The arena was a crucible of heat and silence. Dust hung in the air like ash, catching the harsh midday sun in floating motes that stung my eyes. The stone under my boots was still warm from earlier fights, radiating heat upward through my soles. The smell of scorched earth mixed with sweat and the faint metallic bite of mana residue—sharp, almost electric on my tongue with every breath.
Taren stood opposite, broad shoulders squared, his golden mana already flaring around his fists in a low, crackling haze. The light bent and shimmered around his knuckles, making the space between us ripple with heat. His smirk was sharp, teeth bared, pupils dilated with arrogance and certainty. He looked at me like I was already broken.
Professor Thorne's voice cut through the hush, rough and final.
"Begin."
Taren exploded forward—fast, brutal, his right fist surging with a roaring burst of golden mana that tore the air apart. The strike aimed dead center at my chest, the heat washing over me in a wave that scorched the skin on my face and made my eyes water. The scent of burning ozone and scorched cloth filled my nose as his mana blade extended mid-lunge—a golden crescent of pure force that screamed toward me.
I didn't flinch.
I focused.
[The Rift's Gaze] — dormant form.
My eyes locked on his.
They turned icy-violet—not just color, but something colder, like light fractured through frozen glass. The world around Taren seemed to lag for a fraction of a second—reflections in his pupils delayed, as if reality itself stuttered behind him.
The effect struck.
Taren's fist slowed mid-air—not stopped, but faltered. His eyes widened, pupils contracting sharply. A brief, terrible sense of insignificance washed over him—as though he were suddenly nothing, a speck of dust in the face of a tear in existence. Disconnection from the arena around him—the ground felt unreal, the crowd distant, his own body foreign. Doubt crept in—about his strength, about his place, about whether he even existed in this moment. His golden mana hitched—a cold stutter in his core, the flow unstable for a heartbeat.
His strike missed me by inches.
The golden crescent of mana passed harmlessly over my shoulder, the heat singeing the edge of my cloak with a sharp hiss.
Then the effect ended—4 seconds.
A splitting headache exploded behind my temples—sharp, sudden, like someone had driven a spike into my skull. My vision dulled for a moment, colors leaching out to gray before snapping back painfully. A wave of emotional recoil hit—self-doubt whispering you're nothing, you're a glitch, you're not supposed to be here. My hands trembled slightly, fingers numb.
But I was still standing.
Taren shook his head violently, confusion flashing across his face. "What… the hell was that?" His voice cracked—raw, uncertain. "You think that's gonna scare me?"
I didn't answer.
I stepped forward—Celestite Fang already drawn, violet blade humming in my grip. The star-flecks swirled faster, the metal cold against my palm.
Taren roared—golden mana surging again, brighter, wilder. "You're nothing, F-Class trash!" He charged—both fists wreathed in flame-like light, swinging in wide, brutal arcs that left trails of scorched air.
I ducked the first—the heat washing over my back like a furnace door opening. I rolled left—dirt grinding into my knees, the taste of dust in my mouth. His second strike slammed into the ground where I'd been, cracking stone with a thunderous boom, shards flying.
I came up swinging.
Celestite Fang slashed upward—violet blade cutting through the air with a low, resonant hum. The edge caught his forearm—not deep, but the starlight mana left a cold burn, the wound smoking faintly with indigo light. Taren hissed, staggering back, clutching the arm.
"You little—!" he snarled, voice cracking with rage.
His golden mana flickered—unsteady.
I focused again.
[The Rift's Gaze] — second time.
My eyes turned icy-violet once more.
Taren froze—insignificance, disconnection, doubt. His mana hitched again—a cold stutter, the golden light dimming for a heartbeat.
"You feel it, don't you?" I said, voice low, hoarse. "The tear. The nothing."
Taren's eyes widened further. "Shut up!" he shouted, but his voice trembled. "You're nothing!"
I struck—dagger to his ribs.
The blade bit—shallow, but the violet mana sank in like ice. Taren grunted, staggering sideways, blood welling dark against his uniform.
The effect ended—4 seconds again.
The headache hit harder—migraine-level, vision blurring at the edges, colors smearing like wet paint. My hands shook, fingers numb. A trickle of blood ran from my nose—warm, coppery, dripping onto my lip.
I wiped it away with the back of my hand.
Taren roared—pure rage now. "You think you're better than me?!" Golden mana exploded outward in a wave of heat—the air scorched, dust igniting in tiny sparks, the temperature spiking so hard my skin prickled with sudden burns.
I rolled—dirt grinding into my palms, the heat blistering my back. I came up swinging—Celestite Fang slashing across his thigh. The blade sang—violet light trailing, cutting deep enough to draw a grunt of pain.
Taren stumbled—blood dripping dark onto the stone.
He swung again—wild, desperate. "Die!"
I ducked—the golden crescent missing my head by a hair, the heat singing my hair with a sharp, burning smell.
I countered—dagger thrusting upward.
The blade sank into his shoulder—violet mana sinking in like ice.
Taren staggered back, golden mana collapsing, sparks dying in the dirt.
He dropped to one knee—chest heaving, blood dripping, eyes wide with something new: fear.
Prof. Thorne raised his hand. "End. Eryndor wins."
The crowd erupted—cheers, gasps, stunned silence from some.
Taren stayed on his knees—broken, spirit cracked.
I deactivated the gaze. The icy-violet faded.
The headache throbbed—vision blurred, colors dull, hands shaking. A trickle of blood from my nose stained my sleeve.
Fuck, this skill is ridiculous. I thought, pressing my trembling hand to my forehead, brows furrowed as I shut my eyes.
I forced my breathing to steady. Showing weakness never helped anyone.
I turned away, pretending I was fine.
As I did, Nyx's pulse in my ring intensified—sudden, strong, like a heartbeat surging in response. The warmth spread through my chest, deeper than before—not just comforting, but proud, almost triumphant. The faint crying shifted—no longer a distant whisper, but a soft, rising song, like a melody of approval that vibrated through my core. It wasn't loud, not audible to anyone else, but it felt like Nyx was saying you did it. The violet and blue veins—even though hidden in the ring—seemed to shimmer brighter in my mind's eye, pulsing in sync with my own racing heart.
It felt like approval.
For a heartbeat, the pain from the backlash dulled—not gone, but overshadowed by that warmth. Nyx wasn't just waiting anymore. She was celebrating.
Elara and Lyra were already pushing through the crowd—Lyra jumping up, clapping wildly with both hands, her grin wide and triumphant, eyes shining with pride. Elara moved more calmly, but a rare, genuine smile of pride lit her face—soft, warm, eyes locked on me with quiet approval.
They reached me—Lyra throwing her arms around me in a quick, fierce hug, then stepping back with a laugh. "You did it, glitch! You actually did it!"
Elara's smile deepened—pride and relief mixed together. She placed a hand on my shoulder, voice low but steady. "I knew you could. You were never going to lose."
I looked at them and felt the weight lift, just a little. Nyx's pulse slowed again, content, like she was settling back to sleep, satisfied.