The ultimate one of Gaia

The South Arena wasn't built for duels.

It was a full-scale exhibition stage—tiered obsidian seats, amplified scry-globes, reinforced mana dampeners, and aerial projection arrays usually reserved for academic summits or sanctioned diplomatic challenges.

Martin stood at the edge of the field, watching enchanted panels swirl overhead, capturing every movement and expression. The sheer theatrics irritated him.

"Since when did Varncrest start showing stuff like a theatre troupe?" he muttered.

"Since the three of them bribed the tech teams to project it across campus," came a familiar voice.

Martin turned. "Fenice. You're here to gloat?"

"I'm here to see you fumble," Fenice said, arms crossed, elegant as always in his gilded dueling coat.

"You're still salty about the harp?"

"You used one of my most prized possessions to settle a debt," Fenice said, deadpan. "It wasn't just a harp—it was a saint's relic. You pawned divinely imbued craftsmanship to resolve a dispute about enchantments with a barefoot debt shark."

Martin shrugged. "You got it back. After the enchantment was copied. Which, if you ask me, is a win."

"You really don't respect the arts."

"No," Martin said plainly, "but I respect results."

As Martin turned and walked toward the arena entrance, Fenice tilted his head to the spectator balconies—catching sight of a familiar face.

"Wait... is that his friend?" he asked aloud, spotting Roen.

Sure enough, Roen sat near the balcony's center. The 36-year-old city-knight and walking punchline had at least managed to clean up—pressed coat, bandaged hands, and a look of somber focus that didn't match the casual crowd of students around him. They gave him a wide berth.

Fenice moved up beside him. "How do you two know each other?"

Roen blinked. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

Fenice smirked. "You looked like you were praying. Worried about Kaiser?"

"No," Roen said quietly. "I'm praying for his opponents."

Fenice arched a brow. "In a three-on-one? Really?"

"If you knew him, you would too," Roen replied without blinking.

"Is that so?" a thunderous voice rumbled behind them.

Fenice groaned. "Dombach. Of course you're here."

The barefoot titan dropped into a seat behind them, the metal bench creaking dangerously.

"I came to meet with Kaiser's only real friend," Dombach said, clapping Roen's shoulder with a hand the size of a frying pan.

"Friend, huh," Roen muttered, eyeing the odd group beside him now—Fenice, the golden duelist; Dombach, the debt-enforcing hurricane; and himself, the noble-less knight with a bruised body and too much time.

"Fenice," Roen added dryly, "you should always study whoever talks to you casually. Not every smile is a bluff."

Fenice didn't answer. His eyes had already shifted forward—locked on the lone figure now stepping onto the arena floor.

On the Arena Floor…

Martin Kaiser walked into the stadium like he was returning a library book. His black coat fluttered slightly, his gait unhurried. Calm, methodical. Dangerous.

Across the battlefield, his three opponents were anything but subtle.

Gareth of House Albrecht, spear spinning in hand, enchanted with rune clusters across its haft—glyphs of kinetic burst, wind redirection, and elemental amplification. A classic pressure fighter.

Kyliss of Norsen, slim and cold, her silver rings orbiting her fingers in defiance of gravity. Whispered threads of mana coiled and looped—tripwires and timed detonations. A spell-weaver. A trap specialist.

Dentra of Pelk, broad and armored, a heat-radiating greatsword already ignited with ambient Animus. His stance was rooted. A bruiser. Heavy, durable, slow.

The announcer's voice echoed.

"Begin!"

Dentra moved first, true to type—a straight-line charge.

"Predictable," Martin said aloud. He raised one hand, palm out. A violent gust of air detonated outward in a shockwave, sending sand and mana into a spiral.

From the left, Gareth lunged—his spear aimed low.

"Grav-flux," Kyliss whispered, the field around Martin warping subtly.

"Nice trick," Martin muttered. He pivoted, letting Gareth's spear graze harmlessly past his coat, then sent another compressed shockwave backhanded, forcing Gareth to retreat.

Dentra leapt overhead, his sword raised like a guillotine.

"Reinforce," Martin murmured, and mana flared across his arm. He caught the descending blade barehanded—his reinforced palm gripped the heated metal with a crackle.

"You should look up," Martin said.

Above them, a floating construct snapped into visibility—a levitating obsidian cannon, 1.5 meters long, with six crystal rings orbiting it in sequence. They clicked into alignment with a resonant chime, preparing to fire.

Kyliss didn't wait.

"Ice Spear," she hissed, her silver rings spinning violently before launching a compressed shard of crystallized mana straight through the cannon's core.

Boom.

The construct exploded in a controlled detonation—sharp, bright, and loud.

"You really thought we didn't research you?" Gareth shouted, circling around. "That cannon trick worked on Vercyne, but you won't get it past us!"

Martin said nothing. He stepped aside, avoiding a strike from Dentra, and began backing up, flicking his wrist.

Four containment pods slammed into the field, forming a ring.

"Summons," he said simply.

The pods hissed open, revealing dozens of red-etched spikes. They fired outward in synchronized bursts—a barrage of high-velocity shrapnel, wreathed in fire.

Gareth raised his spear to deflect, Kyliss conjured a shield ring, and Dentra used his sword like a wall—but all three staggered as the storm of flame and metal swept over them, pushing them apart.

Martin dusted his sleeves and sat on a conjured stone bench.

"Gather yourselves," he said. "I'll wait."

In the Spectator Gallery…

"That… was a barrage weaponized through anti-personnel spike magic," Fenice whispered, eyes wide.

"He weaponized a bunker defense array into portable launchers," Roen murmured.

"Where did he even get that?" Fenice asked.

"Probably built it," Dombach said. "Knowing Martin, he had a few extra lying around."

"He sat down," Fenice muttered in disbelief. "He sat down in a live duel."

Roen just smiled. "He's setting the tempo."

Back on the Arena Floor…

Smoke curled from the impact craters.

Gareth's armor was dented, and a thin line of blood traced down his cheek. Kyliss' rings now hovered defensively, sparks flickering between them. Dentra's shoulder guard had shattered entirely, his sword cracked near the core rune.

Martin sat calmly, tapping the side of his notebook with a finger.

"Next round?" he asked, smiling.

No one answered.