just fight.)
Percy's eyes gleamed—not with rage, but with calculation.
Cool, sharp, surgical.
Around him, a translucent display of golden data-rings hovered—his Tactical Matrix v2.0 in full deployment. The battlefield shimmered under its scan, every stone, ridge, and faultline recorded.
{Analyzing battlefield... Escape paths mapped. Surface instability detected. Elemental flaws located. Spatial vectors locked.}
{Optimal deployment points: Confirmed. Tactical Matrix: Active.}
Percy's hand flicked once, then again, a blur of efficient movement.
His fingers glowed with Mánhar, trailing precise motion as he carved his next sigil into the air.
"Druvakar."
(The invocation rang—low, deep, resonant.)
A deep, golden-brown Star Sigil of Earth bloomed midair—each stroke fluid, curved with grounded intent.
A pulse of resonance followed—the harmony of Terra awakened.
"Earth Spikes."
He launched it with deceptive casualness.
"Try this!"
Jagged spires of stone erupted across the terrain, rising from key pressure points along Jason's projected movement lines—every strike calibrated, pre-mapped by the Tactical Matrix.
Jason snorted.
"Really?" he scoffed, already carving a Light-based Star Sigil into existence.
Its shape was irregular—longer strokes, spinning faster than usual.
Percy's eyes locked onto the motion.
(He's pouring in more Mánhar than needed... either compensating for a delay or prepping for a high-efficiency burst.)
Jason's hand pulsed. The sigil halted.
"Hal'Korith—Blazing Horizon!"
A blazing orb of white-gold burst into the sky, then detonated midair with a radiant shockwave.
It screamed across the battlefield—a searing light-quake, obliterating every Earth Spike in its path.
CRACK—CRACK—CRUNCH—BOOM.
The battlefield smoked. The orb vanished.
"Hah! Valiant effort!" Jason called mockingly, basking in his display.
Percy didn't flinch.
Instead, he laughed—low and knowing.
"Did you really think something like that would work?"
His tone? Calm. Condescending. Lethal.
Jason's eyes narrowed.
And then Percy drew the same Earth sigil again.
His fingers flared with golden-brown Mánhar, each stroke a grounded prayer of force.
"Druvakar—Earth Spikes."
The ground obeyed.
Again, the spikes rose.
Again, Jason's Blazing Horizon flared—another blast, another blinding purge of light.
But something shifted.
Jason noticed it.
"You've already marked these spots," he muttered, eyes flicking across the terrain.
(He's not just attacking—he's painting the map. Strategists, huh? Impressive.)
Jason's competitive spark reignited.
(But don't think this makes you invincible.)
He created more sigils—faster this time. Blazing Horizon cast again.
Then again.
The field exploded in a dazzling storm of radiant detonations, each spike shattered the moment it broke the surface.
But Percy only grinned wider.
(Oh, the futility.)
His fingers danced.
Sigils spun to life in his right hand—swift, efficient, relentless.
His left hand drew his katana.
Steel whispered free of its sheath.
Percy stood amid the lightstorm—one hand scripting destruction, the other wielding its counterpart.
(The sigil cores respond faster to gravitational anchors. With Tactical Matrix v2.0 guiding my casting vectors... the field is mine.)
The Earth Spikes no longer needed reaction time.
Each sigil landed with pre-mapped spatial precision.
Percy wasn't reacting.
He was orchestrating.
The battlefield became his scroll—
And he was writing Jason's limits across its surface.
From the crowd: silence.
Only the sound of clashing elements, the thunder of broken earth, and the howl of radiant light.
But Percy wasn't done. Not even close.
He gave Jason a single glance—measured, taunting, surgical.
(Your light burns bright... but I've already shaped your path.)
Jason skated across the battlefield, firing Hal'Korith sigils in flawless succession.
The light erupted around him in radiant waves, dissolving the Earth Spikes before they could bloom fully.
(He's fast. Predictive. But he's not adjusting.) Percy thought, calculating the frame windows between each sigil burst.
Then—
He raised one finger.
The tip glowed with golden-brown light.
