Magic Breaker Ch 220 - 222 [B3 End!] (Patreon)

Chapter 220: Sweltering

My breath comes slowly. I take my time with it, savoring the crackling quiet in the air, the way that Lars glares at me. His fingers twitch, and he moves first. In a swift motion, he draws a wand from his belt, a runed twig of wood, and courses mana through it.

Instantly, lines of glyphs light up around the side of the implement, and his mana transforms. In a scarily efficient way, his mana converts to heat, and a fireball forms. It streaks at my face with a hiss, a probing shot.

My mana rolls out of me as a wave, sliding across the sand, manifesting a sphere of perception around me. I feet the path of the fireball, streaking through the ebb and flow of my mana, and step aside. My mana rolls back into my vessel, recycled, reinforcing the pathways through my flesh, and the ball of fire simply sinks into the sand behind me.

Lars grins, and I feel his mana rising. He points, then waves the wand again, sending out fireballs in three quick bursts, this time. Probingly, they smack into the sand around me as I dodge. I keep my face calmly leveled at him, the glowing eyes of my mask staring him down. But Lars seems to thrive.

With every ball of fire, I can feel the air heat up slightly. Trails of warmth sink into the ground beneath us and hang in the atmosphere. The crowd hums with renewed energy each time he attacks me, even as I stand there and do nothing. The glyphs writhe around the wand, phantom images lifting off it, crawling up Lars’ arms.

And his power builds.

I can feel it in the way his authority rubs against mine. The slow, humming way that his mana gains heat, the way it lashes out faster each time. In how lazy, slow fireballs, turn into searing streaks, punching through my entire [Observation] field within a single second.

Yet, I do nothing.

My steps are slow, lazy. The cruncher still has a firm grip on me, my every muscle creaking with each twitch. I can feel the way my body groans as I move. Lars grins at my slowness. “What’s wrong, Ion?” he taunts. “Already burning out? Think your legend was exaggerated?” he asks, and the crowd laughs alongside him. Just a few chuckles in the noble audience, but he’s building momentum.

Building heat. I tilt my head softly. Is that his authority? Something building? Or maybe an epitaph… His authority already spreads against mine, continuously growing. It’s a powerful, heavy thing, a cloying heat that seeks to unmake me. To turn my skin to ash and blacken my bones.

It has a familiar taste. The taste of ash in my mouth, the taste of scorched earth. And I recognize it. Desolation.

A sad expression comes over my face. Another fireball brushes past me, the flames licking at the spikes of my mask as I just barely dodge. It slams into the ground with an explosion, the sand heating with the impact, fire spilling forth like a wave. Then, my mana brushes over those residual flames, and smothers them.

Are we really that similar? Me and Lars? Similar enough to get offered the same authority. It feels like an insult, to compare me with someone like him. Someone who breaks everything so easily, so wantonly, someone who was made to burn.

Yet, it’s true.

He launches another fireball. The glyphs have lifted entirely off the wand by now, humming and crackling like a bonfire, as angry, red lines of script hover across his arm. They look like glowing branding irons, almost ready to sink into him. But they’re controlled, tightly.

I extend my hand outwards, my flesh-hand, and coat it in mana, a thin, crystalline barrier. It comes easily, efficiently, answering my beck and call. Just a bare trickle. 

With a motion full of contempt, I smack the fireball out of the air. “We’re similar,” I say to Lars. “And that’s a tragedy.”

The pyromaniac just grins as he tosses the wand, pulling forth a handaxe instead. Runes still rotate around him, when the edge of the axe lights up. His authority presses against mine, and I can feel the lingering heat from his fireball on my mana pool. It’s… sticky, almost.

Another wave rolls out of me, smothering even those flames. Mana pushes in and out of me like the roiling ocean, and I take a breath. Then, slowly, bringing my power to bear, I inspect Lars.

[Pyro, lv. 141]

He’s strong. Higher-levelled than me, probably because he causes a lot of collateral damage. He must break so much. Same as Flamando, huh? That might be why the Flametouched hasn’t sent more descenders after me. It doesn’t have many who can control themselves.

