CHAPTER 229: CHAPTER 230: LIGHTNING CRUSH

- Garron POV -

The arena lights shifted again as the crowd leaned forward in anticipation. Afternoon sun filtered through the enchanted dome above, casting glints of gold across the stone platform.

"Next Match!"

The crowd surged once more—cheers, gasps, conversations stopping mid-sentence.

"From the continent of Valor, representing the Imperial Academy—second-year student Garron Bale!"

A section of the Valor stands exploded in applause.

Garron entered with heavy steps, fists clenched and shoulders squared. Towering and broad, he wore no armor, no weapons—just the standard navy-blue combat uniform, reinforced at the chest and arms. His thick boots hit the arena floor like war drums.

He grinned and threw a quick thumbs-up toward the audience, then rolled his neck, already channeling mana through his body.

"And from the Elarith Continent... one of the Top Five students of Luceria Grand Academy—Anastasia de Ravienne!"

From the opposite tunnel came a much smaller figure.

She walked calmly, almost delicately. Her purple and silver uniform fit snugly, tailored and elegant. Her short crimson hair framed her porcelain face, and her red eyes locked forward, sharp as glass.

In her right hand, she carried a thin silver wand etched with storm runes. A light ripple of electricity danced at its tip.

The contrast was absurd—Garron looked like a mountain, and Anastasia like a noble child who had wandered into the wrong building.

The arena buzzed with whispers, laughter, bets being placed.

Anastasia didn’t react.

She stopped at her mark and raised her wand slightly—formal, mechanical.

Garron exhaled once, slamming his fists together with a crack.

The announcer raised his hand.

"Combatants... ready?"

"Always," Garron said, flashing a grin.

Anastasia blinked once. "Ready."

"Begin!"

The battle started.

The moment the announcer’s voice faded, Garron exploded forward.

Pure strength and momentum—his fists tightened, feet pounding the stone with thunderous steps, mana surging through every muscle in his body.

Anastasia didn’t move.

She stood perfectly still, wand raised loosely at her side, watching.

As Garron closed the distance, she whispered:

"Aqua Surge."

A jet of pressurized water erupted from beneath Garron’s feet. The blast struck him square in the chest, lifting him off the ground and interrupting his charge mid-step. He hit the stone hard, sliding across it—soaked and disoriented.

She didn’t wait.

"Voltage Arc."

A bolt of lightning shot from her wand and struck the water still clinging to his body. The resulting crackle echoed through the arena as sparks danced violently across his soaked form.

Garron let out a grunt—part pain, part fury—and rolled to his side, steam rising from his shoulders.

The crowd gasped, then erupted into noise.

He forced himself to stand, breathing heavy, his body already bruised and scorched.

He roared and charged again, this time faster—muscles reinforced with fresh mana, fists clenched like iron.

But Anastasia was already moving.

A short, precise step to the left, then a flick of her wand.

"Shockline."

A narrow line of lightning rippled across the ground, timed perfectly with Garron’s approach. He stepped into it unknowingly, and the voltage surged through his legs, locking them in place for half a second—long enough.

He stumbled again, his next punch wild and off balance.

Anastasia took two steps back and lowered her wand.

Garron was already breaking apart.

Garron let out a sharp breath, crouched low, his arms trembling as mana continued to surge through him. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white, steam still rising from parts of his soaked uniform.

He launched forward again—not with speed, but with brute force.

Anastasia stood her ground.

At the last moment, she stepped aside with graceful precision, avoiding the punch by mere inches.

"Stream Flicker."

Her body shimmered—momentarily rippling like flowing water—as she dashed along a thin trail of moisture across the stone. She reappeared behind Garron before he could even stop his charge.

She didn’t speak.

"Chain Spark."

Lightning split the air, striking him across the back in three consecutive bursts—shoulder, spine, calf.

Garron shouted, body jerking as he dropped to one knee. His mana flickered chaotically across his skin, unbalanced, unstable.

Still, he growled and forced himself up again.

He swung a wild fist behind him, hoping to catch her by surprise.

But Anastasia was already gone—sliding around him with effortless steps.

She flicked her wrist.

"Pulse Tap."

A direct burst of electricity from the tip of her wand slammed into the side of his neck.

Garron staggered sideways, almost toppling completely. He caught himself against the floor, panting, sweat dripping from his brow, arms shaking.

His skin was marked with red streaks of magic burn. His punches had never landed. His speed was gone.

He looked up, trying to focus.

Anastasia was standing five meters away, perfectly composed. Her uniform looked untouched. Her expression hadn’t changed once.

Garron’s breathing was ragged now.

He tried to push himself up again, forcing every last drop of mana into his legs. His vision blurred. His body trembled. His pride screamed louder than the pain.

But Anastasia was already in position.

She extended her wand forward—still expressionless.

"Storm Snap."

A small orb of compressed lightning and water formed at the tip of her wand. With a sharp flick, it launched and detonated directly in front of Garron in a crackling flash of white-blue light.

The impact wasn’t large, but it was precise—centered on his chest.

His artifact flared to life in an instant, forming a defensive shield around him just before he collapsed completely.

Ding.

"Victory goes to Anastasia de Ravienne of Luceria Grand Academy!"

The crowd erupted in a mix of stunned silence and then applause—louder than expected. Not because she had won...

But because of how she had won.

Anastasia turned on her heel without looking back, walking toward the tunnel with the same slow, elegant steps as when she arrived.

Behind her, Garron remained on his knees, fists resting on the floor, head lowered.

His shoulders shook—not from pain this time.

Frustration.

He had trained harder than anyone. Pushed his body past its limits. He wasn’t supposed to lose in the first round.

Not like this.

Not without even touching her.

In the waiting area near the brackets, Marcus stared at the crystal screen displaying the match’s end.

He said nothing at first, arms crossed tightly, watching Anastasia walk away on the projection.

Then his eyes shifted to the tournament bracket.

Anastasia’s name had just been moved into the next line—

Right into his path.

"...She’s fast," he murmured under his breath. "And clean."