Chapter 32— The Price of Pride.
Chapter 32—The Price of Pride.
The silent pulse of high-density Void mana did not detonate. It did not create a flashy explosion, nor did it shatter the air with a deafening roar.
Instead, as Kaelen’s two fingertips jabbed directly into the unarmored gap beneath Garrett Vane’s right armpit, a cold, violent tremor rippled through the underlying magical weave of the bulky silver plate armor.
CLING!
[SKILL: EVENT HORIZON (COMPRESSED)—MANA DISRUPT TRIGGERED]
The concentrated Void energy acted like acid on the internal circulation lines of Garrett’s gear. Instantly, the blue runes etched along the Aegis of the Sunless Peak sputtered, flared violently in a sick purple hue, and went completely dark. The kinetic-redirection matrix built into the heavy tower shield shut down instantly under the sudden spatial vacuum.
Garrett’s eyes bulged beneath his visor.
"What... What did you—"
Without the active kinetic-absorption runes reducing the effective mass of his two-hundred-pound mithril gear, the full, crushing weight of the plate armor hit Garrett all at once.
Combined with this foot being trapped six inches deep in the collapsed stone dust, his center of gravity was completely gone.
Kaelen didn’t even use a heavy physical strike. He simply placed the palm of his left hand against the crest on Garrett’s chestplate and pushed gently.
THOOM!
The massive, heavily armored champion of the conservative faction crashed backward onto the arena floor like a failing tower. The colossal shield clattered uselessly against the stone, pulling Garrett’s shoulder down into the dirt.
He squirmed like a turned turtle, gasping for breath as the disrupted mana flow inside his armor locked the joint mechanisms in place.
Kaelen stood over him, his black combat tunic barely wrinkled, his breathing unhurried and light. The violet aura around his fingers dissolved back into skin, leaving no trace of active magic.
Silence—absolute, suffocating silence—fell over the thousands of spectators packed into the tiers of Arena Beta.
The noble students sitting in the front rows froze, their mouths half-open, their half-raised banners hovering uselessly in the air. The loud cheers that had echoed through the stone amphitheater had moments before died instantly.
High in the VIP balcony, Julian Vance slowly rose from his velvet seat, his hands gripping the stone railing so tightly his knuckles turned chalk white. His jaw flexed with a terrifying mix of disbelief and cold rage.
Garrett... defeated in less than ninety seconds? By an E-RANK using a single basic spell and a trick?
Below, the match referee—a seasoned veteran from the Royal Guard—stared at the downed knight for the three long seconds before remembering to react. He rushed forward, inspecting Garrett’s locked armor before raising his hand toward Kaelen.
"WINNER OF MATCH FOUR... KAELEN!"
A scattered, confused murmur began to ripple through the crowd, slowly building into a wall of hushed, excited whispers.
"Did you see that? He didn’t even hit the shield..."
"What kind of magic was that? It completely shut down a B-rank enchanted artifact in one touch!"
"Is he really just an E-rank stray?"
CLING!
[ MATCH CONCLUDED: VICTORY REGISTERED ]
[ OPPONENT: GARRETT VANE (LEVEL 18—B-RANK) ]
[ COMPLETION EVALUATION: PERFECT TACTICAL OVERRIDE (NO DAMAGE TOKEN) ]
[ EXPERIENCE GAINED: +4,500 EXP ]
[ REPUTATION WITH ACADEMY RECRUITERS: INCREASED ]
Kaelen glanced down at the blue notifications flickering across his vision, quietly dismissing them.
He turned his back on the groaning, trapped Garrett and walked calmly toward the western exit archway. He didn’t raise his hand to celebrate, nor did he spare a glance at the high noble balconies.
To Kaelen, this match was never about Garrett Vane. It was merely a diagnostic test for his newly reconstructed meridians, and the result was clean.
Inside the athlete preparation corridor beneath the grandstands, the roar of the arena faded into a dull, rhythmic thrum.
Lyra and Tsubaki were waiting near the weapon racks.
Lyra threw him a subtle, approving smile, though her eyes remained sharp and vigilant. Tsubaki simply nodded once, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Clean execution," Tsubaki remarked as Kaelen approached.
"You exploited the kinetic discharge latency before he could reset his foot anchors. Most mages would have wasted half their mana trying to blast through that shield."
"Brute force is inefficient against high-density defense," Kaelen replied, unbuttoning his collar slightly to coil down.
" The Void doesn’t need to break armor. It just needs to break the flow supporting it. "
" You’ve set a fire under the nobles’ seats, though," Lyra warned, leaning against the stone wall and gesturing toward the corridor entrance.
"Julian Vance looked like he wanted to jump down from the balcony and execute you himself. You embarrassed his faction in front of half the Capital’s guild scouts."
"Let him watch," Kaelen said coldly.
"The more Julian focuses his attention on me in the arena, the less he pays attention to what’s happening outside the grounds. "
Kaelen pulled out his internal system map, angling the faint holographic blue screen away from any potential monitoring runes, and picked up something subtle on the edge of the display.
While the primary magical power grid of the Academy was diverted to sustain the massive protective barriers around Arena Beta, a micro-fluctuation flickered across the city’s ward layout.
"Look here," Kaelen murmured, pointing to a tiny red blip blinking near the northern district on his interface map.
Lyra leaned in, her brow furrowing.
"The Iron-Spire Maximum Security Prison? That’s where they’re holding the remnants of Malakor’s cultists after the plaza raid."