A searing axe strikes at my face. Lars charges, fires bursting underneath his feet as he leaps, soaring at me through the air. The spectacular display gets cheers from the nobles, but I simply step back. He crashes into the ground - with a concussive explosion.

Flames roar outwards in a wall, orange-yellow fire rendered as nothing more than heat distortions to my perception. Bits of that infectious mana try to cling to me, but are easily drowned out by the sheer mass of mana I bring to bear.

Already, the axe is coming undone in Lars’ hands. The metal melts, even as he slashes at my neck, sending bits of molten bronze splattering. It cannot contain the heat of his mana, the destruction imbued from his authority, and he charges at me. 

I step back, shifting fluidly, moving like a wave. Like tomey demands from me, even when the motions hurt my joints. I’m not enough, not great enough yet, but there is an artistry to it all. My movements, my mana control, my vessel. Waves pour out of me, acting as eyes and a shield all at once.

A strike comes for my face, and the mana is already in front of me, suffusing the air. It takes less than a thought to turn it solid, into a triple-layered lattice barrier that catches the blow and the debris. Runes lift off the breaking metal and Lars grins, smashing through my defense, charging.

He’s a rabid dog to my carefully controlled elegance. His power builds and builds, heat rolling off him like a roaring bonfire. His skin smokes, the air around it distorting faintly from heat. Explosions propel him, flames feed his motions, and the sand underneath his feet shimmers faintly with heat.

And still, he cannot touch me.

Every slash tears through my barriers more easily, disintegrating more of his weapon. On the fifth swing, the axe comes apart entirely, its runes joining the ones hovering around him, burning an angry, bright colour. They shimmer and glow, and I watch them carefully.

Another slash, this time from a rapier he draws. Another step backwards, and yet more enchantments lift into the air. Heat builds. The air turns sweltering, like a furnace. Even with the massive arena, I can feel the temperature rising. A degree at first, then two, then five. Scorching flames lick at my clothes, and my skin underneath begins to blister faintly.

I restore myself. Healing power washes over me once, and draws gasps from the crowd. There were those who didn’t believe the stories, and are forced to do so now. Lars’ grin turns feral. “Oho?” he asks. “Already starting to shrivel from the heat? Shoulda stayed outta the fucking kitchen. Now, you’ll burn.”

His desolation surges forward, an attack all on its own. I can feel it feed the flame, and be fed in return. A cycle of destruction feeding destruction, like a fire consuming a forest. Lars is built to burn anything, turn even the most inept materials into fuel. I can feel the sand begin to bubble and blister under his authority, I can feel my own mana try to get dawn in.

And I breathe. Fire explodes from his feet. Fire encases his weapon. Fire streaks in front of my face, piercing through my field. Again and again, my waves of mana crash over his flames. I create barriers, I shift my footing, I duck and step back, over and over again.

Lars grins. “What’s wrong? What happened to your big fuckin’ mouth, bitch?!” He lunges, the rapier stabbing forward. It’s blazing fast, runes lighting up with heat, lifting into the air as its molten tip smacks into my mask - and splatters.

Molten metal scorches the wood,marring the beautiful paint Thatch put so much time in. It makes my skin blister underneath. It burns and hisses as pain rolls through me - and yet, I stay calm. I heal, I step back, I maintain my distance.

[Biological Alteration 12 > 13]

I breathe in deep, and slowly unseal one of my skills. [Obfuscation]. Mana feeds into the little trick, and I blur to Lars’ senses-

He draws another weapon, a knife this time, and charges at me unerringly. 

The metal easily punches through my robe, digging into my arm as I bring it up to block. It cuts through flesh and sinew, grazing bones, then instantly searing the wound shut as the blade turns glowing hot. 

Ah. Heat. I didn’t hide my heat signature with [Obfuscation]. Rookie mistake.

[Annexation 12 > 13]

[Obfuscation 16 > 18]

When I step back again, Lars properly furrows his brows. The heat still rises, flames still wash forward, but my mana pulses outwards. Like a bucket on a fire, some of his rising power dissipates, but not enough. He is a roaring bonfire.

Sand burns, silver-white grains lighting on fire. They carry the heat. The air itself begins to grow hotter, becoming uncomfortable to breathe. Lars chases ghosts with his knife, but every time I slip even a little, he lunges at me like a feral beast.

