BAM!

CLANG!

Two blurs tore across the training ground, colliding again and again. One burned like a raging flame, the other crackled with bluish-green sparks of thunder.

Ron and Arin were locked in a relentless duel, their spears meeting in bursts of fire and lightning. Both were already scratched and bruised, but neither gave an inch, their teeth gritted, their gazes sharp.

"You're strong," Arin said with a smirk, lightning dancing along his rigid, upright hair. "But you won't win."

Ron's hair swayed upward in flame-like waves, his expression twisted with anger. "You won't be laughing in a moment!" he roared, his spear trembling with suppressed power. "Lia's been acting weird ever since you met her… YOU DID SOMETHING TO HER!"

His aura flared, erupting outward in a violent surge as he pushed his strength and speed to the maximum. His spear became a blazing storm, thrusting and sweeping at terrifying pace.

Arin blocked, sparks scattering with every clash, but instead of faltering, his grin widened. "Did something to her? Maybe…" His voice dripped with provocation. "Or maybe you're just not worthy of her!"

Ron's spear came down in a sharp arc, the air shimmering from the heat rolling off his body. Arin caught it with the shaft of his own weapon, lightning crackling faintly at the point of contact, before twisting his wrist and sending a counter-thrust aimed at Ron's ribs.

Ron twisted his body, barely deflecting the strike, the tip of Arin's spear grazing past his coat. With a growl, he slammed the butt of his spear against the earth, using the recoil to launch himself forward in a whirlwind of strikes—each blow faster, heavier, and more ferocious than the last.

But Arin matched him step for step. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed in rapid succession, the sharp rhythm of clang, clang, clang echoing like war drums. Sweat dripped down their temples, but neither relented. Both young men were already carrying small cuts and bruises, yet their eyes burned with sharper resolve.

Ron's spear suddenly whirled in a sweeping motion, forcing Arin back a step, his flaming aura surging wildly as his hair lifted higher in fiery waves. Arin only smirked in response, his own stance firm as lightning stiffened his hair into jagged streaks, his spear trembling with raw power before he lunged back into the fray.

Steel rang against steel, and the ground beneath them cracked with each exchange—two wills colliding, neither backing down, neither willing to lose.

The clash of spears echoed like thunder across the stage, each strike sharp and unyielding. Ron and Arin moved with raw instinct now, no techniques—just the force of their bodies and weapons clashing. The stage floor cracked under their relentless steps, sparks flashing whenever spearheads met.

Arin suddenly feinted, twisting his spear in a deceptive arc. Ron's eyes widened—an opening. He swung his leg upward in a swift kick, driving Arin backward. For a moment, Ron steadied himself, but his body trembled.

Damn it… this heightened state… I still can't control it well. My mana's draining too fast.

His flaming hair danced wildly, flickering like a torch losing oil. If I'm not in this state, I can't pull it off. But… this is the only way to end it.

His grip tightened. Heat surged into the weapon, the spearhead glowing as if it held the core of a newborn sun. The audience shielded their eyes as the air warped around the brilliance.

"Inferno Spear—Eighth Technique: Sunflare Impale!!"

Ron charged, the illusion of a burning star trailing behind him. Arin's eyes widened, lightning crackling violently around his rigid, upright hair.

"Oh no—!!"

At the very last instant, Ron twisted his spear, redirecting its lethal thrust. Still, the blinding flare tore across the arena, slamming into Arin's side. The crackling light engulfed him, his teeth gritted against the pain. The blast ended with a flash that left afterimages burned into the spectators' vision.

When the light faded, Arin staggered at the edge of the stage, body battered and trembling. His spear slipped from his hand as his knees hit the ground—still within bounds, but his eyes rolled back. He collapsed, unconscious.

Ron's spear lowered. His chest heaved violently, every breath ragged. The flame-like aura sputtered around him, threatening to extinguish. Sweat poured down his face as he struggled to remain standing.

"Hah… hah…" He managed a weak grin, his voice hoarse.

"I… hah… won…"

The arena trembled as one fighter stood at his limits. Ron's chest heaved, blue flames sputtering weakly around him. Across the stage, Arin lay unmoving, body battered and still.

The instructor strode forward, voice loud and clear.

"Arin Blake is down! If he cannot stand in ten seconds, Ron Volkov will be declared the winner!"

"Ten!"

The instructor's voice rang out as the arena held its breath.

Arin's body was motionless at the edge of the stage, face slack, chest barely rising.

