The ultimate one of Gaia

The smoke hadn't even cleared when Gareth lunged again.

This time, his spear burned crimson—layers of kinetic pulse, gravity compression, and elemental reinforcement wrapped around the shaft like a dragon's spine. Each step he took cracked the arena floor, his momentum a blur of tailored power.

The crowd leaned in.

Martin sighed, picked up a small pebble from the ground, and flicked it casually.

It struck Gareth square in the eye.

The noble yelped mid-lunge, his coordination collapsing as he tripped over his own surge of force and momentum. He tumbled awkwardly, his spear scraping sparks against the floor.

Martin stepped out of the smoke, brushing dust from his coat. "You're charging at someone who built barrage arrays, Gareth. That's dumb."

Before Gareth could recover, Dentra was already mid-swing, descending from the right. His blade came down with full weight, a strike meant to cleave Martin in half.

It hit.

Nothing.

The flames around Martin flared to life—his aura igniting in a brilliant sheet of red and orange, fire clinging to his limbs like serpents. Dentra's blade struck the inferno, hissed, and melted.

"Let me take this," Martin said, catching the sword mid-air with his flaming hand. The metal groaned and bubbled. "Here's a lesson: metal conducts heat."

His other hand gripped Dentra's shoulder, and the temperature spiked.

"You ever cook a steak inside full-plate?" Martin asked conversationally.

Dentra screamed.

His armor glowed, brightening from silver to orange as it rapidly heated. The internal padding began to blacken and curl. Mana circuits inside the gear popped, and the outer coating blistered.

His greatsword cracked down the middle with a clean ping. Dentra dropped it—but Martin didn't release his shoulder.

"Yield," Martin said simply.

Dentra, stubborn and loyal to his House's pride, threw a punch.

Martin's hand flared. "Impulse."

A concussive pulse of thermally-charged mana surged from his palm, blowing open the vents in Dentra's armor. Steam burst out in every direction. Dentra choked, fell to his knees, and collapsed coughing and clawing at his armor.

One down.

From above, Kyliss was already moving.

She wasn't a fool—nor a brawler. Her battlefield was the space between intention and impact. Silver lines of script traced the air around her like calligraphy, forming complex sigils mid-flight. Delay arrays, explosion runes, time-dilation glyphs—all laced with surgical precision.

Six detonations flared to life:

Two on Martin's left flank.

One high overhead.

One right behind him.

One mid-dodge location.

One embedded just beneath his current step.

She snapped her fingers.

The arena detonated.

Prismatic light tore through the dust. A spiral of force and compressed silence erupted, hurling debris into the reinforced arena walls. The crowd gasped as the projection arrays flickered under the pressure of raw mana discharge. The heat from Martin's own aura collided with the implosion mid-air, birthing a geyser of refracted magic.

When the light faded, the dust parted—

Martin stood untouched.

A shimmering shell of reinforced mana folded around him like transparent glass, flickering with stabilizing glyphs. His coat had a single scorch mark on the left lapel.

"You need more power," he said evenly.

Gareth roared from the side, recovered now, and lunged again—his spear spinning with renewed fury. His face was twisted, eyes bloodshot from embarrassment and rage.

Martin didn't move.

He raised one hand and caught the spear's tip mid-thrust. The runes crackled in protest.

"Your edge needs sharpening," Martin muttered.

Kyliss hurled another barrage, this time a swarm of guided mana bolts. Martin dipped to the side, rolling to absorb the kinetic force, then launched himself skyward—twisting in mid-air with unnatural agility.

He landed in front of Kyliss with a quiet thud, crouched low.

She tried to leap back, but he was already grabbing her legs.

"What—"

Martin pulled her from the sky and slammed her down, hard.

The impact cracked the stone tiles beneath her. Then he dropped with her, landing knees-first across her chest. A loud crunch echoed. Her breath fled her lungs in a single, pained wheeze. Her spine contorted unnaturally. Mana rings scattered from her fingers.

"I su—" Gareth began.

But he was cut off mid-sentence as a metal contraption snapped over his mouth, forming a tight clamp that seared glowing glyphs onto the skin.

Martin turned to him, calm and cold.

"Here's some advice," he said, voice dangerously flat. "Don't ever do this again."

With a snap of his fingers, the mouth-gag pulsed with heat and vanished in a puff of smoke—leaving behind a deep, angry burn mark carved into Gareth's lips.

Martin looked up at the announcer. "Match's over."

In the Balcony...

Roen exhaled, the tension finally breaking from his shoulders.

Beside him, Fenice sat stunned. The renowned duelist—polished, poised, proud—couldn't quite reconcile what he had just seen.

"I think… I understand now why you pray for his opponents," Fenice murmured.

Roen didn't turn. "You look more angry than informed."

Fenice's voice rose, sharp. "Of course I do. That was monstrous. Even though I've slain men to claim my rank as the Gilded Blade, I wouldn't break someone like that. That wasn't a duel—it was a dissection."

"You think he wanted to hurt them?" Roen asked.

"Did you not see him collapse a ribcage?"

"Because they didn't listen," Dombach added from behind, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "They came to embarrass someone who didn't carry a noble name. They thought titles meant talent."

Fenice frowned. "And what—this is justified? That cruelty was the answer?"

Dombach snorted. "He taught them more in five minutes than their noble houses could in ten years."

"No," Fenice said quietly, leaning back in his seat, "that was unjustified cruelty. And cruelty has a cost."

Roen looked out at the arena, where Martin knelt beside one of his constructs, casually disassembling it with surgical ease.

"He knows," Roen said. "Trust me. He knows exactly what it costs."