The ultimate one of Gaia

The battlefield fell silent for a moment.

Flickering embers from Phoenix Annihilation drifted lazily through the scorched clearing, their fading glow reflecting in Martin's pale eyes. His tattered coat fluttered softly in the breeze, torn edges trailing threads of shadowy mana that coiled and writhed with serpentine patience.

"You… you survived that?" Leon Fargus breathed, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to maintain composure.

"I am not omnipotent, you know," Martin replied dryly, as the lightning metal sphere he had summoned earlier descended beside him. Its surface flickered with static arcs, crackling like caged storms.

"Attack now!" Iven roared from the rear, eyes wide with fear as he felt the impending threat crawl up his spine like ice-cold insects, "Bombard him!!"

A dozen mages raised their staffs, chanting rapid incantations that summoned a hailstorm of fire lances, wind cutters, and spear-shaped glyph projectiles. The entire clearing was swallowed in a maelstrom of magical devastation.

"Lightning is just another form of energy, you know," Martin remarked softly, his voice almost lost amid the cacophony. The sphere began to spin faster, its internal glyph rings rotating in counter-cyclonic patterns, absorbing every spell impact like a black hole devouring light.

In the observation room, nobles leaned forward in horror as streams of spellfire vanished into the metallic orb.

"The barrage is disappearing," gasped a noblewoman, clutching her chest.

"But how?" another asked, voice cracking with disbelief.

"It is absorbing the energy," Bellarine said calmly, fingers flicking across her runic tablet as she recorded the data. Her tone carried no shock, only analytical curiosity.

"But there is no sign of dark magic," Belisarius muttered, brows furrowed.

"We will have to ask that later," Roen whispered, eyes locked onto the flickering screens, feeling the cold drip of dread down his spine.

On the field, the spells ceased.

"You done?" Martin asked, tilting his head slightly. His voice echoed unnaturally through the sudden silence, "Although, it is only at a quarter, it should be enough."

"Defensive formations! Fortify the dome! Maximum barrier compression!" Leon screamed, desperation cracking his disciplined cadence.

Martin lifted his scepter, eyes half-lidded with a bored, detached sadness. His voice dropped into a low incantation, words vibrating the very air.

"I am the smile of the worm-cleansed skull. I am the haunt of mausoleums, of graves and age, of dusk and dust. For I am Death."

Seven layered spiral circles formed behind him, each larger than the last, all focusing into a single converging point. The cannon materialised, its barrel etched in runes that flickered with jet-black particles condensed into a singularity of destructive potential.

"We are going to die!!" a boy sobbed, collapsing to his knees.

"Run!!" another screamed, breaking ranks entirely, his staff clattering to the ground.

"Stand your ground!!" Leon roared, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes, "Stand your ground!!"

"You can't… this isn't… human," Iven whispered, his staff trembling uncontrollably in his grip.

In the observation chamber, nobles erupted into chaos.

"Stop this at once!" bellowed a duke, pounding his fist against the obsidian railing so hard the veins on his neck bulged.

"He's going to kill them all!" shrieked a baroness, clutching her pearls with bloodless fingers.

"Where are the faculty mages? Stop him!!" screamed another, eyes wild with terror.

Belisarius stood, fists clenched at his sides, feeling sweat slide down his back despite the rune-regulated cool air. Bellarine continued to type calmly, recording every microsecond of Martin's mana output, while Roen simply closed his eyes, feeling the tension coil tighter in his chest until his lungs burned.

On the field, Martin's voice fell to a whisper as the cannon finalised its charge.

"Destruction Mortar," he commanded.

There was no dramatic explosion. No fiery eruption. Only a blinding flash of absolute darkness that swallowed the clearing in silent annihilation. The ground cracked and cratered under the oppressive force. Trees, rock, and mana barriers were shredded into molecular ash as the cannon fired.

A hundred screams erupted at once.

The noble scions' formation shattered instantly. Students collapsed, sobbing and bleeding, teleport glyphs flickering desperately as their safety triggers activated, whisking them away before the onslaught consumed their flesh.

But then, much to Martin's annoyance, something split the beam in half.

The darkness fractured, ripped apart by a single arc of golden light.

As the smoke cleared, a figure stepped forward, his silhouette framed by the fading embers. Clad in full plate armor of luminous purple engraved with gold, his black hair tied loosely at the nape, and at his hip a single sword — sheathed in an ornate scabbard engraved with seven chained seals.

The gilded blade had arrived.

"Fenice," Martin said quietly, brushing dust from his cheek with mild irritation.

"You've caused quite the mess this morning," Fenice said, his voice soft yet carrying across the decimated clearing with unnatural clarity. His golden eyes glowed with a gentle melancholy as he surveyed the fallen students, the ruined earth, and finally Martin's impassive expression, "Was this necessary?"

Martin sighed faintly, resting the scepter across his shoulders like a yoke, "I was bored. Besides, they came to me."

"You could have disabled them non-lethally."

"I did. They're alive, aren't they?" Martin gestured lazily to the faint flickers of teleport glyph residue in the air, "Alive and scared shitless."

Fenice's eyes softened, sadness clouding his golden irises like drifting fog. "You are damaged."

Martin tilted his head slightly, shadows flickering across his face as his eyes narrowed, "That's another word for powerful."

The gilded blade did not draw his sword, but took a single step forward. His aura billowed outward, a tidal wave of serene, suffocating pressure. The air around him crystallised with golden fractal sigils, reality itself tightening under his presence.

In the observation hall, silence reigned as nobles, faculty, and students alike watched the scene unfold with bated breath. Even Emperor Burgest Marlo leaned forward slightly, a glimmer of genuine interest igniting behind his leonine eyes.

Beside him, Headmaster Woldamort's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile, "And so the true Wargames begin."