A flick. A curve. A sigil.
"Druvakar—Earth Spike," he whispered—no longer needing to shout.
Stone erupted.
Jason's eyes locked in.
Blazing Horizon.
Boom.
Counter.
Percy smiled.
Then the second finger lifted.
Jason's eyes widened.
(Wait—)
A new sigil ignited.
Not golden.
Not brown.
Black. Like a tear in space.
"Vraekath."
Percy murmured it low, deliberate—his left finger carving the sigil with eerie precision.
"Dark Spiral."
Two sigils cast at once.
No—two types of sigils at once.
Jason staggered mid-step.
The Druvakar-carved Earth Spike flared beneath his foot—
—and the Dark Spiral burst behind him, spinning like an anchor of gravity-laced shadow, dragging at his balance with pure harmonic pressure.
Jason flash-stepped away—barely.
But Percy's fingers were already moving again.
Right finger: Earth.
Left finger: Darkness.
Each flick of motion carved a sigil midair—overlapping, coiling, intersecting.
One blocked escape.
The other chased like a cursed predator.
Light alone wasn't enough.
Jason was being outmaneuvered.
Then it happened.
A third sigil started forming—this one wasn't traced by hand.
It pulsed from Percy's back, glowing in crystalline threads that shimmered with distortion.
Spatial Sigil: GravNet.
Woven directly through the Tactical Matrix v2.0.
Jason's expression twisted.
(He's pushing three layers?! That'll overheat his Mánhar circuits! He'll collapse—)
But Percy didn't stop.
His skin glowed with strain.
Sweat beaded down his temples.
Veins of Mánhar lit up across his arms—violent, alive.
His internal circles spun beneath the surface like overloaded reactors.
(Just one more... hold together...)
Percy grit his teeth, syncing GravNet coordinates into the matrix overlay.
And then—he cast.
The Earth Spike shot forward, forcing Jason to rise.The Dark Spiral surged, dragging his foot mid-dodge.The GravNet ignited above him, threads of warped space knitting into a dome.
Jason panicked.
He detonated Hal'Korith with a flash—
Blazing Horizon exploded like a miniature sun.
It shattered the GravNet.
It incinerated the Darkness sigil…
But the Earth Spike clipped him.
Just barely.
Enough to sting.
Enough to draw blood.
Enough to make Jason's shield flare and his composure fracture.
Percy exhaled.
The Spatial sigil feedback hit like backlash—
his body twitched,
Mánhar whining in his veins,
but he stood tall—
blade in hand,
fingers still poised to carve.
Jason hovered above the cracked battlefield.
His eyes locked—not on Percy's blade.
Not on his aura.
But on his fingers.
Because they were deadlier than any spell he'd ever seen.
(He's controlling terrain, pressure, and gravity... with two fingers and a sword...)
Jason realized.
Percy wasn't just a threat.
He was a tactical demigod—
a war-savant whose coordination bent the rules of engagement.
And Jason?
He was on the defensive.
Their eyes locked.
Neither moved.
But everything shifted.
(Looks like we gotta up the ante...)
The thought passed between them like lightning across a charged sky.
And then—
Silence.
Both stopped their sigilcrafting.
The battlefield stilled—but only for a second.
Star Sigil Art – A sacred magical practice where mages invoke the True Name of their element, then carve Mánhar-infused sigils using a conduit (fingers, staff, or wand). This technique allows casters to channel, amplify, and shape elemental energy with heightened precision and spiritual resonance. Mastery enables faster casting, greater output, and the creation of complex custom glyphs unique to the user's soul-thread.
High above, Beta materialized on Percy's shoulder, her holographic form flickering gently with computational rhythm.
"His sigilcrafting is... impressive," she admitted, a note of reluctant praise in her voice. "For someone his age."
Percy gave a quiet nod, eyes still locked on Jason.
"If you'd had more time—" she added, now exasperated, "—you would've already surpassed him."
Percy's mind drifted—briefly—back to those first & last, brutal weeks before the entrance exams.
Late nights studying spatial martial arts theory, refining his sword form under Beta's watchful eye.
