Chapter 43: Chapter 43: Noah vs Elijah (3)
Chapter 43: Noah vs Elijah (3)
Noah began to burn.
"Argh, damn it," he hissed, staggering back as flames erupted across his body like a curse. Flesh cracked. His veins glowed red-hot. Pain seared into him so viciously it nearly broke his focus—but he held on.
He reacted fast.
A blinding surge of ice exploded outward. A deep, ancient cold—not just frost, but something near-arctic in its primal purity. The stadium howled with the sound of sudden winter. Fire met frost, and the world screamed. Everything vanished in the rising fog of steam.
Elijah’s third aura.
Aura of the Phoenix.
His flames weren’t just fire—they were rebirth. Immolation and healing wrapped in divine heat. A power that burned him to ashes and rebuilt him stronger every time. His blood boiled with life.
He rose from the steam like a deity. No scars. No wounds. His body, reborn. Golden flames crowned him like a halo. His eyes were radiant. Too radiant.
The crowd gasped again—hundreds on their feet, breathless.
Three auras?
That wasn’t rare. That was impossible.
"Monsters," someone whispered.
Noah stood somewhere in the mist. His outline shimmered—scarred, but steady. The fire still burned around him, licking his heels, trying to crawl up his back.
But his Samsara Aura worked quietly. His body, damaged seconds ago, was already mending. Bone reknitting. Muscle regrowing. His breath calmed.
"Elijah..." Noah muttered through the haze. "He keeps getting up."
This wasn’t just a duel anymore. It was a war of philosophies. Of identities. Elijah, chosen by divinity, was the world’s favorite narrative: the broken boy turned hero. He had every edge—power, sympathy, the narrative on his side.
Noah was different. Not chosen—made.
"A tenacious bastard," he whispered, wiping blood from his jaw. "Typical protagonist energy. If I don’t end this now, he’ll pull some last-minute miracle."
He closed his eyes.
Breathed.
Then opened them.
"I’m limitless."
And something shifted.
Reality buckled—subtly. Like the laws of physics stepped back in hesitation.
The fire didn’t touch him anymore. It swirled around, roaring louder than ever—but none of it landed. As if space itself stretched between him and the heat.
"I’m not in the fire," Noah murmured. "I’m beyond it."
The mist faded.
He emerged.
Shirtless. Silver-eyed. His skin still bore red trails from the burn—but they healed by the second. His body hummed with quiet power. No flare, no flash—just dominance.
Elijah saw him and flinched.
"Three auras, huh?" Noah smirked. "Should’ve expected that."
He didn’t wait.
His Aura of Limitlessness bloomed.
Noah whispered, "Time and Space do not bind me. My attack... is in the domain of spirituality."
And then—
Time slowed.
A second became ten.
The world moved like molasses. But Noah? He moved freely. Like he was untethered from the clock.
He stepped forward once.
And the world unraveled around him.
The space between him and Elijah folded. Reality parted like curtains. And in that one step—he was there.
Inches from Elijah’s chest.
No light show. No sonic boom.
Just a presence.
Elijah’s eyes widened.
Too late.
Noah’s fist moved—not coated in elements, but just a normal punch. A punch sharpened into one thing: truth.
CRACK.
His knuckles collided with Elijah’s sternum—and something broke.
Not just bone.
Elijah’s soul.
A scream tore from him—not from the mouth, but from the spirit. His legs gave out. Blood exploded from his lips. He collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.
Time resumed.
To the audience, it looked like Noah teleported—and Elijah just dropped.
But those who understood—Damon, the professors, the Dean—they saw it.
They saw spiritual warfare.
Noah’s fist hadn’t just hit his body. It hit his inner world. His identity.
Elijah knelt. Trembling.
Not in fear.
In pain that went beyond muscle. Pain of the soul. Pain of being seen.
Noah stood tall above him, silent. The air bent gently around him. His aura no longer loud—but final.
"You were right, Elijah," Noah said. His voice was calm, but carried through the entire arena. "You are strong. Chosen by a goddess. Scarred by a cruel past."
He looked down. His voice darkened.
"But power doesn’t make you right."
"You think the world owes you because you suffered?"
Elijah’s eyes twitched.
"You want to take everything now—women, fame, thrones—just because you were broken once?"
The crowd shifted uncomfortably. Noah’s words were peeling back something hidden.
"You’re greedy. Vengeful. Lustful. Everyone sees it. And no one stops you. Why? Because you have power. Because they fear you. Because you’re the Chosen One."
Then came the Aura of the Ruler.
It fell on the stadium like gravity. The audience straightened. Some gasped. Some clutched their hearts.
People listened.
Not because they wanted to.
But because they had to.
Noah’s eyes flared.
"But not me."
"I’m not one of your admirers. I don’t worship your titles. I don’t care if you’re blessed by gods or born from divine fire."
"I’m the one sent to check your arrogance."
His voice rose.
"I, Noah Weaverheart. Son of Selene Weaverheart, the Witch of Eternal Cold."
He stepped forward.
"—will not let you trample this world for your ego."
"You want to fight demons? Fine. But stop acting like you’re the only one who’s suffered."
The silence cracked.
"There are people out there who’ve lost more than you—and they don’t use their pain to justify burning the world down."
Someone in the crowd stood.
Then another.
Then a voice.
"YES!"
"NOAH’S RIGHT!"
"HE’S NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO SUFFERED!"
The stands erupted. Cheers. Agreement. People who’d been silent—afraid—now found their voices.
The tide was turning.
Not just toward Noah’s strength—
But his truth.
From the top of the stadium, Sophie watched it unfold. Poised. Her hands folded in her lap. But her eyes shimmered—not with surprise. With certainty.
This wasn’t a rant.
It was a performance. Precision-crafted.
Damon grinned from the sky "What a bastard."
The Dean watched, unmoving. Her eyes narrowed.
She was one of the few who saw the full picture.
Noah hadn’t just beaten Elijah physically.
He was taking his story.
Stealing the role of the "hero" by speaking truth everyone was too scared to admit.
And Noah?
He just stood there now.
Bare-chested. Calm. His silver eyes fixed on Elijah—who was still on his knees, shaking.
Not from fear.
From the realization that—for the first time—he might not win this.
—End of Chapter 43—