All the while, he smiles. Maniacally. Happily. 

Pearly white teeth bared in a grin. “Come on, Ion! Fucking fight me! Let me burn you!” 

Calmly, I pulse my mana again, and at the same time, he lunges. Fire pierces through my wave, and it doesn’t extinguish. It keeps building. His desolation burns at me, tearing at my skin, at my magic. It wants to ruin everything, and the razorblades of my defiance do a poor job at cutting his authority.

Slowly, I tilt my head, the heat building more. I think he’s at a rank above initiate with his authority. How scary.

Another blazing explosion tears through the air, sending a rumble through the arena. Cheers are growing louder now, as Lars takes up more space. He grows faster with the building heat. More dominant. He must be winning, because the runes swirl around him grow in size. In heat.

The flames turn paler, hotter. Yellow becomes glowing white. The sand incinerates. Dust in the air turns to sparkling, dancing fireflies. A few land on me, and the air fills with the smell of burnt hair and wood. My enchantments resist the fire, but I can feel them trying to lift and join him. My mana keeps them in place.

Lars is a furnace. He burns brighter and brighter, his own flames boiling against his skin. There’s an inner, illuminating radiance, channels of fire growing visible as white-red lines on his skin. The way he moves his powers are obvious, but inviolable. The heat is too strong to resist.

The dagger turns to slag in his hand, molten metal slipping helplessly to the ground. I see him grin as he picks up another item - one made from glass this time. And I watch. Slowly, it turns liquid, glyphs lifting, and he lets a bit of molten glass drop on his tongue. His own flesh burns, then mends, and I see him bulk up.

His muscles grow, his skin taking on a red hue, and he turns a few inches taller. Heat rolls off him in waves, overpowering and heavy. It’s enough to blast me backwards at this point. He manifests his mantle, a cape of rolling flames, that wraps around him.

Bit by bit, the sand burns. The air burns. His steps burn, and his clothes seem to light on fire, too. I breathe in air that is scorching hot enough to blister my lungs, and then I heal my insides. Efficiency guides my steps, my motions perfectly controlled to that invisible dance.

A wave of mana rolls off me - and catches fire.

“You let this go on too long,” Lars says, grinning happily.

A scorching fist comes for me, blazingly fast. I cannot dodge. It slams into the right side of my mask, with enough force to crack the wood, and lift me from the ground. I’m sent flying through the air, blazingly bright glyphs searing into my skin, and lighting it on fire. Flames grow from in between my clothes, and I burn.

Infectious fire spreads through my veins. Burning glyphs lay themselves on my skin, branding me as tinder. My fire resistance drops precipitously, and I feel my skin shrivel and unmake itself, even as I crash into the burning sand. It scalds my entire body. 

Heat burns its way into me. It digs its claw deep into my mana, lancing through those ethereal veins that cut through me. I rise to my feet, as the inside of my nose and mouth blister, and I cast another healing spell, and I smile.

My pain is [Suppressed], nothing but background information, telling me how long I have left to live. Healing buys time. 

The flames reach my vessel. The lick against that ethereal construct within my deepest core, and I feel the horrid glyphs infect my mana. The way it burns, turned to fuel for the fire. I could fight it, but…

[The Vesselmaker’s eyes widen in surprise. He guffaws at your bravery, and hopes you will not burn. He would offer a sponsorship, but is prohibited as per the rules of this duel.]

I grin underneath my mask. 

Someone’s figured me out.

Heat infects my vessel. My blood boils inside my veins, my mana perfectly suffusing it. A proper vessel needs tempering, and tempering needs heat. Luckily, I have a precious furnace right in front of me.

Chapter 221: Not Special

My brain boils. I barely keep my sanity together with my healing, and I carefully modulate [Suppression] to maintain my internal temperature. I am a single misstep, a single moment away from burning up, turning my entire self to ash. But it works.

[Vessel Construction 15 > 17]

Horrific amounts of heat wash through me. A truly obscene destruction, the kind of heat that should scorch my flesh black, kept in place only by my own magic. My own mana, burning as fuel, and yet, keeping its own incineration in check. 

The flame spreads through my vessel like an infection. It’s beautiful, almost, seeing the way it spreads, spreading so perfectly evenly. It heats my vessel the same from every single angle, tempering it. The desolation wants to tear it apart, but my own mana-lattice resists the effect. It’s too efficient to fail.

[The Flametouched watches in horror as you twist its essence.]

Awww, can the little buddy not handle having their precious destruction defiled? Tough shit.

Another flaming fist crashes into me, right into my stomach. Heat and burning runes, an explosion of fire tears through my insides. Blood wells in my mouth, flowing out easily. It boils my tongue instantly, and then I heal myself, restoring myself to health. My vessel grows. It grows and grows, drinking in the heat.

[Vessel Construction 17 > 18]

My mana pulses out of me in a ruinous wave, infecting itself with the fire, then pulls back into me, condensing the heat. It draws the terrible fire from my muscles, and carries it all to that centermost point in my chest.

Infernal power washes over my vessel. Lars shittalks me as he walks, drinking in his superiority. I’m not even fighting him at this point. The heat builds to a slow crescendo, to the absolute maximum he can support with his desolation, and it fills me. I enhance it, feed it my own mana.

A surge of flames incinerates more of my hair, it bleaches the paint on my mask. The sand begins to turn to glass underneath his feet, and Lars laughs. His fire has me in its grasp, it is choking the life out of me with every passing second.

And I embrace it. Taking it in, I let it ruin me. I let the pain become meaningless, I condense the heat where it needs to go, using my own channels to funnel it. My vessel begins to glow and buzz. My mana pushes out, then back in, rhythmic pulses.

Waves that return to the ocean. They drag in more heat, and push out the impurities. The bits of my vessel that fail to withstand the heat. Flakes of mana-debris. Slag. I can feel it growing.

[Vessel Construction 18 > 19]

Time becomes a blur. I focus on the technique. In and out. Cycle by cycle. Grow stronger. Grow purer. The flames wash away the falsehood of weakness. The desolation leaves behind only what it cannot destroy. I don’t break. I don’t break.

My mind blurs as the heat climbs. As the fires become almost too much to bear. As the condensed heat turns my vessel incandescent in my chest. As I force it into the burning star that screams at my core, force my mana inwards and outwards.

A pulsing heartbeat. Waves from an ocean. A slow breathing.

Heat. Fire. Purity. It becomes a jumbled mess in my mind, and I turn into nothing but the steady, rhythmic motion of the waves.

My pain becomes nothing. My flesh becomes meaningless. My vessel matters. And it heats and heats and heats…

And then it stops.

[Vessel Construction 19 > 20]

The heck? It stops? I turn my head, looking around in confusion, then remember I’m blind. My mana spills out of me. It burns to ashes, but the brief pulls of [Observation] still whispers its truth to me. 

Around me, everything is on fire. I’m on fire, Lars is on fire, desolation has thoroughly covered this arena. Every single item on Lars has turned to slag. A hundred runes have seared themselves into my skin. But the heat… no longer climbs.

I tilt my head. I open my mouth to speak, but instantly, it burns. My tongue, my flesh, everything sears. I hiss in pain, then draw it all inwards, to my vessel, glowing brightly amidst the fire. But I want to ask. I need to know.

Is this… all? 

Lars pants. His breathing is ragged, and he charges me again. His fist burns, and it strikes me. It sends me flying, it cracks my ribs, and I crash into the sand. I ache, I burn. But the heat doesn’t climb. It’s all condensed. It’s peaked.

My flesh blisters and burns. My hair curls up into black charcoal. I can’t even smell, because my nose burns. Pain becomes meaningless in this horrid landscape of heat and desolation. And yet, and yet.

I [Select] Lars. It’s a strong tether, instantly infected with the heat. It carries it across from him to me, should have brought his heat to me, but it doesn’t. 

I’m burning more than him. My heat flows over into him. I ask, silently, through the connection. “Is this it?” 

Lars blinks. I blink. My vessel stops growing more pure.

It’s shed a dozen layers. It’s thinner now, a terribly fragile looking thing, but it is purer than ever. An incandescent thing sits in the core of my chest, stronger, more sturdy than ever before. It might even be enough to contain my mana… and we can’t have that.

