Chapter 799 First Duel
Northern lingered by the hall, watching the steady churn of movement as people prepared for the incoming onslaught—or rather, engaged in battles that had already begun.
He noted the absence of certain faces, those he had marked before. The heavy shadow of sullenness that hung over the bright interior of the city hall was almost tangible, denser now, suffocating.
They looked like they were waiting for their turn. He wasn't entirely sure what was happening, and curiosity prickled at him, but approaching someone to ask felt... unappealing. Maybe he was simply too reclusive to seek anyone out.
'…Crap, I never thought I was this shy…'
Shaking off that thought, he refocused. There were more pressing matters—urgent, in fact.
Today marked the first day of the combat duel, scheduled to span three days.
So far, his clone had remained inactive all morning, but the time for battle was drawing close. Northern had initially wanted to participate himself, but he wasn't overly insistent. He trusted that the clone was more than capable of handling the fight.
Leaning against the cool stone of the wall, he positioned himself in an alcove barely noticed, where the brilliance of the light failed to fully reach. It was an overlooked corner, drowned in the absence of attention. And no one, in their state of preparation, paid it any heed.
Scattered across the hall, the few people present braced themselves for what was to come.
Northern exhaled.
His view shifted.
A sprawling arena unfurled before him, a coliseum of vast magnitude, its seats teeming with countless figures. The collective roar of the crowd soared high, sharp as millions of arrows loosed into the sky.
In the heart of the round structure, two combatants were locked in a vicious, deadly exchange.
One wielded a silver stiletto, a blade so ethereal it seemed more an illusion than steel. His movements carried the whisper of absence rather than presence, slipping in and out of reach with the slipperiness of the wind itself—perhaps even more elusive.
His opponent, however, was a stark contrast. A brute of raw, unrelenting strength, his physique an exquisite amalgamation of honed muscle and towering presence.
Each swing of his axe was a declaration of power, his sinews rippling with terrifying precision. Even the wind seemed to yield, carving a path before him in reluctant obeisance.
He was a conqueror—if not yet crowned, then certainly on the rise. His strikes thundered through the air, leaving little room for anything but retreat. The ghostly warrior danced away, weaving through openings with masterful footwork. He knew—blocking a single one of those devastating blows would be his undoing.
But evasion alone could not win this battle.
And he had yet to devise a definitive way to turn the tide.
From the way things stood, the advantage belonged to the axe-wielding brute. His relentless onslaught forced the ghostly fighter into a defensive rhythm, controlling the tempo, dictating the pace.
The axe struck the ground, a beastly weapon cleaving into stone with a deafening crash. Fragments of shattered earth burst into the air, scattering like shrapnel.
And in that moment—the ghostly warrior vanished.
The brute warrior stilled, his stance tightening, his gaze sharpening into something more primal. Every fiber of his body braced for the unseen.
Seconds dragged.
Nothing.
Then—his pupils constricted.
Without hesitation, his axe followed—hurtling toward the left.
'He fell into the trap…'
Northern mused pitifully.
As the axe carved through the air toward the left, a wicked grin split the brute warrior's face. To him, the battle's outcome was already sealed.
But the moment his weapon cleaved through the space where his target should have been, something was wrong. A silver gleam—sharp and merciless—flashed not from the left, but from behind.
The ghostly warrior materialized like smoke condensing into form, his stiletto already in motion, the perfect strike lined up against his opponent's exposed back.
The brute's eyes widened for an instant. Then—realization struck.
The target his axe had slashed through dissolved into white smoke.
His instincts surged, honed and ruthless, reacting before thought could fully form. His body twisted, muscles coiling like iron springs. As his axe completed its arc, his elbow shot backward in a crude but brutally effective counter.
The ghostly warrior reeled, his precise positioning shattered. For the first time, a flicker of genuine concern crossed his features. The feint had failed. And now, he was closer to his opponent than ever before—dangerously so, within the lethal range of that monstrous axe.
Northern's lips curled.
"Impressive..."
He hadn't expected the brute to react that well. That level of instinctive combat sense—this wasn't just a Drifter relying on his talent abilities.
Earlier, as he studied the warrior's towering form, an observation had clicked into place. The man was unnecessarily large for a student.
But Northern already knew why.
It was his talent ability.
The boy was actively using his second talent ability—likely his Nomad ability. Northern wasn't certain how much soul essence the brute had left to spare, but if he failed to employ it carefully and judiciously, his defeat was inevitable.
From the way he clashed with the ghostly fighter, there was no doubt—he fully believed victory was his to seize. But he had underestimated his opponent to the very last moment.
Even so, the fact that he could still react with such precision spoke volumes. He wasn't just a brute swinging an axe.
A trained combatant. Perhaps a noble.
Northern found himself intrigued.
The brute's battle style was relentless—a force that crashed forward like a mighty wave, unstoppable and crushing. His axe was the cutting edge of that wave, and his immense strength was the current that drove it with violent force.
It was a brutal yet intelligently crafted combat style, tailored to his kind of talent and caliber.
Perhaps it was because Northern had spent so much time fighting, or maybe it was due to Formless, now evolved into Omniform—but perceiving these nuances had suddenly become second nature.
He first noticed it in the tier-five rift he entered recently.
His overwhelming success in that rift owed much to the power of Titan's Reckoning—but more importantly, it was easy because his mundane eyes and sharpened intuition had begun unraveling the combat styles of his enemies.
The monsters' attacks had been exactly as one would expect—rugged, animalistic, driven by raw instinct. Yet even in their chaotic rhythm, there was an underlying cadence, a pattern of movement. And once he recognized it, breaking through became effortless—especially with his terrifying strength.
Then came the humanoid centipedes and those mangled monsters.
And now, watching this battle, it was as clear as day.
Omniform, indeed had brought a great boon that he never paid attention to.