CHAPTER 238: CHAPTER 238: FIRST DUEL

The arena, carved deep within the mountain heart of Tharvaldur, echoed with distant footsteps and murmuring voices. Soft beams of artificial sunlight—filtered through glowing mana crystals embedded in the ceiling—bathed the stone stands in a warm glow. The crowd had not yet reached full capacity, leaving room for quiet conversation.

Noel sat beside Balthor, both of them watching as the arena floor was cleaned and restructured by the staff.

Balthor leaned back with a smug grin. "Hey kid, you made me some good money. I knew you wouldn’t lose. Keep it up."

Noel crossed his arms. "I told you—I don’t like losing. I’m competitive by nature." He glanced at the field below. "And if I keep this up, maybe I’ll start screwing with Torwan’s plans. If someone from the Tharvaldur Institute of Arcane Might suddenly starts loses a match with me, it could rattle him."

Balthor raised an eyebrow. "You think that bastard’s gonna mess up just ’cause he loses a bet?"

Noel didn’t look away. "He’s not just some gambler. He’s the academy’s director, and he’s got the King of Tharvaldur behind him. You told me the king changed ten years ago... and that’s when your brother showed up again."

Balthor blinked. "You think there’s a connection, lad?"

Noel shrugged. "We won’t know until we dig deeper. The tournament ends in about three weeks. We need to act before then. I don’t want more students ending up like that poor guy in the underground arena."

Balthor grunted, then smirked. "Well, you gave that big brute a proper beating. If I had gone down there, I could’ve done the same."

Noel looked at him, deadpan. "You’re the size of a beer keg."

Balthor chuckled heartily. "Small but deadly, lad. Small but deadly."

From their place in the mid-tier stands, Noel looked upward toward the highest balcony of the arena. Elevated and gilded with silver trim, it overlooked the entire coliseum with a commanding presence. Four figures sat behind a transparent mana-shield barrier—each one representing one of the major academies.

Among them, Noel immediately recognized one.

Nicolas von Aldros.

He looked no older than forty, with short silver hair, sharp facial lines, and a calm yet piercing gaze. His deep violet robes shimmered with arcane embroidery that pulsed faintly with mana.

Their eyes met across the distance.

Nicolas gave a faint nod.

Noel responded in kind, his expression neutral.

"Who’re you nodding at?" Balthor asked, glancing around.

"The director of my academy," Noel said. "Nicolas von Aldros."

Balthor let out a small grunt. "Ah. Right. Well—" He pointed at the field. "Looks like the match is about to begin."

Noel turned his gaze back to the arena as the announcer stepped forward with a booming voice amplified by mana.

A short but sturdy teenager stepped onto the arena stage, his crimson-scaled armor catching the glow of the enchanted torches lining the battlefield. His braided beard barely reached his chest, and although he was clearly young, his steps were filled with practiced weight. A heavy axe rested over his shoulder, still steaming with residual heat.

The announcer’s voice echoed from a hovering mana-crystal:

"Representing the Tharvaldur Institute of Arcane Might—Falkrin Flamebrew!"

The dwarven crowd erupted with thunderous cheers.

From the opposite gate, a tall boy emerged—lean and graceful, with curved black horns and slate-gray skin. His sleeveless robe trailed cold mist, and in his left hand he summoned a trident of deep blue crystal. His expression was unreadable.

"And representing the Velmora Academy—Razek von Kaldor!"

The cheers from Velmora’s section were far fewer, but sharper—eager to see fire doused by water.

"Begin!"

Razek was the first to strike—he slammed his trident into the ground, and a stream of water burst forth, coiling like a serpent and surging toward Falkrin. The dwarf rolled to the side, raising a hand.

"Flame Pulse!"

Razek was first to act. He raised his trident, and water spiraled upward from beneath him.

"Abyss Coil!"

A whip of condensed water lashed across the field, fast and deadly. Falkrin ducked and skidded sideways, his gauntlet clenched tight.

"Fireball!"

A sphere of flame blasted from his hand, crackling through the air toward Razek—who spun his trident and deflected it with a wall of water.

"Water Crest!"

The impact sent a ripple through the water shield but didn’t break it. In response, Razek extended a hand and launched two rapid, needle-thin projectiles.

"Piercing Flow!"

Falkrin raised his axe, blocking one—while the other grazed his leg, drawing a hiss of pain.

’Damn... fast and precise,’ Noel thought from the stands, eyes narrowed. ’But Falkrin’s not hesitating.’

The dwarf stepped forward, feet glowing faintly with runes hidden beneath his boots.

"Flare Trap!"

A fiery sigil flared to life under Razek’s feet—but the demon leapt back just in time, flipping mid-air and retaliating with a horizontal surge of pressurized water.

"Riptide Slash!"

The water curved like a blade, but Falkrin answered with a sharp swing of his axe.

"Fire Arc!"

A crescent of fire met the wave mid-air, colliding in a burst of steam. The crowd leaned forward in unison.

Back and forth they went—fire and water colliding, steam hissing through the arena. Razek seemed to dance around Falkrin’s brute-force strikes, but the dwarf’s fire was gradually growing hotter... more focused.

’Something’s wrong,’ Noel thought. ’That fire... it’s not just improving. It’s being enhanced.’

Razek flicked his trident once more.

"Tide Lure!"

The ground beneath Falkrin softened into water, attempting to pull him down. Falkrin roared and slammed his palm into the sand.

"Flamethrower!"

A column of flame burst from his hand, lifting him upward in a twisting blaze. He spun mid-air and hurled his axe with brutal precision.

Razek’s eyes widened. "Water Crest!"

A wall of water shot up again—but this time, it didn’t form fast enough.

The axe was inches away from impact when—

FWASH!

The protective barrier around Razek activated, flaring a bright blue. The axe froze in mid-air, hovering for a second before falling to the ground harmlessly.

The crowd held its breath.

"Protective sigil activated!" the referee announced. "Victory—Falkrin Flamebrew!"

The audience exploded in cheers and whistles. The dwarves stomped their feet rhythmically, shouting Falkrin’s name.

Razek slowly stood, his trident dissolving into droplets that evaporated. He gave Falkrin a small nod and turned away.

Falkrin raised both fists, triumphant.

But Noel didn’t join the cheers. His gaze remained fixed on the dwarf below.

’That wasn’t normal. The surge in mana control, the way his fire resisted water like that...’

He narrowed his eyes.

’It was subtle,’ he thought, eyes still on the arena. ’But I’ve seen it before. During the Bloody Banquet...You’re juicing them, Torwan. Just like Caldus had, so you were the one that gave him that?.’

Balthor tilted his head toward him. "You look like you just swallowed a sour stone. What is it?"

Noel didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was still locked on Falkrin, who now exited the arena with his axe slung over one shoulder, laughing and waving at his academy’s section.

Noel straightened up, voice low but steady. "I’m starting to think Falkrin didn’t win on skill alone. I think they are drugged, that’s the reason he know they will always win.’

Balthor’s face grew more serious. He scratched his beard, eyes narrowing. "That bastard really is betting with loaded dice."

"Exactly," Noel said.

’We’ll need to talk soon, Nicolas,’ Noel thought. ’If you haven’t figured it out yet after this, I’ll tell you myself.’