[Vesselsmith 18 > 23]

Mana pours into me. The fire is so familiar, so second nature, in my delirious state, I am loath to let it go. My mana rushes out of me, a violent, hungry wave. It whispers to me about the state of the arena, the yells of the crowd, the way the heat washes over me. I grab at the heat, funneling more inside me, at my hungry vessel, burning away a few more impurities. A bit more slag, reduced to nothing.

But the heat doesn’t climb anymore. Lars has nothing left to give me.

I stare at him. At the way the oceanic waves roll in and out of me. They’re so much bigger now, and I feel the way the channels through me have changed, too. The heat has tempered them, driven them into me.

My mana feels almost easy to control, tempered by the heat. It’s infected. It’s burning. And I’m tired of it.

In a single instant, I expel it all. A single breath, and my mana pours outward.

A terrible torrent, a horrible hurricane of mana tears out of me. I rise from the floor like a zombie, my muscles screaming and burnt. My skin reduced to a cracked, ash-covered mess. But the blast still comes.

Lars’ eyes widen, and he flies backwards. He slams into the wall of the arena, then grits his teeth and gets up. “Why won’t you die?!” he roars into the heat.

But I don’t answer. In that single, terrible moment, where heat and pain is my world, where I’m blind and my mind has but one focus, I take a step. 

All that mana crashes back into me.

Every single drop, a full vessel, into the still-burning star in my chest. It’s a concussive blast that threatens to shatter me, but I hold it all in place. With ice-cold efficiency, I refuse to let anything break. I keep myself together.

[Suppression 35 > 37]

My mana gathers in my vessel, and there is not enough space. I’ve regenerated more. I’ve burnt so much away. There’s not enough space, but I force it inwards anyway. The mana rages against it, it wants to grow outwards, but there is a terrible truth.

No matter how far a wave comes, it feeds back into the ocean eventually.

The pressure mounts, and I refuse to crack. I breathe. I focus. I force it inwards. And I succeed.

[New Skill acquired!]

[Compression 0 > 1]

In a single, horrifying moment, my mana screams into itself, and undergoes a lesser metamorphosis. The waves crash into the stellar core, and they crash into each other. They fuse, combine, and grow denser. Pressure mounts in a horrific thing, the kind that threatens to shatter my vessel again. 

Proper power, as it should be.

I smile brightly, blood leaking through my teeth, and let the change settle over me. Lars charges at me, but I pulse my mana again. A wave of it crashes outwards.

[Compression 1 > 2]

The heat shatters.

[Deconstruction 28 > 30]

[Annexation 13 > 14]

In a rippling, outward wave, I feel my mana crash into a thousand tiny barriers, and each one of them crumbles to dust. I unmake it all. The flames break, the clinging runes come apart, the cloying heat in the air unravels. It’s all made true by the desolation, and if it couldn’t break me, then I can break it.

[Inscription 28 > 29]

The glyphs, seared into my skin, are understood, computed, added to the archive, and then broken into pieces. Flakes of ash lift off me, as I cast another healing spell, [Suppression] hanging heavily in the air around. My new epitaph, Clinging Consequence, hangs heavily in the air, carrying traces of what happened.

Around me, the flames don’t dare to rage. The air doesn’t dare to boil. With brutal efficiency, I squash every single manifestation of it. Runes shatter. Flames crumble. Heat is suppressed until nothing remains. 

And when it’s finally cold enough to speak, I ask that single question I’ve wondered the entire time. I heal my mouth, my tongue, and stare at Lars. “Is that it?” I ask, and I almost sound sad. “C’mon. Please show me more.”

But he disappoints me. Tragically, on his face, a look of surprise spreads. “What the fuck?” he whispers. The crowd is silent as I stand. I must look like a husk, a mummy draped in perfect white. “Why are you still fucking alive? You should’ve burned to a crisp! You’re fuckin’ fragile!”

Gently, I shrug. “Guess I’m just that hot,” I say. Then, I spread my fields wider.

Compressed, dense mana spills out of me in a wave, imbued with [Suppression]. The flames are smothered. Glowing hot glass turns cool underneath my feet, and I step forward. Lars stares at me, and charges. He brings fire to bear - but when he comes close, when he steps past that sphere around me where heat dies, he slows.

