"Fight me, cockroach!"
A Basilisk student, holding a sword lodged in the ground, is now thoroughly exhausted, unable to stand on his own.
The only thing missing was him begrudgingly bestowing upon Atticus the title of Nimblest Cockroach in Existence.
"I take it this is all you've got."
Atticus wasted no time, driving a swift, calculated kick into the student's chest, the impact sent him flying backward, his body collapsing in a heap as unconsciousness claimed him in an instant.
The crowd buzzed with murmurs, a pattern gradually becoming apparent.
Against male opponents, Atticus's finishes were unforgiving, vicious kicks to the chest that left no room for doubt.
Yet, when facing women, there was a striking difference, his movements became measured, almost elegant, like a character plucked from a princess's fairy tale, granting them respect even in defeat.
This disparity did not go unnoticed, triggering waves of frustration.
"Fucking playboy!"
"You're the real simp here!"
"Burn in hell, bastard!"
The women turned to them with sharp glares, hostility evident in their eyes.
"What do you mean, a simp? He outright disrespected the princesses!"
"Exactly and he knows how to treat women right, even those without status, unlike you pathetic worms!"
The tension snapped, exploding into chaos as men and women began bickering like feral cats and dogs.
Atticus listened to the crowd as his crafted plan bore fruit, he had executed it deliberately to outmaneuver the other fans.
He cleared Class Basilisk duel requests.
Sensing it was time to shift the momentum, he signaled to the arbiter.
A sword hurled toward him, Atticus caught effortlessly.
The crowd stirred anew, their whispers rippling through the arena.
"Oh, look, the hidden prince, wielding a sword."
"He will just use it as a defensive tool."
A young student, his smile faintly distorted, stepped into the arena dressed in the navy blue uniform, a Class Arcanum.
"That's him, the heir of the Blue Magic Tower, Javier."
"The Ice Prince, the one rumored to rival the Monster Mage himself."
Atticus resisted the urge to roll his eyes, if only they knew the stark disparity between them. As he cloaked himself and his blade in a swirling aura of raw, primal essence, the air around him humming with restrained power.
The arbiter cast a spell, its light signaling the start of the duel.
"You insolent mongrel! How dare you claim she lacks originality or creativ-"
Atticus surged forward, closing the distance with startling speed.
The crowd gasped in collective shock, their murmurs momentarily silenced.
Moments ago, Atticus had been purely evasive; now, he had shifted, his approach turning aggressive.
Javier's eyes darkened ominously, a sinister gleam flickering within them as he let out a derisive snort.
A single calculated wave of his hand, the air thickened, and countless icy spheres materialized, hovering like frozen specters before they launched toward Atticus with lethal precision.
Atticus moved like a blur, his blade carving through the onslaught of icy spheres.
Javier's confident smirk widened, the thrill of superiority sparking in his gaze, then it faltered, his expression shifted from arrogance to stark disbelief.
The spheres were supposed to detonate on impact, unleashing a swarm of razor-sharp snowflakes designed to snare and punish. How had Atticus slipped through the layers of traps so effortlessly?
It defied reason.
Not only had the spheres failed to hinder him, but Atticus's movement didn't falter for even a moment, his fluid, relentless advance was unnerving.
Panic began to creep beneath Javier's confident facade as Atticus closed the distance in a single, merciless heartbeat.
In a flash, Javier summoned a flawless, crystalline blade, its iridescent edge glinting menacingly, a surge of blistering speed, he slashed at Atticus, confident in his superior velocity.
Then his eyes widened in incredulity, Atticus's acceleration seemed impossible, his movements transcending human limits, with almost predatory grace, Atticus ducked below the strike, closing the distance in a breath.
The hilt of Atticus's blade drove into Javier's solar plexus, the impact reverberating through his body like a shockwave, air exploded from Javier's lungs as his core buckled under the force.
Before he could stagger, Atticus struck again, a swift upward elbow colliding with Javier's jaw, sickening crunch echoed, and Javier crumpled to the ground, felled in an instant by the merciless onslaught.
The crowd was rendered speechless, it all happened in mere seconds.
Atticus straightened, his expression calm, as if the outcome was inevitable.
"Next."
His voice slicing through the stunned silence like a blade.
***
"He severed the midpoint structure of the spell, disabling the icy sphere traps before they could activate."
Sinclair's gaze settled on the future sword saint, her expression shrouded in intrigue.
"It's not normal, is it? The way he did it."
Lazare inclined his head, his expression thoughtful.
Even knights trained in sword aura find it impossible to sever a spell's midpoint structure. It's like grasping the intangible, rendered useless unless they possess some unique constitution.
"Beyond its primal essence, the sword was imbued with a Grade 1 Art Spell Cleanse and seemed to carry a kind of will. But that's not all, there's another medium, some underlying force at work, which explains how he was able to do it."
"I suppose I need to rethink how I prioritize strength above all else." Sinclair pouted.
***
A tall man stepped forward, his tattered uniform hanging in shreds, exposing a broad chest sculpted with raw strength and power, his muscular frame strained against the fabric of his pants, a Class Arcanum.
Some among the crowd began snapping out of the reverie induced by the earlier spectacle.
"That's Garrick, from the Ember Tribe."
"The Ember Tribe? Oh, they're part of the Bloodscar Dominion, a splinter faction under Kenn. You know him, don't you? Kenn the chosen successor of the Dominion."
"I've heard his strike is like a hammer, and his skin's as tough as a jade bear's hide."
The atmosphere shifted, what had been stunned silence moments before was now replaced with intrigue.
"I sense the spirit of a warrior in you." Garrick said.
Atticus planted the sword into the ground beside him with an air of nonchalance, extending his hand, he gestured with a slight twitch of his fingers, tauntingly urging the man forward.
Unfazed by the provocation, Garrick stood firm, his expression impassive.
"Before we fight, you should reconsider your boast about walking away without a scratch."
Atticus tilted his head, "There's no need."
Garrick's brow furrowed at the flippant response, the weight of the insult pressing against his warrior's code.
"What is the point of reconsidering, when your skill could never rival mine to begin with?"
A vein throbbed on Garrick's temple as his composure cracked. "You're asking for it. You won't live to regret this."
Garrick charged forward with unrelenting force, matched by Atticus, who surged ahead with equal intensity.
Garrick swung his fist in a brutal arc, but Atticus deftly deflected it with his forearm, countering with a sharp punch to Garrick's jaw, the strike landed cleanly, yet it had no effect—his jaw felt like dense, living steel.
Atticus ducked under Garrick's attempt to wrestle him into a grapple, slipping out of range as he retreated a few paces.
"A mosquito just bit me." Garrick said with a derisive chuckle.
Atticus charged once more, but Garrick sensed the change, there was something different about his opponent's air this time.
Acting on instinct, Garrick transformed mid-motion, his already formidable physique swelled into its bull-like form, his muscles becoming impossibly robust, his frame denser and harder than before.
Their collision was inevitable.
Garrick met Atticus head-on with the full might of his transformed body.
Atticus, stayed unfazed, weaving around Garrick's powerful strikes with uncanny precision, his movements were a symphony of evasion, deflection, and counterattacks, targeting different points across Garrick's armored body.
Garrick swung at him with every ounce of his strength, his limbs battering the space around him like battering rams, but landing even a single hit on Atticus proved maddeningly elusive.
Each moment ratcheted the tension higher, the arena brimming with the crackling energy of two unyielding warriors locked in a deadly dance of skill versus raw power.
***
"What do you think, Kenn? Could Garrick at least manage to scratch Atticus?"
Sinclair cast a questioning glance toward him, her tone almost playful.
"Highly doubtful. Garrick is the weakest successor of our generation within the dominion."
"Oh? I thought you'd at least root for him, you know, show some loyalty to your own."
"Why don't you take another look at the arena? It's already over."
Startled, Sinclair turned her attention back to the spectacle, only to have her expression twist into shock, as if she'd just realized she'd missed the ending of a blockbuster film.
There, in the center of the arena, Atticus sat perched nonchalantly on Garrick's back, his posture relaxed, his clothes pristine and unblemished. Garrick, on the other hand, lay sprawled and unmoving beneath him, unconscious.
Atticus looked up, his calm voice slicing through the stunned murmurs of the crowd.
"Next."