"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" Joe's scream echoed into the rafters, nearly drowned out by the thunderous eruption of the crowd.
"FIVE STUDENTS, ONE ARCHER, AND IT WAS OVER BEFORE THE FLARE HIT THE GROUND! MARKUS BLACKWELL JUST TURNED AN ELITE SQUAD INTO A FIRING SQUAD'S TROPHIES! HE DIDN'T EVEN BREAK THE GATE—HE BROKE THEIR WILL TO FIGHT!"
Rogan followed up, his voice cracking with pure adrenaline. "VALERIA HASN'T JUST WON THE ROUND; THEY'VE JUST DECLARED THE ENTIRE TOURNAMENT REDUNDANT! BOW DOWN TO THE KING!"
For Markus, "teamwork" was just a word for people who weren't strong enough to win alone.
As the dust settled around the pinned Washington Wizards, the crowd realized the terrifying reality: Markus was a solitary predator, a One-Man Army who didn't just win battles—he erased them.
"Absolute showoff," Rosanne grumbled, her bottom lip jutting out in a trademark pout.
She didn't look impressed by the star-bright arrows or the stunned silence of the crowd.
Markus walked straight up to Rosanne and gave her hair a messy, heavy-handed rub, "Stop pouting, Rosey," he teased.
She looked ready to bite him, her face flushed with annoyance, but to Markus, she'd never looked more adorable.
Markus had a single, cold ambition: to show the world that no amount of plotting or petty schemes could survive the crush of absolute strength.
Natasha sneered at the broadcast, her gaze fixed on the student. He was a lingering insult to her reputation—a boy who had already survived two of her guild's "guaranteed" contracts.
The memory of delivering Sylas Vane's head to the Blackwells brought a cold sense of relief.
She had bought their favor at a bargain, realizing sooner than most that Markus would soon eclipse Sloane as the true danger.
Peace with the Blackwells wasn't just a choice; it was the only move left on the board.
Watching from the confines of their temporary residence, Sloane and Isolde erupted with pride.
Their grandson hadn't just won; he had utterly dismantled the Washington State Academy team, leaving nothing but the wreckage of their reputation behind.
"The spitting image of my youth," Sloane declared, his chest swelling. "Pure Blackwell iron."
Rachel, a distant scion of the Valerian line, gasped as she recognized the figure on the screen.
"It's him!" she screamed, turning to her parents in a frenzy. "The boy I met at the bookstore! It's really him!"
A wave of shock and excitement surged through every spectator who recognized the boy. To think they had stood in the presence of such a formidable talent before his ascent. It was no longer just a chance encounter; it was a memory they would guard like a treasure.
**
"WITH THE FIRST ROUND OF 'DEFEND THE CASTLE' CONCLUDED, WE TURN OUR EYES FROM STRATEGY TO RAW POWER. CITIZENS, BEHOLD! THE INDIVIDUAL COMBAT COMPETITION BEGINS NOW!" Joe's voice boomed across the arena.
Students watched the floating digital screen above the arena, looking for their names.
[Markus Blackwell vs. Saylor Vane]
Markus watched the names with a faint, mocking hum. "The Headmistress doesn't even hide her hand anymore. She's served Saylor to me on a silver platter just to prevent him from harming other students."
From the stands, Saylor's face twisted into a jagged, delighted grin. His blood hummed with the prospect of it.
Finally, the stage was set to settle the debt for Sylas—to bury his nemesis and reclaim his family's pride in a single, bloody stroke.
Markus felt a flicker of genuine sorrow for the boy. Saylor was walking into a massacre. A talented awakener could occasionally punch above their weight, but three tiers? It had never been heard of. The chasm between them was simply impossible.
With a deafening roar, the massive stone castle collapsed, its battlements dissolving into a fine, swirling mist of dust.
From the debris, the ground groaned and buckled, carving the stage into four distinct arenas. At the heart of each, a professor stood like a sentinel, their presence a silent reminder that while this was a competition, the power about to be unleashed would require a master's hand to contain.
