Eli was the noise, but the Wizards were the sting. While their captain played the role of the frantic distraction, the Washington backline was quietly cooking a Hellfire-Hurricane.
Markus felt the air itself grow thin as fire and wind mana began to spiral into a singular, predatory mass. They were trying to hide the build-up behind Eli's lightning, but in Markus's world, there are no secrets.
He felt the heat-spike before the first flame even sparked—a heavy, suffocating gathering of energy that signaled the end of the "Garrison Phase" and the start of the fire-storm.
The Wizards initialized a Wind-Induction Tunnel, a localized atmospheric low-pressure zone designed to act as a mechanical bellows for their fire-signature.
As the oxygen was forcefully channeled into the narrow corridor, the combustion-rate of the Hellfire-Stream increased by a calculated 400%.
The result was a Laminar-Flow Incinerator, a jet of flame so concentrated and high-velocity that it threatened to bypass Mika's ice-shielding via sheer kinetic friction. To the spectators, it looked like a literal river of sun-matter being poured through a straw, aimed with surgical precision at the Blackwell formation.
"Don't let Eli pull your focus," Markus warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl that cut through the arena's roar.
"The backline is cooking a combination attack while he plays the loudmouth. Mika, Jessica—get ready to pivot. The storm is coming from the shadows, and it's coming fast."
The best defense is usually the best offense.
Mika and Jessica moved as one, launching a Lightning-Wind Blade that cut through the Wizards' thermal-tunnel like a hot wire through silk.
It wasn't about the physical cut—it was about the Shockwave.
The gale-force wind carried the lightning directly into the Washington backline, shattering their focus and turning their sophisticated combo-attack into a fizzling spark.
The "Wizards" weren't just interrupted; they were overwritten by a superior synergy.
After weeks of drilling until their nerves were raw, Mika and Jessica had turned their synergy into a Primal Instinct. There was no "getting ready," no buildup, and no hesitation.
They didn't even need to look at each other; their Elemental-Sync was now as natural as breathing, a sub-second strike that turned a complex team maneuver into a Surgical Execution.
Markus stood like a statue in the center of the storm, his eyes reflecting the desperate, flailing efforts of the Washington team.
Every time they tried to wind up their big combo, Rosanne was there—a Cold Predator in their peripheral vision, snapping their focus before they could even spark a flame.
They spent the remainder of the trial burning through their mana and their hope, while the Blackwell sisters reinforced the gates with the calm, rhythmic precision of a victory lap.
"THAT'S THE BUZZER! IT'S OVER!" Joe bellowed, his voice dripping with pure adrenaline. "WASHINGTON STATE GAVE EVERYTHING THEY HAD, BUT IN THE END, THEY WERE JUST RUNNING INTO A BRICK WALL! VALERIA'S FIRST TEAM HAS SECURED A PERFECT DEFENSIVE SHUTOUT!"
He gestured to the weary students on the sand. "FIFTEEN MINUTES ON THE CLOCK, FOLKS! THE TEAMS ARE SWAPPING SIDES. GRAB YOUR REFRESHMENTS AND DON'T BLINK—BECAUSE WHEN WE RETURN, MARKUS BLACKWELL IS MOVING FROM THE CASTLE TO THE ATTACK!"
Isolde and Sloane were practically leaning into the television, captivated by the cold brilliance of the Blackwell defense.
The match was a masterclass, and they weren't about to miss a single microsecond.
"Novus, save everything," Sloane ordered without taking his eyes off the screen. "Every angle, every mana-scan. I want a permanent record of Markus's progress today."
As the broadcast shifted to the intermission graphics, the spell finally broke.
Laughing at their own intensity, the couple scrambled toward the kitchen to grab more popcorn and drinks, eager to be back in their seats before the gates dropped for the counter-attack.
Rosanne looked like she'd seen a ghost. The weight of what she'd missed—the "Hellfire" that almost breached her gates—was written in the tight line of her jaw.
Markus caught her gaze, a faint, encouraging tilt to his head. "Don't beat yourself up over a lesson we hadn't taught you yet, Rosey," he said, using the nickname to soften the edge of his authority.
"Now I know exactly where our weaknesses are. Our next training cycle is going to be all about Perception."
Rosanne was just the beginning. Markus looked at his team—his unit—and saw a weapon that was still only half-sharpened.
His goal wasn't just to fix one person's blind spot; it was to level the entire playing field.
He was going to drag all of them through grueling Perception-Drills until they could all see the world in high-definition.
He wasn't just building a team of prodigies; he was forging a Collective Hive-Mind of elite awakeners who would see the strike coming before the enemy even thought to move.
Markus stretched his neck, the mana-veins in his arms pulsing with a sudden, violent flow.
A low, resonant chuckle vibrated through the team's private link, sounding more like a predator's growl than a student's jest.
"Stand down for this rotation," he commanded, his eyes locking onto the Washington gates with a terrifying focus. "You've had your fun holding the line; now it's my turn to enjoy the slaughter. Don't blink—you might miss the moment the arena becomes mine."
The break was over. The lift groaned as it carried the team upward, the floor vibrating under their boots until they broke the surface of the arena.
They emerged not as defenders, but as an assault force facing medieval defenders.
Stepping off the platform, they took their positions on the scorched sand, staring down the very gates that Washington was now desperately trying to fortify.
Markus stood at the center, his eyes glowing with a predatory gold, silently counting down the seconds until he was allowed to break the world.
"HERE. WE. GO!" The thunderous ovation of the crowd nearly drowned out Rogan's scream. "MARKUS BLACKWELL IS MAKING HIS OFFENSIVE DEBUT, LEADING HIS TEAM ON A SUICIDE-RUN AGAINST THE WASHINGTON FORTRESS! HE'S NOT JUST ATTACKING A GATE; HE'S DECLARING WAR ON THE ENTIRE ARENA! LOCK YOUR EYES ON THE VANGUARD—THE GENERATION'S PRODIGY IS IN MOTION!"
The sky broke again—the second flare shot upward, a screaming bullet of fire that painted the clouds red.
It was the only warning Washington was going to get. As the red light washed over the castle gates, Markus drew his bow.
[Starlight Bow]
The crowd didn't just go quiet; they went still. Every eye was locked on the weapon currently taking shape in Markus's hand.
It was a bow carved from the very fabric of the night, a void-black frame that held an entire Miniature Galaxy within its depths.
The "stars" trapped inside the bow's surface didn't just shine—they burned with a haunting, silver light that cast long, unnatural shadows across the sand.
Markus didn't care about the castle. He let five arrows fly, each one a sliver of the midnight sky screaming through the air with terrifying precision.
He wasn't trying to tear down the walls—he was hunting the people inside them.
[-200 mana]
[-200 mana]
[-200 mana]
[-200 mana]
[-200 mana]
The arrows slipped through the cracks like smoke, hungry for the targets hiding behind the steel.
Before anyone could even shout a warning, the fight was over. Five streaks of starlight found five bodies, striking with such perfect, haunting accuracy that they bypassed every vital organ.
It was a Checkmate delivered in a heartbeat.
The Washington Wizards were finished, pinned to their own fortress by a marksman who had decided that today, they weren't even worth the effort of a kill.