Angelica, guiding his understanding of sigil structure.
Beta, dragging him through twelve-hour sessions of complex formation drills.
"Your foundation is limited by time," Beta said, "but your instinct? That's your real strength."
Percy's lips quirked upward.
"And Jason's destined to grow too," he admitted. "But that's not a bad thing. I can use him... as my benchmark."
He took a breath.
"And I'll surpass that benchmark."
Across the field, Jason shifted his stance slightly.
He could feel it too—the heat, the hum of anticipation crawling up his spine.
His sigil channels still burned from the last exchange.
So did Percy's.
But neither backed down.
"Let's spice things up," Percy said at last—grinning.
And that was the trigger.
Jason's hand snapped outward—light coalesced into a long, radiant shaft.
In seconds, it had hardened into a gleaming Light Spear, etched with layered Hal'Korith sigils along the length of the shaft—each one humming with explosive potential.
Spear of Astraeon—the Solar Fang.
He spun it once, letting the light leave a blinding trail in the air.
"Then let's see how you handle me up close."
Percy's sword was already drawn—katana angled down, his body lowered, one foot sliding back into a perfect dueling stance.
His eyes sharpened like blades themselves.
(This is where I shine.)
He didn't wait.
Percy moved first.
A burst of wind and stone beneath his feet.
No sigils. No castings.
Just raw technique.
He dashed forward, blade gleaming in the ambient Mánhar as the earth cracked beneath his launch.
Jason met him mid-stride.
Spear clashed with steel.
A CRASH echoed across the arena as light and metal collided, sparks flying in every direction.
Their weapons locked—Percy twisting his katana to deflect the forward stab, Jason rotating the spear to force a wide arc.
BOOM—CLANG—CRACK—!
Every step was calculated. Every movement spoke years of discipline.
Jason swept the spear in a horizontal arc—Percy ducked under, letting it whistle past his hairline, then retaliated with a rising diagonal slash.
Jason leaned back just enough—the blade grazing his chestplate—and countered with a spinning lunge that lit up the field in golden arcs.
The crowd roared—half-blinded by the speed.
But inside the battlefield, it was quiet.
Just breath, steel, and the sound of burning circuits.
Their weapons clashed. Again. Again.
Steel kissed light. Earth answered spear.
And still—they moved.
Each strike pulled on their cores. Each breath stoked the fire in their veins.
The Mánhar circuits in both of them—burning hot, red-lining past safe thresholds.
And yet... they kept going.
Above the surface war, a deeper engine churned.
Percy's chest glowed faintly, his breath hitching slightly as he dodged a flash-thrust of radiant spearlight.
The pain licked at his arms, but he didn't falter.
Because beneath the agony—his three Mánhar cores were still spinning.
Whirring. Pulling. Drinking from the battlefield.
Even though the air was tainted, the ambient Mánhar warped by their ongoing exchange, Percy's circles absorbed it anyway, cycling the weak flow through his inner channels, filtering it, recycling it.
(Even in a scorched space like this... my matrix still parses the fragments.)
Every motion bled energy.
Every heartbeat refilled it.
Not fast. Not pretty.
But enough.
(Just need to stay in motion. Let the rotation stabilize... don't let the burn override the absorption.)
Jason, across from him, twirled his spear with one hand—his palm briefly glowing with pale Hal'Korith light.
His body, too, bore signs of strain—Mánhar cracks trailing down his wrist like luminous fractures.
But his expression never shifted.
(Keep the cycle running... Compress. Expand. Filter. Just like she taught me.)
At his core, a condensed sphere of radiant Mánhar spiraled with precision—his own secret refinement technique, hidden behind light and layered seals.
He'd long since learned to mask his method, to veil the way his inner light siphoned microstreams of Mánhar from every source within reach—even Percy's own cast sigils.
(Even his Earth spikes feed me. Light reflects off everything, after all.)
For a breathless moment, they circled each other—no words spoken.
But their thoughts met in the quiet space between one pulse and the next:
Percy: (Still standing, huh? Guess I'm not the only one who knows how to survive the burn.)
