Chapter 296: Next Genius
Rather than the regenerative aspect of Adyr’s innate talent, Thalira’s would function as a passive buff: when she is watched, her physique and speed rise. With that, the pieces clicked into place in his mind.
His conclusion was simple: Thalira had evolved in a way that made her stronger and faster under attention. The more eyes on her, the greater the increase.
She’ll be a tough opponent. Adyr smiled, fully grasping how this stage fed her advantage. With thousands of eyes fixed on her, every gaze worked like fuel; this arena was the perfect place for her to fight at her absolute peak.
"What do you think?" Liora asked, cutting him a side glance, openly curious about what was passing through his mind.
Adyr rolled his shoulders in a small shrug. "I might not be able to defeat her."
The line made sense, yet it landed heavily between them.
"Whaaat? You can’t let yourself be beaten by another woman." Mirela tightened her grip on his arm, blurting it out in a rush, her rainbow eyes fixed on his with a mix of worry and stubborn faith.
Adyr studied her for a moment, as if testing what "beaten" meant in her logic. "I’m not saying I would lose. Maybe a tie?"
Without using his Malice or his Presence
, he lacked obvious advantages against that kind of speed.He did have tools from Earth—throwing knives and small explosives—and with the right strategy, he could break her momentum, force stutters in her acceleration, and turn the fight in his favor.
But judged on raw power alone, though, he was fairly sure that against her the best he could do was hold his ground and defend through the incoming flurry until an opening appeared.
Hearing his words, Mirela didn’t look satisfied; in her eyes, Adyr was already highlighted to a stage where his image couldn’t falter in front of any kind of power, but she still decided to stay silent and keep giving emotional support by making him feel all the soft parts of her body and sharing her warmth through close, intimate contact.
"Her swordplay talent might also be quite high." Lucen entered the conversation at last, his gaze still on the arena, voice even. He had followed every exchange with careful attention, eyes narrowing at details most people missed.
Adyr turned to him, interested. "Compared to mine?"
"It is not a clean one-to-one," Lucen said. "Her swordplay is full offense. Yours is a precise balance of offense and defense. If you are asking who shows more mastery within their own technique, hers is a step ahead of yours."
Adyr paused. [Sword Art of Existence] was Level 2 for him, a bloodline talent that was harder to raise than ordinary talents. If she stood a step ahead within her own form, that could only mean Thalira’s swordplay talent was at least Level 4.
The realization carried another truth with it. Thalira was already ready to advance to Rank 3 Practitioner. Like Adyr, she was holding back.
Caprion strode back into the ring, clapping as his hooves clicked across the marble. "What an exciting, truly eye-catching bout," he announced, his voice carrying to the highest tiers.
To anyone who had failed to follow the strike—who had only seen a flash of silver and then bodies falling—the remark sounded almost like a jest.
At the edge of the arena, Maruun Aqua and several Aqualeth vaulted the boundary and hurried to their fallen kin. They knelt in the blood pooling across the pale stone, hands searching throats and ribs with a practiced urgency that faded, one by one, into stillness.
No breath. No pulse. Faces hardened in the same instant as the realization hit: all 5 were dead.
"Sorry for your loss," Caprion added, casting them a brief sidelong look. "It happens in the Practitioner world." The words met the air with a flat, official weight. He sounded more like a host fulfilling a duty than a man grieving the dead.
A colder hush took the tiers. Unlike Adyr—who had left the 5 Umbraen broken but alive to preserve his image as an Astra Path—Thalira Luna had ended her match in a single motion, cutting straight through the choice others might have called mercy. The marble seemed to hold that decision, the way it held heat from the sun, and the crowd felt it.
"It did not have to be this way," said Balech Aqua, king of the Aqualeth. His voice was low, but it carried cleanly, especially to the Lunari side.
No answer came back.
Had a fighter from one of the other top 2 races been killed, committees would already be forming and consequences argued over. But the dead were Aqualeth, a lower race in the eyes of many, and the arena did what the arena often does: it moved on.
What lingered was simpler and sharper. People looked at the bodies and then at the empty ring and measured themselves against it. The calculation was plain on their faces. When their turn came, the marble would not care whose feet stood upon it. If the next cut landed true, they could die just as easily. And for a long moment, even the loudest voices in the crowd held their tongues.
"Malrik, I’m actually glad you’re not participating in this tournament," Mirela said, sadness softening her face. The mere thought of her lifelong friend lying lifeless on that marble floor made her chest ache.
"Thank you, Lady Mirela... for the concern," Malrik replied with a weary sigh, not entirely sure whether to feel grateful or offended.
As for Adyr, being one of the contestants? No one even considered what might happen to him; they were all sure he would somehow be fine, even against monsters like Thalira and the rest.
Soon, the Aqualeth gathered their fallen kin, lifting lifeless bodies from the marble. They left behind only the blood, already darkening as it dried in thin fans across the stone.
Caprion did not call for a cleanup. He moved on without delay, letting the stains speak for him—letting the next competitors understand, at a glance, the seriousness and weight of the tournament they had entered.
"I can see you’re here for the talented—for the geniuses," he said, his voice carrying as he swept his gaze across the tiers. "So for the next match, let’s bring you another one." He paused, letting the hush tighten.
"5-man Team 3 from the Obsidren race... and for their opponents—" He drew out the breath, a small, knowing sneer lifting one corner of his mouth. "1-man Team 1 from the respected Gorathim race."
The reaction cracked through the lower ranks at once—quick, startled murmurs running row to row.
Team 1 was supposed to field 5 of a race’s best. The Gorathim were a top race with no shortage of candidates. So why did their Team 1 consist of a single fighter?
The question rippled through the stands, unanswered—until they saw who was coming to the arena.
From the Gorathim side, a lone figure stepped off the top of the floating, never-blinking Giant Eye. He was a massive, dark-green-skinned ogre—almost five meters tall and heavy in the frame—yet he didn’t fall; he let the wind carry him, gliding down toward the white marble of the arena.