Clang
Clang
Clang
Sparks scattered like fireflies on the verge of combustion as the girl lashed out from every direction—her spear snapping through the air like a whip bound to her sheer will.
She fought with unchained ferocity. Every motion, every strike, was untamed precision.
Shae, for his part, kept pace.
His sword moved like a needle threading through chaos, deflecting each punishing blow with the same calculated sharpness he was known for. But the truth lingered in the tension of each clash.
Tremendous.
That was the word. Every strike she launched was tremendous—overwhelming in weight, speed, and unpredictability.
And he felt it.
His hands ached with each deflection, the shock of her momentum digging into his bones. But pain was irrelevant. Shae's mind stayed sharp, his reflexes never betrayed him.
The girl blurred in and out like a specter of madness. One moment she was driving him back with relentless aggression, the next she was behind him—her spear whipping through the air like a rope spun from storm winds.
She moved with reckless precision, deliberately vanishing into distance only to reappear, thrusting her spear forward like a lightning bolt let loose.
Shae's hands met her chaos with matching fury. He parried each strike—his sword arm slashing in rapid arcs.
Their weapons blurred. Their hands vanished.
Steel danced against steel in an almost invisible exchange, each movement a beat in an escalating symphony of violence.
From the sideline, Northern watched with an icy gleam in his eyes.
He didn't like how the battle was evolving.
The vice president—formidable, graceful, a maestro of calculated violence—was being stretched.
And it wasn't about stamina. It was intent.
The girl was dragging something out of him.
She fought with a deceptive rhythm—chaotic, seductive. A style that provoked reaction, demanded adaptation, and lured her opponent to meet her on her terms.
It was designed to bait.
To pull the best out of her enemies just to show them it wasn't enough.
To force them into urgency—then break their rhythm.
Northern saw the trap for what it was.
It was combat theater—a psychological war. A performance meant to unseat certainty.
Because in no manual of war, in no strategy scroll, was it ever written that you follow your opponent's pace and come out the victor.
Not in battles like this. Not between Drifters.
To win, you had to impose your own rhythm—even when the world screamed otherwise.
That was the essence of style. The core of a Drifter's combat philosophy.
Lose your rhythm, and you lose your edge.
Lose your edge… and the battle is already over.
In that moment, Shae's movements began to falter.
Inkfire splashed through the air as his blade carved black arcs—each slash vivid and precise. But it wasn't enough.
She was too fast.
Gone before his blade could find her.
And already behind him.
It felt deliberate—premeditated. As if she'd read his every move… as if she expected him to use his talent abillity and used it to bait him into a trap.
Her hand struck like a hammer.
A devastating blow slammed into his side, snapping through his ribs with a bone-crushing crack. The shockwave from the impact tore across the arena, and the very air seemed to quiver.
Shae went flying.
He tumbled across the arena floor, body skidding in a wild arc—until he ground to a halt, catching himself with his palms and digging in with his heels.
Slowly, he pushed to his feet.
His expression remained composed—cold as ever—but deep in his eyes burned an unspoken fire, just barely contained beneath that glassy surface.
The girl watched him rise and let out a low, mocking chuckle.
"There, there… Vice President. There… there…"
Her tone dripped with false sympathy, twisted into cruelty.
Shae still had no clue who she was—or what she wanted—but her voice, her grin, her entire presence was beginning to gnaw at the edges of his control.
Yet he couldn't dismiss her skill.
She was good. Too good.
How?
'How could someone like her exist unnoticed within the combat school?'
The system didn't allow hidden threats to fester quietly. Power was always spotted, documented, tracked—even outside the student council's reach.
But this girl? She was an anomaly.
And there was that sudden, violent shift in personality at the beginning of the battle.
The more he thought about it, the more wrong everything felt. It didn't add up. This wasn't just a question of talent, in fact he hadn't seen her use her talent — it was something else. Something twisted.
"Oh, you never learn… do you?"
Her voice slithered through the air, sending a chill down his spine.
"Go ahead, Vice President. Think. Let's see if you can logic your way out of this."
Her grin stretched wider, lips parting in a diabolical arc.
Shae's eyes narrowed.
He didn't speak.
He simply raised his sword. Locked onto her.
And then surged forward.
The girl's expression twisted with glee, like her face might split from the weight of that manic smile.
She waited.
And when he came within reach, she struck.
Her spear lashed out, smashing into his incoming strike with monstrous force. Shae staggered back, thrown off balance.
She darted in and drove her fist into his gut.
Before he could recover, she seized his shoulder—gripping it like iron—and slammed her forehead into his skull.
His vision shuddered.
The world swam.
And in that heartbeat of disorientation, everything unraveled.
Still gripping him, she yanked him forward and crushed her knee into his chest. A rib cracked. Maybe more.
She released him—let him stagger, dazed, breathless.
But she wasn't finished.
She was already moving.
From the stands, Northern's eyes darkened. His jaw clenched at the next motion.
Her spear vanished and reappeared in a blink, slicing through the air with almost disappearing speed—
—then impaled Shae.
Blood sprayed like a burst pipe.
The force of the strike lifted his entire frame. His body arched, suspended midair.
She yanked the spear free, and he crumpled.
Trembling.
Broken.
Agony rippled through every muscle as his body collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap.