The pungent smell of the acid sea slammed into Atticus's nose like a hammer. He could feel its corrosive effects lingering on his skin, yet his lips curled into a faint smile.
'I hope he's not watching,' he thought.
If Ozeorth were observing everything, Atticus knew he'd never hear the end of it.
Atticus had taken the spirit's advice to heart. Reflecting on his past experiences, he agreed, he hadn't been using his intelligence and perception to their fullest.
When he had first met the three spirits at the start of the fourth trial, he'd sensed something was off. There had been a palpable tension, a subtle hint that not everything was as it seemed.
He'd chosen Dorander, the silent one, for a single reason: the man wore his emotions on his face.
It had made things easier.
Shock, confusion, hesitation, and even moments of cold resolve, Atticus had read it all. He had known betrayal was coming, though not the specifics of when or how.
Still, he had prepared for it from the very beginning.
The katana could block his spiritual energy. It could suppress his elements and seal his arts. But there was one thing it couldn't touch.
His will.
His will wasn't tied to his mana, his elements, or even his arts. It was the essence of his being, his drive, his resolve, his identity.
The katana could suppress the tools he wielded, but it couldn't suppress who he was.
Atticus had deliberately held back using his will throughout the trial. Many might consider it too subtle or insignificant to matter, but only Atticus knew how overwhelming it truly was.
The air screamed as he plummeted, whipping around him like a violent storm. Below, the green acid sea churned, its deadly embrace mere moments away.
Atticus exhaled slowly, his breathing steady and measured.
Then it happened.
A deep crimson glow erupted from his body, a surge of raw, unfiltered power blazing like wildfire.
It pulsed and roared, alive and consuming the mana in the air as he willed it into aerokinesis. The sky turned blood-red, and the storm shattered under the weight of his energy.
His fall stopped.
Beneath him, glowing red footholds materialized in midair, suspended by his will. They pulsed, solid and unyielding, radiating his essence.
Atticus stood calmly, his piercing crimson eyes locked upward.
He crouched low, tighter than before. His legs coiled like a spring, every muscle charged with power. The air around him trembled, vibrating as the mana in the atmosphere bent to his will.
Then, he launched.
A streak of crimson blazed through the storm like a meteor, faster than the eye could track.
Dorander stood frozen, his mind screaming in disbelief as his entire body locked in place.
'He's coming for me.'
On the floating seats, the third spirit, one of the men Atticus had met at the start of the fourth trial, spoke calmly.
"Do you regret it?"
Dorander didn't answer. He couldn't. His thoughts spiraled in a whirlwind.
Regret?
Was it worth it? If he had the chance to do it again, would he?
His fists clenched tightly, his jaw setting as his gaze hardened.
He would. Without hesitation.
This was a second chance at life. He'd fight for it.
His breathing steadied, and his resolve solidified into steel.
Dorander's grip tightened around the hilt of his katana, the blade shimmering as he unsheathed it in one smooth motion. He exhaled deeply, muttering under his breath.
"Fourth Art…"
The shift was immediate.
His aura erupted outward like a storm, dense and crushing, the air rippling violently under its weight.
Mana surged, coiling into a vortex that engulfed the entire peak. The ground cracked under the pressure, the air thickened, and the watching spirits remained silent, their eyes filled with intrigue.
Then, a crimson streak tore past the cliffside, cutting through the oppressive storm as though it were nothing.
Atticus appeared high above the arena, his piercing gaze locking onto Dorander's.
Coldness clashed with fiery determination.
The world stilled.
Despite his depleted mana and the strain weighing heavily on his body, Atticus radiated an eerie calm. His presence was unshakable, his focus absolute.
He had pieced it together.
Why had Dorander thrown him off the cliff instead of fighting him outright? Why had the spirit delayed his approach to the arena?
Then, it clicked.
'I'd recover.'
The katana was always fair. The arena would restore him completely, and Dorander had known it. He had tried to prevent that from happening.
But it was too late.
Atticus's body pulsed as his mana returned in a sudden, overwhelming surge. Strength flooded his limbs, his senses sharpened, and his fatigue washed away.
A subtle pull from his side caught his attention. Without hesitation, his hand moved to the hilt of his katana, which had reappeared at his side.
His aura turned icy, his expression unreadable.
Atticus said nothing, but his mind raced with speed.
Before climbing the mountain, he had asked Dorander a seemingly random question: "Was I supposed to learn something during the climb?" It hadn't been random.
Dorander's answer had kept him alert.
Each trial, swirling mana, seeking targets, compressing energy, had been a lesson. Together, they were the foundation for something far greater.
The Fourth Art.
Atticus's mana churned, his power manifesting as a storm unlike anything before.
It erupted.
The peak quaked under its weight as crimson and azure energy surged outward, tearing through Dorander's storm effortlessly.
The spirits watching from their floating seats gasped, their wide eyes fixed on Atticus.
He had mastered it already!?
Dorander trembled, his confidence cracking under the sheer force of Atticus's presence.
But Atticus didn't give him time to think.
In a single, fluid motion, Atticus unsheathed his katana and raised it high.
The storm obeyed.
It converged on the blade, swirling like a dragon coiling around its master. The energy roared, alive and insatiable, the katana glowing with terrifying intensity.
Dorander's breath hitched.
Atticus's grip tightened.
And then, without a word, the katana descended.
The energy dragon surged forward, a force of pure destruction that consumed everything in its path. The peak trembled, and the very air split under the sheer power of the strike.
Dorander's body stiffened, his grip on his katana faltering. Yet, as the attack neared, his eyes softened, and a sigh escaped his lips.
He exhaled deeply, a flicker of peace crossing his face.
As the dragon storm of energy surged closer, Dorander sheathed his katana. His gaze locked onto Atticus, his voice steady and calm.
"What is your drive?"
The words hung in the air, heavy. It was the question Dorander had wanted to ask from the very beginning. The question that lingered, even as his end approached.
Even as the dragon of energy tore through space, Dorander's gaze never wavered.
The attack loomed closer. For a moment, silence reigned.
Dorander thought the answer wouldn't come.
But it did.
"The peak."
Dorander smiled, a small, knowing smile.
"Of course," he muttered, his voice barely audible amidst the roaring storm.
The attack landed.
An explosion of white light erupted, blinding and all encompassing, swallowing the peak in its brilliance.