The Extra's Rise-Chapter 166: Sovereign’s Tournament (2)

The moment my boots touched the arena floor, a low murmur rippled through the audience. Excitement, anticipation, and the lingering shock from Lucifer’s display all hung in the air like charged electricity.

Across from me, Ian Viserion rolled his shoulders, golden-red flames flickering in the depths of his pupils. His presence alone exuded a quiet menace, his mana coiling around him in the shape of ethereal dragon wings, barely visible but unmistakably real.

Ian was a Viserion. A prince of the Southern Continent. A descendant of dragons.

A born fighter.

And he wasn’t planning to lose.

"I knew I’d be facing you at some point, Arthur," Ian said, rolling his neck. A grin tugged at his lips, sharp and eager. "Honestly, I was hoping it would be later. You’re a tough fight to start with."

"You sound like you’ve already accepted your loss," I replied, drawing my sword from its sheath. My voice was light, but the Qilin’s sigils on my arms flickered to life, signaling my intent as I activated Lucent Harmony.

Ian huffed, stepping into a low stance, fire igniting along his hands and forearms.

"Not a chance."

The referee raised his hand. "Begin!"

Ian moved first, a blur of golden fire streaking across the battlefield. Fast. Not quite at Lucifer or Ren’s level, but fast enough to keep up with most first-years.

He led with a heavy right hook, flames twisting around his knuckles, the sheer heat warping the air.

I didn’t dodge.

Instead, I lifted my sword and met his strike head-on.

Clang!

The moment our attacks connected, a shockwave burst outward, rattling the arena floor.

Ian grinned. "Good, you’re not going to just dodge the whole fight."

I pushed forward, my blade carving through the air with ruthless precision.

Tempest Dance.

A Grade 5 sword art, one that built momentum and compounded power with each successful movement.

I struck.

Once.

Twice.

Each movement flowing into the next, the weight behind my swings growing exponentially.

Ian barely managed to parry, his arms buckling under the increasing force. His flames lashed out in retaliation, but I stepped around them effortlessly, my Lucent Harmony guiding my body with precise efficiency.

His stance weakened. His speed waned. He realized too late—

I wasn’t fighting at my full strength.

"Damn it," Ian growled, fire exploding from his limbs as he leapt back, putting distance between us.

His chest rose and fell, his breathing heavier than before. His fingers twitched. His pupils contracted into reptilian slits.

Draconification.

Golden-red scales bloomed across his arms, spreading like wildfire up to his shoulders and down his spine. The air thickened, his mana surging into something almost primal. His jawline sharpened, his teeth elongating slightly.

And then—

His wings sprouted.

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Not physical ones. Mana wings, translucent yet majestic, shaped from pure flame and surging heat.

Ian grinned, his aura vastly different from before.

"You’re good," he admitted. "Too good. So, I’ll stop holding back."

I exhaled. "Go ahead."

The ground cracked beneath him as he launched forward, a swirling pyroclastic storm roaring to life around him.

"Legend of Prominence."

His Grade 6 Art.

His First Movement—Blazing Dawn.

The sun itself seemed to rise within the stadium as flames burst forth, a dazzling sphere of golden-red fire coalescing in his palms before exploding outward in a roaring torrent. The sheer heat blurred the air, a miniature sun descending upon me.

But I didn’t flinch.

My footwork shifted. One step. Two steps. Three.

Tempest Dance.

I slipped through the gaps of his flames, my blade carving through the blaze, dispersing his inferno like parting mist.

Ian growled, flipping backward before propelling himself high into the air.

"Second Movement—Infernal Ascent!"

A dragon’s roar echoed through the arena.

The sky turned crimson as Ian’s flames coiled around his body, spiraling upward in a violent surge.

And then—he descended.

Faster than before.

A meteor of flame and fury.

A single, cataclysmic strike meant to end the fight.

My sword pulsed.

Lucent Harmony engaged.

I stepped forward.

One.

Two.

Three.

A full Tempest Dance cycle completed.

My final strike landed just before his did.

CRACK.

His flames shattered.

His form crumpled.

And Ian Viserion collapsed.

Silence.

Then—the roar of the crowd.

The match was over.

I exhaled, lowering my sword, looking down at Ian’s dazed, breathless form.

"I told you," I murmured. "You already knew the result."

__________________________________________________________________________________

Leon leaned forward, watching the replay of Arthur’s fight with a sharp glint in his crimson eyes. The movement, the sheer efficiency of his strikes—it wasn’t just talent, it was mastery.

"Hey, did he get that art in the Academy?" he asked, voice laced with intrigue.

"Yes," Valerie confirmed, arms crossed as she leaned back in her seat. "Tempest Dance. A Grade 5 art provided by Mythos Academy."

Leon’s lips parted slightly, his brows furrowing. "So… he’s only been practicing it for, what, eight and a half months?" He turned to Valerie, as if waiting for her to correct him. "How the hell is he this proficient? He’s at least at the novice realm of mastery already!"

"That," Li Zenith said, amusement curling his lips into a smirk, "is the bare minimum for him. With his talent, it’s expected."

"Talent," Duke Blazespout mused, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. His gaze flickered to the screen where Arthur stood, victorious, his expression calm—unbothered. "So you consider him superior to all of them in terms of talent?"

Li hummed, tilting his head in consideration. "In a sense, yes," he admitted, before adding with an air of mystery, "And in a sense… no."

Valerie’s eyes narrowed. "Explain."

Li leaned forward slightly, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest of his chair. "There are many ways to define talent, but when it comes to combat, there are three primary classifications," he began, his tone smooth, instructive. "The first is Mana Rank Talent—the rate at which one absorbs and refines ambient mana, ultimately determining their growth in mana rank."

Everyone nodded along, following the familiar logic.

"The second is Mind Aspect Talent—talent in spellcasting, elemental affinities, and specialized magic fields. This is what determines a mage’s peak potential."

Paul Lucrian, the necromancer, stroked his chin, listening carefully.

"And finally, there is Body Aspect Talent—the natural aptitude for physical combat, the ability to wield weapons, to push the body beyond limits."

Li paused, letting his words sink in before continuing.

"Arthur’s Mana Rank Talent is… exceptional, but not the best among Class A," he revealed.

That made a few heads turn. Paul blinked. "Wait," he said, raising a brow. "But he’s one of only three White-rankers among the first-years. If his mana rank talent isn’t top three, then how the hell is he keeping up?"

"Did you all forget the fourth aspect?" Li smirked, eyes glinting with something knowing.

Silence fell over the VVIP box.

Then Valerie whispered, almost as if the realization had been pulled from deep within her mind.

"Soul Aspect."

Li spread his arms in amusement. "A way to bridge the gap in Mana Rank Talent."

Leon let out a slow whistle, realization dawning in his gaze. "So desperation then," he muttered, intrigued. "He didn’t rise because his absorption rate is superior. He rose because he threw himself into hell."

"A madman’s road," Duke Blazespout remarked, watching Arthur’s calm, measured figure on the screen.

Li chuckled. "Not a road," he corrected, eyes gleaming.

"A battlefield."