It’s like watching a lightning bolt travel through a swamp. He’s so fast, so burning hot, so unstoppable, and then all that rage crashes to a halt. I look at him, latching on with my [Selection], and sigh softly.

[Selection 33 > 34]

“You lost.”

[Suppression] sneaks across the tether first. It dampens every single one of his skills. I remember the way the flames roared through me, the way they infected me, and I know they’re similar to my own Clinging Consequence, so I apply a dozen more stacks to him.

Lars gasps as his lungs stop working. His legs refuse to move. He starts to fall as if in slow motion. Crumpling like moving through molasses.

My cracked skin mends with another infusion of mana, gold-white flames rolling over myself, jumping from the gaps in my clothing as my horribly burnt skin mends itself. And I walk closer. 

The pyromaniac summons more fire, but my mantle wraps around me. Strings and geometric patterns hang in the air like gossamer, a faint veil behind my head. I remember the patterns for his skills, the ones he used for the entire fight to crank up the heat. 

And they shatter.

Fires around his fists crumble to embers. His feet are supported by nothing but ash. The air around him tries to heat up, but the mana simply feeds me. I lash out with shallow, precise cuts, efficiently dismantling everything he does.

His heat rolled through me for so long. If I still didn’t understand how it worked, I’d be fucking ashamed of myself.

And every [Deconstruction] clings to him. Every skill I break stays broken. When he tries to cast them again, it’s like a curse. He goes through his entire roster, even using a perception-skill and a stealth-skill, but they break all the same. With more effort, sure, but it doesn’t matter.

After an eternity, Lars’ face finally hits the sand. I squat in front of him, tilting my head, the eyes of my mask boring into him as my mana suffocates everything he does. Turns the forest inside him off with a flick. Reduces his desolation to nothing. 

For a moment, while my mana clings to him, I’ve made him mortal again.

I’ve taken it all away, and reduced him to someone who isn’t even special.

“Is that all?” I ask again. 

He can’t reply. Moving his mouth is too hard against my [Suppression]. The overbearing presence of my compressed, forged vessel, turns him into a nobody. For a moment, I teetered between life and death.

But I lived, and so I win.

Slowly, I nod. He doesn’t cast anything. He’s out. So, with a contemptuously easy motion, I step on his head. It’s slow, and the crowd is silent. I press Lars’ face into the sand. 

Erodyl’s crackling lightning splits the sky above the arena. “We have our winner!” the monarch of Downpour announces. “Ion Flamebreaker!” 

I’m greeted by nothing but silence as the fight ends. My smile has long since been wiped away, and all I feel is emptiness. I stare at Lars as the barrier above us disappears, and I bring up my hood. Rain stains the pristine sand grey. 

“This is all you amounted to, huh?” I ask the beaten figure on the ground. “Ah well. Be kind, from now on. I’ll spare you,” I whisper. “But remember that I can make you human again.”

And then, I walk off.

I really need a shower, and to listen to some music.

Chapter 222: Aftermath, Umbrella

PoV: Erodyl

Sitting on a substitute throne, I stare down at the arena. My head leans lazily on a metallic arm, the cold embrace of bronze giving me security. Even now, the air still smells of ash and soot.

House Richter’s champion lies in the sand that he, himself, turned to glass. One of the rising stars of humanity, crushed like nothing. A curtain of desolation hangs over the arena, still humming with disintegrating, cruel energy.

I wave my hand, and dispel it all.

A breeze comes down from the sky, and my authority clears everything else away. But I do not touch the human. I do not break him, and I do not free him. All I do is nod at one of the healers present, an older man with a hunched back and gossamer threads of silver for hair. He walks down the stairs with a cane, and heals the human.

Lars, failed champion of the Richter family, rises slowly. Ion is a step away from leaving the arena, when I call for them to stop. “Ion,” I say quietly, but the wind carries the message all throughout the arena. “You have won. You may claim your prize.”

The figure cloaked in white pauses, then turns around with almost mechanical motions. Watching Ion move is almost like a mirror. More automaton than human. Every movement is calculated and precise, dictated by perfect efficiency. Not laziness, but a conservation of power.

