I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 786: Seed #4 vs. Seed #13

The hammer passed through empty space where his body had been, the weapon’s momentum continuing forward without resistance.

Thorgar’s body continued forward, and suddenly he was overextended, his stance compromised, his position vulnerable.

Rhys’s left hand moved forward.

The dagger released lightning in a vertical slash that connected with nothing, because Thorgar was already pivoting, adjusting, and recognizing that his initial strategy had failed.

The Orc warrior spun, bringing his hammer back around in a sweeping arc designed to catch Rhys from the side.

Rhys crossed the distance between them using water magic as a propellant.

His form warped, twisted, and accelerated through a medium that responded to his will. He emerged from the acceleration curve behind Thorgar’s swing, positioned at the warrior’s flank.

The dagger moved again.

This time, it connected with Thorgar’s shoulder, the blade releasing its lightning payload directly into the Orc’s muscle mass. The electrical discharge cascaded through his nervous system, and his body convulsed involuntarily.

Thorgar’s grip on the hammer loosened.

Rhys moved again, this time executing a combination that moved with the efficiency of a dancer executing perfectly practiced choreography.

Water magic propelled him upward. Wind magic redirected his trajectory.

The dagger moved in a precise arc that caught Thorgar’s descending arm and released another electrical charge directly into his limb.

The hammer fell from nerveless fingers and clattered against the arena floor.

Thorgar tried to recover and reestablish his stance.

He was Rank #16 for a reason. He was strong, experienced, and capable.

But he was not fighting someone at his level. He was fighting someone who had trained with a Disaster-class training freak.

Someone who had cleared a dungeon with perfection. Someone who understood efficiency at a level that transcended normal martial capability.

Rhys moved inside his guard, positioned himself with complete control, and released one final electrical slash directed at Thorgar’s center mass.

The Orc warrior collapsed.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

The entire match had consumed forty-seven seconds.

Rhys stood motionless over the fallen warrior; his breathing and posture were unchanged.

His expression was completely unbothered. He looked exactly as he had before the match commenced.

The crowd erupted into chaos.

But the white-robed woman in the highest tier did not move. She continued watching, her expression unchanged, her stillness creating an island of absolute calm amid the cascading energy of the stadium.

Chiron Stormblood, standing at the edge of the observation section, allowed the faintest smile to cross his features.

He had just witnessed someone execute perfect mana conservation, optimal positioning, and combine them with devastating effect delivery.

Every movement had been necessary.

Every gesture had generated a result.

There was no wasted energy, unnecessary motion, or even the slightest faint of hesitation.

————-

The barrier dissolved. Healers rushed into the arena to attend to Thorgar’s unconsciousness. Rhys exited without ceremony, his path carrying him back through the preparation chambers.

Caspian’s fingers had stopped digging into his palms only because the pain had become too intense. His entire body was rigid, locked in a tension that no amount of conscious effort could release.

Every effortless movement Rhys made was a knife through the Council member’s consciousness.

Every undamaged inch of the half-blood’s appearance was an indictment. Every display of power was a reminder of Jack Kaiser’s presence, his certainty, his absolute confidence in his own capability.

Caspian had tried to arrest him.

Yet no matter what plan was made, it would not work on him.

——

An attendant approached the barrier, signaling that the next match was about to begin.

The announcer’s voice filled the stadium again.

“Seed #8, Aelion Starling, versus Seed #9, Cedric Castian. Both competitors have advanced through difficult matches. Both possess significant power. The gap between them is negligible, making this an uncertain contest.”

Aelion descended into the arena, his movements jerky with residual rage from his previous match. His elegant armor was still partially damaged, bearing the scars of his barely won victory against Anya Castian.

Cedric entered with mechanical precision, his movements calculated, his expression analytical.

He was already processing Aelion’s physical tells, identifying patterns, and constructing a plan to win.

The barrier flared to life.

“Begin!”

Aelion attacked immediately; his aggression exploded, becoming overwhelming as he started.

His earth magic erupted beneath Cedric’s feet, fracturing the arena floor, creating jagged spikes designed to catch an unprepared opponent.

Cedric reacted with defensive precision.

His shield flared to life, and his own earth magic rose to meet Aelion’s assault, creating barriers that intercepted the spikes before they could reach his position.

The match intensified.

Both competitors were strong. Both were skilled.

But Aelion’s rage gave him an edge, made his attacks desperate, and made him willing to expend energy at unsustainable rates.

Cedric remained controlled, methodical, and disciplined.

The match extended beyond the typical duration.

Ten minutes passed as the two continued to face each other.

Aelion’s breathing became labored. His movements slowed. His aggression began to falter as his energy reserves depleted.

Cedric pressed forward with increasing intensity, finally landing a decisive blow that sent Aelion sprawling across the arena floor.

The younger competitor did not rise.

The crowd’s energy shifted.

Tymandra watched from her seat, and her lips curled upward in a cruel smile. Aelion’s rage, power, and rank had been insufficient.

“Another disappointment from the ranked elite,” she observed quietly. “The purebloods are crumbling. One wonders how many more will fall before the tournament concludes.”

Byron gripped his chipped sword and watched Cedric exit the arena.

Seed #9 had just defeated Seed #8.

The brackets were being rewritten in real time.

———-

Caspian’s hand trembled as he reached for water that a servant offered. His fingers contracted around the goblet with such force that the crystal began to crack.

The servant quickly withdrew, understanding the magnitude of the Council member’s internal deterioration.

In the highest tier, the white-robed woman turned to her companion and spoke for only the third time since the tournament commenced.

“His position becomes untenable soon,” she stated flatly. “Leandros will move against him within the week if his brother doesn’t take care of it first.”

Her companion nodded, understanding the absolute implication of that statement.

———-

The barrier dissolved as healers rushed into the arena to attend to those requiring magical intervention.

The announcer’s voice redirected the crowd’s attention toward the third bracket.

“The third quarter final match commences: Seed #4, Clara Veyra, faces Seed #13, Soren Anake.”

Clara descended into the arena with the composed grace of someone certain of her capability. She was ranked #4 for legitimate reasons. Her defensive magic was exceptional, her tactical mind was sharp, and her combat record was flawless.

She did not anticipate difficulty against a #13 seed.

Soren entered from the opposite preparation chamber. His movements were economical, lacking the confidence that typically accompanied higher-ranked competitors.

He moved like someone who had already accepted losing and was proceeding only because obligation demanded it.

The barrier flared to life.

“Begin!”

Clara attacked immediately, her water magic forming into protective barriers while her offensive spells began to organize.

She established zones of control, set up safe positions, and began the methodical dismantling of her opponent’s capabilities.

Soren did not resist.

He stood motionless, observing, processing, absorbing every pattern that Clara established.

His breathing remained calm.

His posture remained centered.

His eyes tracked her movements with the intensity of someone studying something to be learned, not someone defeated.

Clara’s spells continued. Barriers formed. Attacks launched. The arena floor became a controlled environment where she set the parameters, and Soren merely responded.

I started a new book! Check out my profile for the link!

I started a new book! Check out my profile for the link!