The ultimate one of Gaia

Fenice stood before Martin, golden eyes locking with red under the pale dawn that filtered through the torn canopy overhead. Between them stretched a silent wasteland of scorched soil, shattered stone, and drifting blackened embers. The only sounds were the faint crackle of dying flames and the ragged breaths of the last few conscious students crawling away, desperate to trigger their safety glyphs before Martin's mana touched them again.

"You came here alone," Martin said, tilting his head slightly, tone oddly casual amid the ruin, "With the amount of women fawning over you, I thought there would be more. An entourage, perhaps. Someone to cheer you on."

Fenice's jaw tightened but he didn't rise to the bait. "You've done enough for today."

"Define enough," Martin countered, his voice calm as his scepter's black-silver body pulsed faintly with residual dread flame, "They came for the fight, not me. I simply gave them what they paid for."

"You could have disabled them," Fenice pressed, his golden eyes unwavering, "You could have bound them, disarmed them, humiliated them if you wanted. But you chose this. Terror."

"I did disable them," Martin said with a faint, humorless smile, "They're alive, aren't they?"

"Alive," Fenice echoed, voice darkening, "Broken. Traumatized. Some of them will never hold a staff again. Some will dream of your voice when they close their eyes. This isn't strength, Martin. This is decay."

"This is strength," Martin replied, stepping forward so that their shadows merged on the cracked marble beneath, "Fear bypasses logic, ideology, morality. Fear is the only truth people accept without question. You can debate a sword at your throat, but not terror in your veins."

Fenice's hand rested lightly on his sheathed blade, thumb tapping the cross-guard once. "Is that what you want? To be feared? To be a monster wrapped in clever excuses?"

"I am one already," Martin said, almost softly, as if confessing the weather.

"That is not something you should be proud of," Fenice answered, and for the first time his voice trembled, just enough to show the fracture beneath his calm.

"Don't make that expression," Martin warned, eyes narrowing, "The last thing I want is pity from you."

Fenice's lips parted, the golden light of dawn catching the edge of his jaw. "I am mourning you."

"I am not dead," Martin snapped, the words sharp as cut glass, "And you are not a priest. You're a swordsman playing executioner for other people's nightmares."

"I'm not here to execute you, Martin," Fenice said, voice low, "I'm here to stop you."

Martin exhaled, a dry laugh flickering from his chest like a cough. "Now get out of my way. I still have twelve targets left on my list."

"I can't do that," Fenice said, golden eyes hardening like smelted gold, "You have traumatized enough people for today. It ends here."

Martin opened his mouth to reply, but a new voice cut the air like a thrown blade.

"Are you two done?" Diemo emerged from behind a partially collapsed archway, her lean frame outlined by the hazy glow of the shattered battlefield. She wiped a streak of ash from her cheek with the back of her hand.

"You came out of hiding," Martin observed.

"Got bored of your tragic debate," Diemo shrugged, rolling her shoulders with a crack of bone, "Two beautiful men debating morality under the morning sun—sounds romantic, but it's annoying when you stand next to it in person."

Fenice didn't look at her, his focus still pinned to Martin like a sword-point. "Diemo, this is not your fight."

"Oh, but it is," Diemo replied, her grin all teeth and something feral flickering in her eyes, "Martin owes me a proper battle. He promised. And he never breaks a promise."

Martin sighed faintly, the sound brittle around the edges. 'This is getting tedious,' he thought, watching the two of them as if from a great height.

"You look tired," Fenice said suddenly, softer than before, almost like he was speaking to the boy Martin had once been instead of the creature standing in front of him now.

"I am," Martin admitted without shame. He snapped his fingers. A dull explosion thundered in the distance—a muted pulse that rattled the cracked stones underfoot.

"What did you do?" Fenice asked, eyes narrowing.

"With that," Martin said, sounding genuinely bored, "the entire CLL team is officially out of the Wargames. Every reserve formation, every hidden squad, every last heir they thought they could hide."

"You... you destroyed them remotely?" Diemo asked, half laughing, half incredulous.

"I laid traps," Martin said simply, "I always lay traps. People think I fight head-on, but I don't. I plan. I poison the ground they walk on. And then I smile when they step in it."

He turned his back on Fenice, flicking the scepter's tip toward the forest's charred remains. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to rack up more points. The Wargames aren't over yet."

"No, it's over," Diemo said, pointing skyward.

Martin followed her finger, his eyes narrowing at the massive floating rune-dial above the island's ruins. The countdown glyphs flickered and pulsed—00:00:59… 58… 57…

"According to that," Diemo said, voice almost cheerful, "you have less than a minute."

Martin's shoulders dropped a fraction. He glanced at the scepter in his hand as it began to hum, absorbing the last filaments of dread flame swirling around his feet.

"Stop," Fenice said suddenly, stepping forward. His gloved hand clamped around Martin's wrist with gentle force, "If you don't stop, if you try to squeeze another point out of this… the nobles will try to kill you. By any means necessary."

"You do realize I have enough—" Martin began, but Diemo cut him off with a lazy wave of her hand.

"And the time is over," she said.

Martin froze.

"What???" He blinked once, then twice, watching as the massive rune dial's final second winked out, replaced by the sigil for End that flared across the sky like a closing eye.

In the observation hall, nobles erupted into cheers, some from relief, others from the sheer vindictive satisfaction that Martin's rampage had been halted by a clock of all things. Belisarius exhaled, Bellarine snapped her runic tablet closed with a decisive flick, and Roen just buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with a soft laugh that no one but the Headmaster heard.

Martin lowered his scepter, staring at the empty dial overhead. For the first time that morning, the corner of his mouth twitched in genuine frustration.

Diemo clapped him on the shoulder, ignoring the lingering threads of mana that curled like smoke from his coat. "Good effort though. Next time, start earlier."

Fenice didn't release Martin's wrist. He held it lightly but firmly, like one might grip the last string holding a puppet aloft.

In that quiet moment, Martin didn't pull away.