"Nine… Eight… Seven…"

Ron steadied himself on his spear, flames flickering weakly around him. His breathing was ragged, but determination still blazed in his eyes. The voice of the countdown echoed in his ears, fading like a distant drum.

On Arin's side, however—something shifted.

"Error!!"

A translucent screen appeared, visible only in front of Arin's unconscious form.

"Error!!

Error!!

You can't lose!!

My Story (EX Rank) — Activated.

Forced Evolution."

A shockwave of blue-green sparks burst from Arin's body. His leafy green eyes snapped open—now glowing unnaturally, a strange divinity shimmering in them. His aura doubled instantly, lightning shrieking across the floor as he staggered to his feet.

The instructor froze in shock. "He's still… in the match!"

Ron's eyes widened. What the hell…?! He recovered from Sunflare Impale?!

He roared, forcing his exhausted body to answer. Blue flames spurted from his aura again—but smaller, weaker, like a candle fighting the wind.

Meanwhile, Arin's electric presence only grew fiercer, overwhelming, crackling violently.

And then—

Snap.

The world… stopped.

The crowd, the professors, the fighters—the flames, sparks, even sound itself froze. Everything washed into black and white, time itself paralyzed.

Only one figure moved.

Zane.

He rose lazily from his seat, brushing invisible dust from his coat. "This fight's dragged long enough. Guess I'll have to save this 'protagonist moment' for later, Arin boy."

He appeared behind the frozen Arin, and with casual ease, delivered a one-handed chop to the back of his neck—though time itself had not yet resumed.

Zane's eyes flickered, deepening into an uncanny glow—midnight blue with golden flecks. The Law of Luck and Destiny. Threads of shimmering light unraveled before him, fate itself manifesting like a grand tapestry.

"…Well, well."

From Arin's glowing fate aura—a pale white with streaks of yellow and gold—thick black threads coiled outward, anchoring themselves into Ron's frozen figure. Zane's gaze narrowed.

"Ah. So his system is leeching Ron's fate. Sucking him dry. Feeding Arin with what isn't his." He sighed. "Figures. Turning my piece into some second-rate villain template just to buff this brat."

With a flick of his finger, a razor-thin pulse of energy severed the thick black thread. It shriveled into smoke.

"Not today."

He raised his finger, weaving a protective dome of invisible energy over Ron's golden fate aura. "This should keep your grubby system tricks away."

Then he turned his gaze back to Arin. Red threads pulsed around his head like a grotesque crown.

"Tch. Fated ones. Four… no, five? So he's being pushed into a harem route, huh? Predictable."

Zane grimaced with disgust. "They always preach love can be divided and sharedamong their partners . But that's just cowardice. Ingenuity wrapped in lies. Love that can split isn't love—it's convenience."

His eyes followed one scarlet thread trailing outward—leading toward the medical hall. He walked calmly, time still frozen, until he found Lirael seated beside a sleeping Lia.

Their fate auras shimmered in his vision:

Zane studied Lia's aura closely. Lia's silver fate aura , brightening faintly, with two threads emerging from her. One thread rotted at its core—Ron's bond, weakening. The other was newer, fresh, and tied to Arin.

"Hmph. Just as I thought. It's stealing her away too."

Zane's finger traced the crimson thread linking her to Arin, then cut it effortlessly. With another motion, he sealed her aura under a protective dome as well.

"It really tried to manipulate every piece on the board. Shameless. "

"And what's with so many fated threads around Arin's head? He's being puppeted into this farce. Disgusting." Zane exhaled. "But for now, balance restored."

He strolled back to his seat, snapping his fingers as he sat.

Time resumed.

Arin's body, which had been erupting with unnatural energy, suddenly convulsed. His glowing eyes dimmed. Then—with no warning—he collapsed in a heap, unconscious for real this time.

Gasps erupted in the stands. Professors exchanged frantic looks. Ron blinked in confusion, nearly dropping to his knees from exhaustion.

The instructor, bewildered but steady, resumed the count.

"Ten… Nine… Eight…"

No movement from Arin.

"…Two… One!"

He raised his hand high. "Arin Blake is unable to continue! The victor of this match—Ron Volkov!!"

The crowd roared.

Ron dropped heavily onto the stage floor, sitting with his spear as support. He was drenched in sweat, his breath ragged, but a smile broke through.

"Hah… hah… I… won…for real...this..time "

Back in the Judges stands, Zane leaned back with a smirk, his eyes narrowing with quiet amusement.