“Elliot Richter,” I call out for the man whose champion failed. His face is red, overwriting his metallic countenance, and he’s forced to step down to the sands. It’s humiliating, and I see some rival families snicker. My authority rolls outwards, silencing them. This is not the time for mockery.

“Pay your dues,” I call, and watch as Elliot clenches his fist. The boy grits his teeth, fights himself from charging at Ion, from trying to tear that mask off and scream. But he’s controlled, just barely. Like a rabid dog on a leash. 

But he does pay. When he gets down, he hands Ion a letter, which is swiftly unfolded into a list. A full list of every single item the Richter family’s treasury holds. I watch as the masked figure scans it with apathetic efficiency, and then nods once. Instead of giving an answer, Ion just lays a gloved finger on the piece of paper.

Elliot looks, then grits his teeth. “You filthy mutt,” he sneers. “How dare you demand-”

“Mr. Richter,” I remind him calmly, my voice cutting through the air. My authority chokes the words from his mouth. “You made your bet, now fulfill it. Do not bring even more shame on yourself.”

With an expression that shows his fury, Elliot just barely holds back. But he does hold back. Even as he is forced to hand over his prized jewels, a hundred of them, securely in a bag that Ion promptly stashes away. And then, with a grimace like no other, and under the hateful glare of his father, Elliot Richter takes, from his belt, a simple-looking metal rod, handing it over to Ion.

In a single swift motion, the masked figure spins the item, pointing the hollow end of the rod upwards, and channelling it full of mana. A projection of wind and force emanates from it, blasting upwards into a curled dome. All around the stadium, nobles gasp. Ion hums, then nods, and turns around.

“You’ll pay for this,” Elliot hisses. 

By now, even the other nobles seem to mostly forget his shame. Some of the younger ones, lesser in their control, shoot the duel’s victor ugly glares. The older ones, instead, look at each other, already hatching plots only through eye contact. To stifle, hinder, and kill Ion.

I wonder. Will they succeed? Or will they just be fuel to the legend? As Ion leaves, and my lady Respitia whispers wishes of their ruin into my ear, I hum to myself. The sky trembles at the simple notion. 

Ion stole an heirloom, an item meant only for nobles. It might be a meaningless trinket, but I know that Elliot will never see it again. It’ll be broken and taken apart by the end of the week, I’m sure. 

My eyes glint with faint amusement. Ion is young and bold. New integrations are often like that, I suppose, but it is indeed joyous to see change again. I smile at the sky, despite my lady’s protests, and mouth a message meant for only one person. “Found someone you like, huh, Warden?”

I recognize those old techniques, because how could I not. Seeing them makes my old wounds throb with forgotten pain. 

Good times. I let the nobles scheme, and plot. I won’t even stop my lady from trying to kill this rookie.

After all, if Ion rises despite all that… well, it’ll be rather fun, won’t it?

- - -

PoV: Lars Indolex - Fireborn

I wake up wrapped in rough sheets. Everything hurts. My entire body aches, as if my bones have been turned to glass. The world itself feels heavy against me. I grit my teeth and move - and find I have few wounds.

Somehow, I’m alive. “What… happened?” I whisper.

“You lost,” a man at my bedside helpfully informs me. He’s scrawny and old as hell, hunched back and silver-grey hair. He’s got that metallic skin some of the NPCs have, and I move to sit up, only for his hand to land on my chest.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” I hiss on instinct, grabbing his arm and twisting - but nothing happens. 

It feels like trying to lift a mountain. With contemptuous ease, he pushes me back onto the bed. I choke on air as I’m forced back down, and the man pushes his glasses up. “You’re still weakened, Lars,” he informs me calmly. 

“Fuck this,” I hum. “What a shit game. I want out.”

“Game?” he asks, tilting his head, then shaking it. “Oh, some newly integrated believe this world to be fake. I assure you, this is all very real. If you died, you died for real. Now, lay down. Try to remember what happened.”

His voice is calm and even, and even if I wanted to, there’s nothing I can do but lay down. My body protests any motion except laying down, and I grimace as I have to obey. Already, the desolation hums for me to destroy things again, but even that feels quiet.