Markus stepped onto the smooth stone of Arena 3, his footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet of the stadium. He came to a halt in the center, a solitary figure of absolute composure, and waited.
He didn't look for Saylor; he simply existed, a looming shadow that the arena seemed to shrink around.
A hush fell over the stands as Saylor walked out. There was no fanfare, no shouting—only the rhythmic, ominous sound of his boots against the stone.
He stopped across from Markus, his face a mask of frozen rage. The air between them felt like a wire stretched to the breaking point.
Four pairs of students took their marks, their silhouettes framed by the shimmering mana-screens.
In the commentary booth, Joe and Rogan were joined by two senior professors, their presence lending a scholarly weight to the broadcast as they prepared to provide a play-by-play analysis of the students' techniques.
As Sloane's fury peaked, the ambient temperature surged toward a boiling point.
It wasn't a fire, but a raw, pressurized heat that caused the furniture to creak.
Isolde's palms connected sharply with Sloane's temples, the physical jolt acting like a lightning rod for his spiraling power.
Her own nerves were frayed, but she knew that if she didn't rein him in, the room would be nothing but ash and cinders within seconds.
From the high vantage of the royal booth, Emperor Valerian leaned forward, a subtle arch of his brow betraying his interest to Ambassador Lee.
He was no mere spectator; he was intimately aware of the blood feud simmering between the Blackwells and the Vanes, and he knew exactly how much history was about to be settled on the sand below.
"ARE YOU READY?!" Rogan's voice tore through the stadium speakers, barely audible over the sudden, violent whistle of a crimson flare.
It streaked into the sky, bathing the arena in a bloody light as the air itself began to hum. Below, the silence shattered; spells crackled with raw mana, lighting the stage in a kaleidoscopic storm.
A wall of toxic green smog surged across the stage as Saylor activated his signature art.
Having finally crossed into the ranks of Tier 2, his control over the poison fog was absolute; it didn't just drift—it hunted.
The arena became a deathtrap, a clouded tomb where Saylor was the only one who could see his prey.
The professor stationed at the edge of Arena 3 took a sharp step forward, her hand already glowing with a nullification spell as the toxic mist threatened to turn the match into an execution.
But through the swirling green haze, Markus's silhouette remained perfectly still. He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze and gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head—a silent command that stayed her hand.
[Spatial Domain]
The chaotic swirl of toxins suddenly hit an invisible wall, the air around Markus locking into a crystalline stasis. Every particle of poison hung suspended in a deathly, shimmering silence.
As he began to walk, the toxic tide didn't just move—it recoiled. The fog parted before him like a submissive sea, clearing a path for its master as he advanced toward a trembling Saylor.
Saylor stood paralyzed, his mind reeling as the silence of the arena rang in his ears. This was his masterstroke—the "Apex Miasma" that had choked out Tier 3 beasts and cleared dungeon portals in minutes.
It was supposed to be his ascension, yet here it was, hanging in the air like harmless dust, physically incapable of touching the boy walking toward him.
Markus's sneer was as sharp as his aura. "There is no path to the top for someone who chokes on his own corruption. Your power isn't a gift, Saylor; it's a death sentence. And I'm simply here to carry out the execution."
'How did he know? I have told no one about accepting the power of corruption.'
Saylor was lost in his mind, unable to process what was happening before him.
With a movement so casual it was insulting, Markus drove his heel into Saylor's sternum. The shockwave of the strike instantly cleared the remaining fog.
Saylor didn't even have time to gasp before the force catapulted him through the air, sending him spiraling out of the combat zone.
A heavy, stunned quiet gripped Arena 3. The professor looked from the fractured stone to the broken form of Saylor in the distance, seemingly forgetting her role in the face of such absolute strength.
Ten seconds of disbelief ticked by before she finally found her voice, her declaration of Markus's victory sounding more like a funeral rite than a tournament win.