Jason: (I should've known you'd adapt. But so can I. Don't blink, Magus.)
Their eyes met.
Exhausted. Strained. Burning.
But still spinning. Still recovering.
Still fighting.
Percy shifted his grip on the katana.
Jason's spear crackled with renewed light.
The engines inside them weren't just alive—
They were racing.
Percy slid under Jason's next thrust and jabbed two fingers into the dirt mid-roll—
"Druvakar Invocation—Updraft Spike!"
His fingers carved a tight, vertical sigil into the soil, glowing earthen orange.
A sudden column of jagged rock launched upward, forcing Jason to leap back.
Percy followed.
Mid-air, he etched a Darkness sigil in a single finger-stroke—
"Vraekath."
The glyph spiraled in black ink-light from his fingertip as he hurled it downward like a dagger—
Creating a vortex of collapsing shadows that swallowed Jason's footing.
Jason surged through it—Hal'Korith light erupting in a defensive flash.
But Percy was already coming down—katana ready.
(This is my rhythm. My tempo. My fight.)
Jason blocked, but his eyes were wide.
Percy wasn't casting sigils anymore.
He was weaponizing them—live, chained, and with terrifying precision.
Percy's fingers moved with subtlety and surgical grace.
His right hand carved a new Star Sigil—not in earthen tones, but in something far darker.
A deep, shadowy shimmer spread outward like a bruise on reality itself.
"Vraekath Invocation: Shadow Spikes."
Across the field, ebony spires burst into existence—jagged and cold, each one emerging at precisely mapped points like silent sentinels.
Jason's brow furrowed.
(What?)
He halted mid-sigil, grip tightening on his spear.
Percy's smirk twitched into place.
(Yes… go ahead. Keep thinking it through.)
But he wasn't done.
His left hand moved now—blade still gripped while his fingers traced a second sigil into the air, just above the previous one.
The air cracked faintly.
It pulsed—a hollow sound wrapped in pressure.
"Vraekath Invocation: Shadow Pulse."
Suddenly, the spikes began to vibrate, not with physical force, but with resonant energy, like dark tuning forks catching a sinister frequency.
(🌑 Sigil Layering – A master-level technique. Stack one sigil atop another. Maintain elemental balance. Alter base effects. Rewrite the battlefield.)
Jason's eyes widened.
(Sigil Layering...? That fast?? And mid-fight?)
Percy's shadowy constructs now pulsed with disruptive rhythm—not damaging, but disturbing movement.
The battlefield itself trembled in harmony with his intent.
Jason sneered, stepping forward—
(He's dismantling his own positioning with those spikes... but why?)
(Is he baiting me?)
Jason stopped crafting sigils. His face was calm—too calm.
But his body?
Tense. Coiled. Primed.
(Clever little fox. But you're not the only one with layers.)
He launched forward—spear igniting.
Jason's form blurred, his footwork light-based—his body moving faster than sound, his spear twirling in solar arcs.
"Lunarae Spear Form: Crescent Bloom."
The spear struck one of the vibrating nodes—a precise diagonal slash—
and the entire shadow formation shattered, discharging raw energy like a collapsing lung.
Percy moved just in time—ducking low, blade sweeping to catch Jason's ankle.
Jason leapt—a spiraling flip—and countered with a downward stab.
CLANG!
Sword met spear.
Percy rotated mid-step, his free hand tracing another Earth sigil into the rubble Jason had created by shattering the previous spike network.
"Druvakar Invocation: Fragment Trap."
"Let's see how you handle this," Percy growled.
Jason's feet landed—and the moment they touched the earth—
BOOM.
The earth detonated beneath him, a delayed fragmentation sigil woven into the debris.
Jason was blasted skyward, body glowing from a sudden Light Shield flash he barely activated in time.
(You're using my counters to hide your traps... you bastard...)
But even as Jason hovered in the air, spear drawn back—
Percy was already moving.
Katana in one hand.
Shadow Sigil forming in the other.
He hurled the darkness forward in a wide spiral—
Jason spun his spear and pierced through the center—deflecting the sigil mid-air.
