SSS Rank: Spellcraft Sovereign-Chapter 99: Challanger (1)

"You cast smarter than you should."

Lucen looked over at him.

"Don’t sound so surprised."

"I’m not."

They walked side by side now. The corridor smelled like old power cables and metal heat. Lucen’s fingers still twitched with residual energy, the taste of spell dust still at the back of his throat.

Varik glanced sideways.

"That perk’s dangerous."

Lucen didn’t deny it.

"It’s also mine."

"That’s what makes it worse."

Lucen squinted at him. "Worse for who?"

Varik didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

A few more steps passed in silence.

Then Lucen said, "You knew it’d be something like this. Didn’t you."

"I knew it wouldn’t be balanced."

Lucen raised a brow. "Jealous?"

"I don’t get jealous."

Lucen smirked, slow. "Liar."

They reached the end of the corridor, an access hatch back to the outer platform. Low light filtered in through a half-locked grid panel. The city pulsed beyond it, far away and indifferent.

Varik stepped to the edge of the door, resting one hand on the wall.

"I’m not training you to survive," he said quietly. "You’re already good at that. I’m training you so you can’t be stopped."

Lucen leaned against the frame beside him.

"That supposed to inspire me?"

"It’s not inspiration," Varik said. "It’s math. You’re already on every unofficial radar that matters. Half the reason I keep testing you is because I know you’re going to fight someone soon who doesn’t care what your rank says."

Lucen didn’t blink. "You mean someone like you?"

Varik smiled. A rare thing. No humor. Just knowing.

"No," he said. "Someone worse."

Lucen tilted his head, neck cracking slightly.

"Then I hope they’re slower than you."

Varik turned toward the exit. The lock hissed open as he pushed it.

"Don’t count on it."

Lucen followed him out.

—

The outer hatch closed behind them with a quiet hiss.

Lucen squinted against the shift in lighting. The hallway beyond was brighter than he liked, flickering overhead strips cast white lines across the polished steel floor, clean enough to reflect faint outlines.

His own reflection looked wrecked. Collar crooked. Sleeve torn. Blood on the edge of his coat, probably dried.

Varik walked a step ahead, boots silent. The city buzzed below, but nothing reached them up here, just that filtered hum you only got in private training towers.

Lucen adjusted the strap of his coat and muttered, "So is this where I get told I ’show promise’?"

Varik didn’t slow. "You’re not promising. You’re problematic."

"Still not hearing a thank you."

"You’re not going to."

Lucen exhaled slowly through his nose. His ribs still throbbed. He could feel the ache under the surface of his mana, like every cast had left fingerprints under his skin.

They passed an inactive scan post near the exit, runes dark, doors unlocked. Varik paused only once, halfway down the hall, to glance at one of the wall-mounted interface readers.

"You haven’t been watching the lower ring fights, have you?" he asked, not looking back.

Lucen arched a brow. "You think I have time for amateur league entertainment?"

"Someone’s making a lot of noise down there. Young. Loud. Calls himself Rikta."

Lucen frowned. "Guilded?"

"Not yet. He’s public-facing. Self-marketed. Running duels out of alley courts and challenge cages. Streaming every one of them. Claims he’s undefeated."

Lucen sniffed once. "Sounds exhausting."

Varik gave the smallest shrug. "It’s getting views. Enough that a few recruiters started circling."

Lucen didn’t reply immediately. His boots clicked once against a loose panel in the floor, and something shifted in his memory, an echo. A face. No, not a face.

A phone.

Raised.

Shoulder height.

Thumb over the cast glyph.

The girl with the mana wrap.

The feed. The timestamp.

Lucen’s jaw twitched.

He muttered, "He’s not one of the people who posted me, is he?"

"Doubt it," Varik said. "But he’s riding the wave."

Lucen rolled his eyes. "Perfect. I knock out one swordsman and suddenly the entire city wants a piece."

Varik stepped through the door at the end of the hall, and the outside air hit like old metal and dusted ozone. Evening light cut through the vertical slats of a shielded walkway. Far below, the city pulsed. Fast. Hungry. Watching.

Lucen stood at the threshold and said, "So what? I’m supposed to fight him?"

Varik glanced back. "Not unless you want to."

Lucen’s smile was thin. "What if I want him to shut up?"

"Then make him," Varik said simply.

No threat. No assignment. Just truth.

Lucen didn’t speak again.

But his fingers twitched.

Because part of him already wanted to see if Rikta could keep talking with a mouth full of glyph burn.

—

The ride down the tower was quiet.

No music. No commentary. Just the clean, pressure-locked descent of a high-clearance elevator, humming low like it was afraid to interrupt. Lucen stood near the back panel, weight shifted off his left side. His ribs still ached. He hadn’t fixed the torn sleeve. Didn’t care to.

Varik stood near the door.

Same posture.

Same unreadable presence.

As if the last hour had been a light stretch.

Lucen glanced sideways. "Rikta."

Varik didn’t look at him. "Hm?"

"How old?"

"Eighteen."

Lucen clicked his tongue once. "Kids with mana and cameras. Dangerous combo."

"No one’s stopped him yet."

Lucen leaned against the side rail. "Maybe they like the show."

Varik didn’t reply.

The elevator opened with a low hiss.

Lucen stepped out first.

He didn’t say goodbye.

The walk back to his apartment was short.

Not because the route was clean. Just familiar.

The air buzzed with late-night static, city-tier wind carried hints of fried driftmeat, dusted concrete, and someone casting too close to the south fence.

A few school-age runners darted past near the crosswalk, tagging spell-trails on the sidewalk like it was a game.

Lucen kept his hood low. Not hiding. Just tired.

He reached his block. The apartment buzzed open on cue.

Dark inside.

Lights didn’t turn on automatically. He preferred it that way. The glow from the corner panel was enough, cool blue cast over the floor tiles, picking up the edges of his desk and the scuffed chair beside it. His coat hit the hook. The spell archive blinked to life on proximity.

He didn’t sit.

He was about to tap the archive when his phone buzzed.

Twice.

He picked it up. Didn’t check the screen.

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