Northern stood before Tever and asked:
"Do you yield?"
His voice was cold, his expression devoid of emotion as he awaited the response.
Tever, the former disciplinary committee leader, stood pale and frozen. His face was a convolution of many emotions—shock, disbelief, fear—but at its core, it was the look of a man utterly shattered. Like fractured glass reflecting the weight of his defeat, his despondence was absolute.
The question was, in fact, stupid…
Northern suddenly tilted his head, then shook it once. Then again. Something dislodged.
A small, writhing thing tumbled from his ear, landing on his palm. It convulsed slightly before ceasing all movement.
Northern frowned, staring at it for a moment.
’When did this obnoxious thing even get in?’
He flicked it away and turned his attention back to Tever, who remained rigid, as if trapped in the moment of his undoing.
The very idea of yielding was redundant—his defeat was undeniable. Above them, comets of searing fire hovered, staining the coliseum in a cantaloupe glow. The intensity of their presence alone was overwhelming, their sheer destructive might visible from miles away.
If they fell, it wouldn’t just be him—several people in the coliseum would be reduced to nothing. And Tever... Tever wouldn’t even last long enough to see them touch the ground.
Even at this distance, the heat was unbearable. It spread across his skin like a suffocating shroud, a warning of the inferno to come.
’Who is this guy... really?’
His thoughts wandered.
’The Dark Continent... huh?’
Tever tried to recall the first time those survivors had been admitted to the academy—the first rumors of their return. The disciplinary committee had been among the first to take notice. Reports had come in, one after another, detailing their violent clashes with students, their blatant disregard for authority.
He had despised them for the way they trampled over the academy’s order, for how they disrespected the efforts of those who had climbed through sweat and discipline to stand at the top.
And so, the disciplinary committee had intervened.
The first two months had been nothing short of war—an unrelenting clash between these outsiders and the academy’s enforcers. Defeats had piled up. The once-proud strong had fallen.
In the end, only he and Lenn had managed to hold their ground, delivering the necessary lessons. But even that hadn’t been enough.
The student council had been forced to step in.
And now, here he was.
Stripped of victory.
Stripped of authority.
Staring at the one who had upended everything.
Tever sighed, a breath laden with the weight of everything he’d lost. Then, as though his pride itself was tearing through him, he clenched his teeth and forced the words out, shame clinging to every syllable.
"I yield."
It hurt.
It stung like the vicious bite of an abyssal scorpion—its stinger carved from the sharpest blades, its venom forged in the fiercest inferno.
He hated that he had to say it. He hated him — the non-combative — for making him say it.
But more than anything, he hated himself.
He hated himself for being defeated. For not being more.
Not that his opponent cared.
Hearing the words, Northern grinned and stepped back, then casually snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the flames vanished.
Gone—without a single ember left in their wake.
Above, the stormy clouds began to part, shedding their darkened skins like remnants of a dying tempest. Slowly, light trickled through, until the familiar brilliance of daylight flooded the coliseum once more.
And for the first time, the spectators realized just how much they had missed it—the stark cold, the blinding glow.
For almost two minutes, they’d been submerged in overwhelming heat and suffocating terror, and now, standing in its aftermath, the world itself felt different. Explore more at Free
At first, there was only silence.
Then whispers.
Then murmurs.
Then an eruption—cheers rising like a crashing tide, swelling until they thundered through the coliseum. Applause, shouts, deafening cries that no instructor could fully comprehend.
It wasn’t just about this victory.
They weren’t celebrating the win.
They were celebrating him.
The immense strength.
The overwhelming power.
The ruthless, vicious command that made every breath he took feel like inevitability.
For the first time in ages, they had witnessed something extraordinary. Or perhaps, to put it more precisely—
Never before had there been a moment like this.
A chance to witness, firsthand, such a numen among Drifters.
And for the Citadels, the opportunity to recruit such a force.
Especially the three strongest Citadels in the Central Plains.
They watched with razor-sharp focus, their minds already poisoned with an intense, insatiable joy.
Because this student—this monstrous talent—
Was destined to bring an unstoppable tide of change not just to the academy but to the entire Central Plains, and perhaps the world.
The third opponent marched onto the arena, his stride slow and deliberate. Each step echoed with purpose, an unhurried rhythm that carried an air of confidence.
After what felt like beats of eternity, he finally reached Northern, stopping just a few feet away. His eyes remained closed, his expression unreadable—amazingly unaffected by the spectacle that had unfolded before him.
If anything… he seemed… pleased?
’Oh? This one looks like he might be amusing.’
The young man lifted his head slightly, finally opening his slanted, snake-like eyes just a fraction. A grin curled at his lips as he spoke.
"You are indeed strong."
Northern tilted his head, studying him with quiet scrutiny.
"It’s fascinating… but it changes nothing. In fact, you’ve made it even easier for me."
The student inhaled, as if savoring the moment, his voice smooth and pleasant.
"Thanks to your grand display, the crowd is hyped—they expect you to win again."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. Then, with the same ease, he continued.
"The banner of my victory will be raised higher than I ever imagined—because you exist."
Northern’s face remained impassive, but his eyes remained locked onto his opponent, sharp and unwavering. He was studying him, dissecting his every movement, his every inflection.
A silence stretched between them. Long. Tense.
Then—
A silvery, sweet voice broke the moment.
"Well… it should be starting already."
Northern’s body jerked.
A tremor ran through him.
His vision blurred. His balance wavered.
Staggering backward, he sucked in a sharp breath as something burned through his chest—hot, searing, drilling into his very core.
For the first time, his expression faltered.
His fingers clenched around his chest, as if trying to tear out the source of the pain. His breath came in ragged bursts.
Then, with a furious glare, he locked eyes with his opponent.
"You bastard… what the hell did you do to me?"