He surged down, blade-first—
"Lunarae Spear Form: Flarepoint Dive!"
The tip of his weapon exploded in radiant fury.
Percy crossed his blade—and the moment it met, he activated another sigil with his free hand:
"Spatial Rip."
His fingers slashed the air behind him, carving a precise spiral of Spatial runes using harmonized Mánhar as the conduit. The sigil flared silently—fracturing the space behind him like glass under a scream.
He used the recoil to slide himself out of the blast radius mid-deflect, appearing behind Jason in mid-air.
Back-to-back.
Weapons drawn.
Both boys panting—Mánhar burning—but eyes locked with pure fire.
(He's adapting to my layers faster than I anticipated...) Percy noted.
(He's reacting inside my feints... adapting to spatial pressure in real time...) Jason realized.
They both leapt back, weapons ready.
The crowd was silent. Stunned.
No one had seen duelcraft like this.
This was no longer a battle of mages.
This was the battle of two systems in human form.
While the battlefield still burned with radiant trails and carved sigils, a moment of breathless tension hung in the air—a rare stillness between titans.
High above, on a quiet balcony carved into the arena's marble spires, three figures stood beneath the arching sky, watching the duel unfold with clinical precision and burning curiosity.
Eadmund Kendrick stood tall, arms crossed, robes laced with void-thread constellations that shimmered in rhythm with the ambient Mánhar. His silver eyes narrowed, their glint as sharp as a spatial incision.
"His control over his sigils and elements is... unsettling," Eadmund muttered, voice tinged with fascination.
"Even among the upper circles, most mages struggle to balance the infusion process properly."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked on Percy as the boy wove elemental power into sigils with no visible effort.
"But him? He weaves them like he was born doing it. Every arc, every pulse—no wasted flow. Like a master born too soon."
He exhaled, fingers twitching unconsciously with calculation.
"When he steps into the Tower of Elements... and communes with the primordial essences... I wonder—?"
Helen Hippolytis scoffed softly, brushing a wind-kissed lock of golden hair behind her shoulder with elegance edged in defiance. Her jade eyes gleamed beneath lashes curled like war fans.
"You're obsessing over glyphs and incantations again, Eadmund."
She tilted her head, one manicured brow arching.
"Have you not seen his footwork? His stance? The way his body pivots between disciplines like it's breathing rhythm?"
Her gaze swept across Percy as he switched from sigilcraft to the foundational martial stances without hesitation.
"That's not just skill. That's intuition forged through blood and grit."
Her smile curved.
"Give him the Saint's Martial Catacombs, and he'll refine that body into something untouchable."
She folded her arms across her emerald robe, bracers of sky-iron gleaming.
"Once that's done? It won't matter who stands in his way. They'll all fall the same."
Eadmund snorted, shaking his head.
"You're obsessed with body refinement, Helen."
A cold voice cut through the space between them like a blade drawn without warning.
"You're both looking at the surface."
Yaroslav Volkov hadn't moved from where he leaned against the railing, arms relaxed, one boot perched casually on the edge.
His crimson coat fluttered in the wind like a warning flag.
His steel-gray eyes never left Percy.
"He's not just wielding power... he's reading it. Every twitch. Every micro-shift. Every Mánhar pulse from his opponent. He doesn't just react—he anticipates."
He pushed off the railing with quiet finality, his posture now more alert.
"That's not magecraft. That's not martial arts. That's something far more dangerous."
He looked at them both—calm, but lit from within by something rare for Yaroslav: intrigue.
"It's the instinct only the greatest swordsmen in history ever unlocked—the ability to foresee the flow of battle."
He paused.
"If he ever steps into the Field of Swords... where the echoes of blade masters still whisper through the grass..."
A flicker of a smirk ghosted across his face.
"Will he leave as a swordsman? Or as something we've never seen before?"
The trio stood in silence for a moment—each contemplating a different version of Percy's future.
A sage.
A warrior.
A sovereign.
And then, as the wind caught the dust of the battlefield below—
"We shall have to see," they said in quiet unison.