Despite everything, my head is clear. I listen to the man as he prattles on.

“You were in a duel, yes?” he asks.

One moment to another, the memories come back. The building heat, the glee, the destruction. I remember punch after punch. A furnace, the center of a star. I remember my veins glowing white-hot, my steps scorching the sand, and I grin.

“Did I win?” I ask.

“You lost,” the old man provides with a small frown. “You’re alive because your opponent spared you.”

And those words hit me like a freight train. I remember, one moment to another. I remember how Ion, the fucker, just got back up. After I pumped their body full of heat, after their flesh should have melted off their bones, the bitch just got up. And then, a touch of mana, a voice in my head.

“You lost.”

Disappointment. There was no anger there, no resentment, just disappointment. Like I’m yet another stepping stone - wait, wasn’t I literally fucking stepping stone? “Bitch,” I swear, remembering a boot on the back of my head, pressing my face into the sand.

And the feeling of my abilities being stripped away.

The moment of horror as flame by flame broke and shattered. The way I stopped being superhuman. How my body betrayed me, and then my magic did the same.

I draw in a hissing breath, and try to summon those flames again. To cling to that power - and I fail. A spark appears above my hand, then fizzles out. A bit of pain lances through my arm, and the old man, my healer, apparently, shakes his head.

“You’re cursed,” he announces mournfully. “Their spells cling to you. You’ll have to wait until you can cast again.”

My stomach twists. There’s a horrible realization in there… and yet, I feel freer. Like my eyes aren’t clouded for the first time in a while. I was obsessed, and now, that obsession lays broken. Shards of glass buried in fucking sand.

Worthless.

I’ve been deemed worthless. Not even worth killing. “Be kinder,” I whisper, clenching my fists, digging my nails into my palm.

Fuck. I lost. Ion let me build to my absolute maximum, let my authority rage, and then crushed me. How close to death were they? How close to death did I get? Even now I feel my own flames having scorched me from the inside.

“What a fucking mess,” I say, bringing my hands to my face. 

“It gets worse,” the healer announces drily. “Elliot Richter has seen fit to terminate your employment after your loss, especially once your lack of capabilities was revealed.”

Lost my fucking job, too. And I’m just… human. Mundane. No powers.

Fuck fucking me, man.

- - -

PoV: Snow Okiyama - Ion

[Level Up! 99 > 102]

I stumble back out onto the street, keeping my stride steady, even when I feel anything but. Step after step, while my vessel toils inside me. I feel leeched, empty, and exhausted. My entire body is sore from tempering, and the lingering heat is slowly burning my muscles, even as my vessel is far stronger than ever before.

Who knew containing this much mana would give me this much trouble? Surely this isn’t my fault. Dang you, system, for never warning me of this. I would have made better decisions!

Okay, I would still have done the exact same thing. It’s heccing magic. A small smile plays on my lips as I hold my prize: an umbrella. It’s so silly to be so happy about it, but the enchantments on it are unlike anything I’ve ever seen. They’re on par, if not greater, than what Warden gave me. I have so, so much to learn from taking them apart.

Can I recombine them to form skill patterns? Maybe to get some kind of proper concussive blast, rather than just pushing mana at someone and hoping for the best… Even now, [Compression] hums at the back of my mind, a scary kind of presence. It feels like it wants to be used, like it wants me to use it on myself, my own mana.

Which seems like a really bad idea, to be honest. Like, it feels like I’d blow myself up, tear myself apart.

And yet…

But I resist. Instead, I walk through the rain, white mask and clothes trailing after me. It’d be easy for anyone to identify me as Ion, but I run [Obfuscation] with my regenerating mana, hiding me from prying eyes. The rest, I leave up to Erodyl, whose probing mana still hangs over me like a crackling curtain of rain.

I take a deep breath, and smell rain and ozone. I smell noble idiots who want to kill me. I take in all of the grudges that cling to me like soot and ash. Respitia, Flametouched, Lars, Elliot Richter. There’s so many of them who hate me, so many who want to see me break.

We’ll see who breaks first.

Gently and efficiently, I walk through the rain, and not a drop touches me. I look ahead into the dark day and smile. All I have to do first… is get home to my friends.