Lenn had no doubts about his capabilities. As a Savant, he possessed four talent abilities—though he had only ever displayed two.
The third one, however, was the foundation of his strength—the ability that allowed him to store impact. It was the first ability he unlocked as a Drifter, a gift that defined his combat style.
But the last one…
The last ability was strange. Unlike his others, which focused on storing, releasing and amplifying force, this one operated differently. It worked most effectively against opponents, but only if he was on the defensive rather than the offensive.
Because, in the simplest terms, it did something unthinkable—it nullified impact upon contact.
Yet, through relentless training, refinement, and a deep understanding of force, Lenn had managed to develop something far beyond its basic function.
A pseudo force field.
It wasn’t a true field—not in the way elemental shields or domain abilities worked. Instead, it was a passive buff, an extension of himself, rather than an external construct. A technique refined to the absolute limits of his soul essence’s nature.
For most Drifters, such a feat was impossible. Talent abilities couldn’t simply be improvised or manipulated beyond their given function.
But adaptation?
That was something else entirely.
Drifters who truly mastered their talent could bend it to their needs, molding it into something unexpected and devastating.
And what made Lenn’s feat even more astounding was the nature of his talent class.
Drifters with higher-class talents had soul essence forms that were notoriously difficult to cultivate, their true forms were nearly impossible to manifest before reaching the Sage rank. Most Drifters—even Masters—struggled to tap into the full scope of their essence form, especially if their talents were complex in nature.
Unless it was something simple, like an elemental-based ability, unlocking its full potential was rare.
Yet Lenn had done it.
Something that should have taken years—something that should have been beyond his reach—he had achieved through sheer brutal effort.
Some would call it impossible.
But Lenn?
He called it hard work.
And his family?
They called it greatness.
Yet none of that mattered now.
Because they had not yet seen the true boon of the pseudo force field.
A slow, razor-thin smile pulled at the corner of Lenn’s lips as he narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharpening into a single, burning point.
It was the gaze of a volcano, the flames of an eruption, compressed into one singular dot—vicious, consuming, and on the brink of detonation.
Then—
The air rippled.
A pulse of raw power spread outward, subtle red streaks slithering across Lenn’s armor like flowing veins of magma. He shifted his stance—one foot planted forward, his body leaning over it—as his grip tightened around his sword.
Its tip faced backward, a glimmer of light tracing along its razor edge.
And then—
Boom.
A sudden burst of shimmering red energy erupted outward, expanding in diameter before violently collapsing back inward. The force coiled around Lenn’s form, reinforcing his body like a second layer of unbreakable steel.
The air darkened.
A suffocating pressure descended upon the coliseum, slamming into the spectators like a tidal wave.
Everyone froze.
The weight of his presence alone was enough to make them tremble.
And then, from beneath his visor—
A red glow ignited.
A raw, seething light poured from his eyes, illuminating his features beneath the jagged, monolithic armor encasing him. The intricate plates gleamed with war-born violence, each ridge and curve designed for a single purpose—
Carnage.
He stood there, power rippling off his form like heat waves from molten steel, his body no longer just flesh and bone—but an unyielding force of nature.
Then, somewhere in the coliseum—
A voice cracked through the stunned silence.
"Shit…"
One of the student council whispered, his voice laced with a mixture of horror and admiration.
"Lenn… that bastard… He’s been hiding this all along."
A bead of sweat trickled down his pale face as the realization sank in.
Lenn wasn’t just skilled.
He wasn’t just strong.
He was relentless.
The kind of Drifter who never backed down—the kind of warrior who clawed his way to greatness with nothing but raw effort and sheer stubbornness.
And now, standing there—his presence suffocating, his aura coiled like a beast about to strike—one truth became painfully clear.
Lenn was a genius.
Northern stood still, his posture languid, his expression as impassive as the void itself. He didn’t react. Not even slightly.
The shift in the air, the suffocating tension, the vicious aura that poured from Lenn’s body like a colossal crimson serpent, its massive jaws threatening to crush him whole—
None of it mattered.
Northern couldn’t even find the words to describe it.
Because it didn’t matter.
It didn’t change him.
It wasn’t even worth his attention.
Then—
The wind trembled.
Lenn vanished.
The movement was near instantaneous—his form dissolving into a crimson streak, his sword flashing toward Northern like a blazing comet, wreathed in a ferocious red flare.
And yet—
Northern remained motionless.
He barely tilted his head down, his expression detached, cold, distant.
Then he sighed.
A slow, quiet breath—
And shook his head slightly.
Lenn’s sword carved through the air, closer by the millisecond…
And then—
"Where exactly are you swinging at?"
Northern’s voice cut through the suffocating air, slicing through the battlefield like the first whisper of an oncoming storm.
Lenn’s eyes widened.
Because…
Northern wasn’t there anymore.
It made no sense.
Lenn saw him—his blade was falling upon him—he had already committed to the strike.
And yet—
He was gone.
A flicker of confusion broke through Lenn’s focus, but he crushed it, immediately shifting his stance. He had no time for hesitation.
Instead, he pivoted—sharp, precise, flawless—his instincts taking control as he hurled his sword toward the source of the voice.
The speed was impeccable.
The execution—flawless.
No room for error.
No room for escape.
And yet—
Northern swatted the attack aside.
A single, effortless motion.
As if Lenn’s sword was nothing more than a bothersome fly.
The sheer ease of it sent a surge of fury through Lenn’s veins, but he refused to yield. Your next chapter awaits on .Côm
He gritted his teeth, his muscles tensing—he pivoted again, his sword twisting violently in his grip as he redirected his strike mid-air.
A feat requiring tremendous strength, a movement that should have strained even the most seasoned warriors—
But Lenn gave nothing away.
Not a single hint of struggle.
Not a single crack in his execution.
And yet—
Northern was faster.
A chill sank into Lenn’s skin.
A razor-sharp blade of ice pressed against his throat.
Not just his throat.
He tried to step forward—
He couldn’t.
His legs were frozen to the ground.
His breath trembled.
And then—
He saw it.
His eyes darted downward, and the realization struck him like a warhammer.
The entire floor of the arena was covered in smooth, glacial ice.
’What?’
His vision expanded, the scene unfolding before him in its full, horrifying scope.
Lenn shuddered.
The entire coliseum floor—every inch of it—was sheathed in ice.
And he hadn’t even noticed.
The crowd—
Their reaction was instant.
A collective gasp rippled through the arena, followed by a grave silence.
Northern sighed.
Then, with unbothered ease, he took a small step back, his posture relaxed.
"The floor isn’t what you should be worried about."
His voice carried a wry amusement, a sharp contrast to the cold reality unfolding before Lenn’s eyes.
Then—
Northern lifted a single finger.
And pointed upward.
Lenn’s gaze followed—
And his breath stilled.
The sky was gone.
Or rather—
It had been replaced.
Shrouding the heavens above, casting an ominous, deathly glow, were thousands upon thousands of ice spears.
Each one razor-sharp.
Each one glinting with lethal intent.
Each one pointed directly at him.
Lenn swallowed dryly.
And in that moment—
He realized something.
He had been fucked from the very beginning.
This battle?
It had never been his to win.
It had never even been close.