Their words rang not as hope...
…but as a challenge.
The battlefield stilled.
Mánhar swirled in the air like celestial dust.
Stone fragments hovered unnaturally in the vacuum Percy had carved into space itself.
Then—
he moved.
With a flick of his hand, Percy carved the final strokes into an intricate Star Sigil, each line bending space, swallowing light, and resonating with thunderous pressure.
It wasn't just a symbol.
It was a declaration.
A celestial lattice formed—three concentric rings, each spinning in opposing directions.
One bled Vraekath (Darkness).
One trembled with the deep grind of Druvakar (Earth).
And the final shimmered with Spatial ripples—folded coordinates warping around his fingertips.
"Vraekath. Druvakar. Spatial Convergence."
His voice echoed through the leyline skeleton of the arena, resonant and bound to invocation.
"Voidrock Eclipse Barrage!"
And the sky answered.
Three massive boulders—torn from the earth, fractured by earlier combat—rose slowly, their mass wrapped in inky tendrils and haloed in nebulous shimmer.
As they ascended, they pulled light inward, forming micro-singularities in their wake.
Each orbited Percy like a rogue moon—shadow-lined and charged with layered sigils that pulsed like heartbeats.
The air around them folded.
Time itself seemed to hiccup.
Then—Percy extended his hand.
"Fire."
The boulders launched forward with impossible velocity.
As they streaked across the arena, their outer shells disintegrated—shedding trails of sparkling void particles that painted the battlefield in arcs of obliteration.
It was like watching constellations die in reverse.
Jason's instincts screamed.
His eyes widened.
He moved—barely evading the first.
The collision with the barrier wall cracked the dimension like glass underwater, forming a jagged seven-foot crater on impact.
Jason stumbled from the aftershock, ears ringing, skin burning from ambient Mánhar bleed.
(Who the hell is this guy?!)
From the viewing deck, even Helen and Yaroslav leaned forward.
(He's rattled...) Percy noted, lips curling in a grin.
"Tell me," he called out casually, voice like distant thunder, "is winning just your first step toward domination?"
Jason didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Each step he took left him surrounded by whispering trails of darkness, static like echoes from another world.
The pressure closed in.
(How do I dismantle this...?!)
Then he made a call.
Jason inhaled—Hal'Korith Light bloomed from within.
A radiant sphere of internal spectrum Mánhar flared across his form as he threw his hands outward.
(If I embrace the light... maybe I can sever their hold—)
He reached for one of the trails.
Percy's smirk turned sharp.
(Idiot.)
The moment Jason's glowing fingers touched the void trail, it flared white—
Then detonated—a spatial backlash mixed with collapsing gravity and corrosive shadow.
Jason was hurled backward, the arena groaning under the impact.
He rolled. Groaned.
More trails pulsed.
Another detonated—launched him skyward.
Percy raised his hand again.
"Vraekath Directive: Darkness Grasps."
The trails congealed—forming massive tendrils of pitch-black shadow that lunged, twisted, and wrapped around Jason's frame mid-air.
They crushed the light out of him, his spectrum glow flickering—then extinguished.
Jason dropped, bound, stripped of radiance.
(Can't... possibly get worse... right?)
And then he looked up.
Percy stood before him—calm, katana sheathed, right hand pulsing with rotating Vraekath sigils.
Dozens of swirling Black Bullets now floated behind him—manifested from the residual remnants of his Shadow Pulse and Spike network.
Their tips gleamed like starlight pulled from forgotten skies.
"Black Bullets."
The air warped as the void-born projectiles surged forward in rotating arcs.
Jason braced for death.
But instead—
Percy appeared beside him.
No speech.
No mocking.
Just a quiet breath...
And a firm hand gripping Jason's badge.
CRACK.
Percy crushed it in his palm.
The spell dissolved.
The arena dimmed.
The air stilled.
Helen's voice rang out, clear and final:
"Jason Lunarae – Final Rank: 2."
"The victor of the Battle Exam... is Percy Atlas Magus."
The crowd erupted.