"The ward pressure dropped by two percent for three seconds," Kaelen said.
"It happened right when the arena’s central barrier drew its peak power during my match."
Tsubaki’s hand dropped back to his sword hilt.
"A power drain exploit. Someone designed the tournament’s mana consumption grid to intentionally siphon energy away from the outer prison wards."
"Malakor," Lyra whispered, her eyes widening.
"They aren’t just trying to rob Vault Room B-4. They’re sitting up on a breakout."
"The tournament is the ultimate distraction," Kaelen said smoothly, his voice dripping into a razor-thin tone.
" Every knight, every high-tier instructor, and every guild leader is sitting in these grandstands watching students swing swords. Meanwhile, the Red-eyed Player is setting the stage for a total collapse of the northern sector."
An hour later, the sun began its slow descent behind the jagged spires of the Royal Capital, casting long, dark shadows across the marble courtyards of the Academy.
In the high-tier VIP lounges overlooking the central grounds, Julian Vance stood before a long oak table, smashing a crystal wine glass onto the floor. The red glass shattered into a dozen sharp fragments across the expensive rug.
"Useless!" Julian snarled, his face twisted in deep embarrassment. "Garrett had an A-grade defense artifact, and he let an unranked commoner push him over like a sack of grain!"
Sitting in the shadowy corner of the lounge, an elder noble draped in dark purple silk took a slow sip from his chalice, completely unbothered by Julian’s outburst.
"Calm yourself, Julian," the older man said smoothly. "Garrett was a blunt instrument.
His defeat simply proves that the boy’s magic is far more dangerous than the High Council lets on. The Order of the Silver Guardian wasn’t awarded out of charity."
"I don’t care about his magic!" Julian spat, turning around with glowing golden eyes.
"He made a fool out of our faction! In the second round, I’m going onto that ring myself. I’ll personally break his channels."
"You won’t have to break him in the ring," the elder noble murmured, a dark, sinister smile forming on his lips.
"The board is already moving. The distraction in the northern district is almost complete. By the time the third round begins, the entire city will be in chaos—and in the confusion of a crisis, tragic ’accidents’ happen to talented commoners all the time."
Julian paused, his anger slowly giving way to a cruel, calculating grin.
"The prison?"
"Focus on your matches, Julian," the elder advised, leaning back into the shadows. "Let the monsters do what they were freed to do."
Deep beneath the northern edge of the capital, four miles away from the roaring crowds of the Academy tournament.
The Iron-Spire Prison was a bleak, monolithic fortress made of black anti-magic basalt. Its halls were quiet, guarded by automated runic sentinels and heavily armored wardens.
In the lowest level—Cell Block Zero—a solitary figure sat chained to a heavy iron pillar.
Malakor’s face was bruised, his dark robes stripped away, replaced by crude prisoner rags. Heavy anti-magic cuffs bound his wrists and ankles to the stone, suppressing his blood magic pathways.
CLICK.
A soft, unnatural sound echoed through the damp corridor outside his cell.
The three guards stationed at the heavy iron door didn’t even have an opportunity to draw their sidearms. Three thin, crimson needles of energy zipped through the iron bars with terrifying speed, piercing the guards directly through the center of their foreheads.
Without a sound, the guards collapsed to the stone floor, their blood pooling around their boots.
Footsteps echoed softly down the corridor—slow, light, and perfectly deliberate.
A figure wrapped in a hooded dark cloak stepped up to the iron bars of Malakor’s cell. The hood shifted slightly, revealing a pale lower face and two glowing, crimson eyes that burned like dying embers in the dark.
The intruder reached out a slender hand.
With a light flick of his fingers, the anti-magic lock on the cell door shattered into fine grey dust.
Malakor slowly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes widening in recognition and dark relief.
"You took... long enough," Malakor rasped, his voice dry and hoarse. "The High Council was preparing my execution for tomorrow morning."
"The timing had to be precise," the Red-Eyed Player spoke. His voice was calm, metallic, and carried an eerie dual layer—the signature sound of a high-tier player using a voice-filtering interface.
"The Academy tournament has drawn every heavy combatant to the main arena. The central vault’s external guard rotations are down by sixty percent."
The intruder tossed a small, glowing, crimson flask onto the floor in front of Malakor.
"Drink it," the Red-Eyed Player ordered.
"Restore your Blood Core. Tonight, you give the Royal Guard a show they will never forget. Tear down the northern wall and draw the High Council away from the capital vault."
Malakor grabbed the flask with his trembling, chained hands, a wild, maniacal grin spreading across his face. He uncorked it and swallowed the thick, crimson liquid in a single gulp.
Instantly, veins of dark red light bulged across Malakor’s neck and arms. The heavy iron chains holding him to the pillar began to groan and bend under a sudden, monstrous surge of corrupted mana.
"And what about the boy?" Malakor hissed, his teeth stained crimson as his strength returned tenfold.
"The Void user... Kaelen?"
The red-eyed player turned his back to the cell, stepping slowly toward the corridor exit as the stone walls around them began to vibrate with Malakor’s unleashed aura.
"Leave him to the tournament," the Red-Eyed Player said coldly, a faint crimson window flickering beside his hand as he opened his inventory menu. "If he survives the second round... I will deal with him myself."
Outside the Iron-Spire Prison, the sky turned a dark, bruised purple as the first alarms began to wail across the northern horizon...