CHAPTER 85: DUEL (2)

He moved again.

Fast.

Low stance, zig-zagging across the open floor to close the angle. No barrier left. No pillars. Just him and whatever he could make out of momentum.

He didn’t cast.

Not yet.

Varik waited.

Three meters.

Two.

Lucen jumped—

Faked right.

Varik went left—

Lucen twisted mid-air and landed, pivoted with both palms open, ready to cast.

Then he felt the pull.

Not visual.

Not mana.

Just... pull.

Like gravity skipped.

Varik’s presence warped the air behind him—barely a ripple. Lucen spun, knowing it was already too late.

The strike hit his shoulder like being kicked through a door.

He hit the ground again. Rolled. Lost track of which way was up.

But his system didn’t flicker. No failout. The lethal buffer was still holding.

He wasn’t dead.

Yet.

Lucen pushed to his knees, breathing hard.

One more cast.

And a spell he didn’t understand.

He triggered it.

[Null Reversal]

No words. No glyphs. Just a flick of thought and a burst of heat along his ribs, like someone pulled something sideways in his bloodstream.

He didn’t know what to expect.

So when Varik stepped forward and lifted a hand, glyph flaring—

Lucen braced for impact.

The spell that came wasn’t clean.

A pressure pulse. A collapse spell. Not lethal, but designed to end the fight.

It should’ve flattened him.

It should’ve—

Time skipped.

Lucen blinked.

Varik’s spell fired—

And reversed.

The air convulsed, like a pulse being pulled inside out.

The glyph flickered mid-air, glitched backward, and re-formed in reverse structure. Then detonated in a short, sharp feedback loop right where Varik stood.

It didn’t damage him.

Not really.

But it knocked him off step.

Just a fraction.

Enough for Lucen to see it.

Varik slid one foot back. Just enough. His shoulder twitched. His stance widened.

He adjusted.

Like someone hit him with his own weight.

Lucen stared.

Breath loud in his chest.

’That wasn’t just a counter. That was inversion.’

Varik looked at him across the broken arena. His eyes narrowed slightly—not angry.

Impressed.

Curious.

Lucen didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Every joint in his body felt overextended. His head swam.

The spell hadn’t just drained mana, it had taken everything in the cast vector with it.

[Mana: 64 / 148]

[Null Reversal: Cooldown Engaged]

Varik exhaled once.

Then vanished again.

Lucen didn’t see the hit.

Only felt it.

A crack of pressure against the side of his chest, and the floor caught him an instant later.

Everything went black for a second.

Then the system kicked in.

[Auto-Shield Triggered — Fatal Hit Prevented]

[Training Match: TERMINATED]

[Damage Threshold Reached]

Lucen opened his eyes to see the ceiling again.

And Varik crouched beside him.

"Three spells," Varik said. "Two bought time. One made me blink."

Lucen didn’t reply.

He was still processing air.

Varik offered a hand. Lucen took it.

Let himself be pulled upright.

His system hummed faintly.

[EXP Gained: 3,650]

[Level: 16 → 17]

[Stat Points: +4]

Lucen brushed dust off his coat and winced.

Then muttered, "So. Want a rematch?"

Varik’s smile was thin. "No. I like my limbs where they are."

Lucen blinked at him. "You’re not hurt."

"No," Varik said, turning away. "But whatever that last thing was... it shouldn’t have existed."

Lucen didn’t argue.

Didn’t offer context.

Didn’t say the core gave it to him.

Or that it had spoken.

Or that it might speak again.

He just stood in the broken arena, watching Varik walk away, and thought:

’Two more levels before people start noticing I’m not playing fair.’

And behind his ribs, Null Reversal pulsed again.

—

Lucen spit copper into the corner of the ring, his sleeve dark from the last hit.

Across the arena, three strangers stepped through the sealed side door. Their boots struck the hex-stone with that crisp, military rhythm, clean, but not rehearsed. Not like a team. Like professionals who didn’t need to coordinate.

Varik, arms folded at the arena’s edge, watched them enter. His voice was casual.

"They’re not here to kill you. Try not to make them regret it."

Lucen didn’t answer.

He just took stock.

First, the big one, polearm in hand, shoulders like a brick wall. His armor was light, reinforced at the joints, and strapped tight like someone who fought at sprinting range.

He didn’t radiate mana. Just presence. The kind that said he could break concrete without casting.

Second, the caster-type, lean, wiry, with gloves etched in permanent burn marks. Her fingers twitched now and then like she was thinking in voltages. Eyes sharp. Disinterested. Already calculating range.

Third, the older one, short hair, gear rougher than the others. Not worn-out, just lived-in. Strips of tape marked his knuckles.

Small vials hung from his belt. When he stepped forward, the air near Lucen’s boots tightened. Not visually. Just pressure. Something subtle, like the ground had learned how to listen.

They stopped ten meters away, spread just enough to force Lucen into center position.

The girl spoke first, brushing a hand across her shoulder where dust clung.

"Tracer class, right? Support casting?"

Lucen gave a tight shrug. "If that’s what the paperwork says."

The big guy rolled his neck. Metal clicked. "He’s fast. Varik wants us to pressure him. Nothing fatal. Just test boundaries."

The older one, quiet until now, spoke low. "Don’t test too hard or we’ll find out what Varik’s calls really override."

Lucen stretched his hand once. The bones in his wrist popped.

"Cool," he muttered. "Friendly crowd."

Varik’s voice cut in again. "Begin."

Lucen moved first.

Fast. Low. No casting, just repositioning, trying to break the triangle they’d set up. If he let them close that in, he’d drown before his second spell.

The polearm guy responded immediately. He dashed straight toward Lucen, zero hesitation, and struck with a low arc swing.

The floor cracked where it passed. No spell light, no casting delay. Just raw speed and strength.

Lucen dove to the side, sliding low, shoulder dragging across hex-stone.

He flared [Shockweave Bolt] mid-slide and snapped it up toward the caster.

The arc spat from his fingers with a crack, surged toward her—

And bent sideways midair.