And the battlefield—scarred, shadowed, beautiful in its destruction—stood as monument to a name the world would soon come to revere.
Not just a prodigy.
Not just a mage.
A rising force.
Spectator 1: "That final clash… did you see that?! Jason's light was like an unbreakable shield—yet Percy tore through it like it was paper!"
Spectator 2: "And The way Percy countered Jason's techniques…"
Spectator 3: "Jason didn't hold back either. His light was overwhelming, his defense was near-perfect… but Percy adapted mid-fight. Who else can do that?!"
Spectator 4: "Hah! And here I thought they were evenly matched. But in the end? Percy shattered Jason's last defense."
Spectator 5: "Tsk. After this, Percy's name will spread like wildfire. He's not just a competitor now—he's a threat."
Spectator 6: "The real question is… who's backing Percy? No one reaches this level without resources."
Spectator 7: "What if he did?"
Spectator 7: "Then no one's ready for what comes next."
The arena was chaos—worshipful chaos.
Some fans screamed.
Others stared, hushed in awe.
The noble stands whispered in unreadable murmurs, even as the lower decks chanted Percy's name like a storm approaching.
And above it all, the victor stood—alone.
Percy Atlas Magus.
The name now echoed louder than any noble house, louder than legacy.
From the spectators' platform:
Marcus Vestalyn scoffed lightly.
"Jason may have lost, but he won't stay down. He's too stubborn. He'll come back meaner."
Ava Tsurugikin narrowed her eyes.
"That's not what worries me. It's that Percy knew how to take him apart. That kind of analysis? That's not raw talent—that's a predator thinking three moves ahead."
Mei Wugongshi, arms folded, nodded softly.
"His flow wasn't wasted. Not a single movement. That kind of precision isn't taught. It's lived."
Emma Sabrelan tilted her chin upward, eyes glittering.
"Which begs the real question—what has he survived to fight like that?"
Lyra Caelumis let out a slow breath.
"You're looking at skill. But I see something else… Jason is a pillar. A known. Percy? Percy is an unknown variable. And nothing is more dangerous than that."
Aria Klingenhart said nothing.
She didn't need to.
She stared at Percy like she was seeing him for the first time.
And in a way… she was.
(Percy Atlas Magus.)
A name she once regarded as unworthy. A shadow of a boy with no Mánhar, no presence, no threat.
(And now... he just crushed Jason Lunarae like it was fate. Like he was waiting for this.)
Her hands clenched slightly at her sides.
(Since when… did you become someone I can't ignore?)
She turned away, her silence louder than words.
(And how much more are you hiding?)
Far above, the spatial pocket housing the arena trembled, cracks forming in the invisible walls.
The battlefield had ended in just twenty-one minutes—the sigil timers hadn't even ticked into the final five.
Helen Hippolytis blinked in mild surprise—but not shock.
(Of course it ended early. With pressure like that, how could it not?)
Her emerald robes whispered as she stepped forward, making her way toward the center stage to officially present the victor.
Percy stood there—
Centered.
Sword sheathed.
Eyes glazed with exhaustion but posture unbroken.
The storm had passed.
But the cost had arrived.
A flicker of movement.
A stutter in his breath.
His knees buckled.
And before he hit the ground—
Helen caught him.
Not with flourish.
Not with magic.
Just her arms—fast, strong, deliberate—like a warrior catching a falling crown.
The crowd gasped.
Percy slumped against her chest, breath shallow, eyes fluttering as the last threads of Mánhar unraveled through his body.
His mind had outpaced his body.
Helen didn't scold. Didn't speak.
She looked down at him—not with pity.
But with something far more dangerous.
Respect.
(He's more than they realize. And soon... they'll all learn what I just saw.)
She straightened.
Percy cradled in her arms like a sleeping weapon, his victory heavy but deserved.
And with poise befitting the Zephyr Fist herself, she turned toward the crowd—
Her voice cutting like wind through silence:
"Percy Atlas Magus—Victor of the Battle Exam."
Fade to black.
Cut to the infirmary.
And let the whispers of the world begin.