Madman chuckled slyly, "Heh, hey warrior, better watch your back door!"
Just as Reaver prepared to act, Madman's words froze him in place.
No matter the class, exposing your back to a thief was never a wise decision. With precise, critical backstabs, they'd always teach their targets to guard their vulnerable "flower."
"Are you planning to jump in, Madman?" Orson asked casually.
Madman picked his nose lazily and flicked the imaginary booger away. "Nah, I'll wait until you two are low on health. Then I'll clean up. Orgod, with your deep red name, I bet your gear is worth a fortune!"
"Good. Let me send you straight to the fountain for revival," Orson grinned darkly. He knew Madman all too well—this guy always followed through on his shameless threats.
Madman's face stiffened. Memories of Orson's terrifying damage output flashed through his mind. Killing a thief like him would be child's play.
"Fine! I'll spare you both… for now," Madman muttered, retreating swiftly until he was over 100 meters away, just to stay out of range of Orson's ridiculous attacks.
"Prepare to die!" Reaver roared, pulling a second blue-grade sword from his waist.
Madman's eyes widened. "No way… dual-wielding warrior?"
Orson wasn't surprised. Reaver had held back during the boss fight earlier, clearly not revealing his full strength.
In Infinite Dimensions, warriors could adopt a variety of fighting styles early on. Most players preferred combinations like sword-and-shield, blade-and-shield, or a two-handed greatsword.
The most difficult of all was the dual-wielding warrior. Sacrificing most of their blocking ability, they maximized offensive efficiency while maintaining agility.
This setup wasn't for amateurs. It was either a beginner's trap or the choice of someone supremely confident in their skill.
Orson maintained his composure and tested the waters with basic fireballs and auto-attacks.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
He rained down attacks, taking full advantage of his superior range.
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-Blocked!
Reaver smirked smugly, deflecting every fireball with his twin swords. Every swing was precise, every block perfectly timed. This wasn't surprising—timing and control were the bread and butter of professional players.
If Reaver had been using a shield instead of dual blades, he likely could have blocked Orson's entire barrage effortlessly.
Madman cackled from afar, "Hey bro, are you even trying? Your attacks can't even break his defense! Have you been playing too much with your sparrow?!"
Orson almost laughed out loud at the jab but shook his head, continuing his barrage of attacks.
Reaver closed the gap, coming within ten meters of Orson. Still, the mage remained calm, releasing a rapid series of three fireballs, seamlessly chained with basic attacks.
The pressure mounted on Reaver. He stopped abruptly, his twin swords spinning violently in a whirlwind.
"Howling Tempest!"
A fierce gust swept through the battlefield, dispersing Orson's incoming attacks. Nothing landed.
Orson sidestepped smoothly, avoiding Reaver's thrown blade with precise movement. At the same time, he kept his attacks consistent, retreating while firing.
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The damage numbers were unimpressive, barely scratching Reaver's HP. His swordsmanship countered every attempt Orson made to land a decisive blow.
Smirking arrogantly, Reaver taunted, "Your long-range attacks are impressive, but this close… you're just a fool. Let me guess, you've slotted a Spirit-tier Soulmark, haven't you?"
Orson remained silent, continuing what seemed like a futile effort to deal damage.
Reaver sneered, "A Spirit-tier Soulmark? How quaint. Against real experts, that's nothing more than garbage."
The swordsman's condescending tone grew as he vented years of suppressed frustration from being overshadowed by Orson.
"You're desperate, aren't you? Banking on whatever advantage that Soulmark gives you. But it doesn't matter. I'm going to end this today!"
Orson's lips curled into a smirk. His composure rattled Reaver even more.
"And why the hell do you talk so much during fights, Reaver?" Orson interrupted. "Were you bullied a lot as a kid? Is this your way of proving you're better than others?"
Reaver froze. His sneer disappeared as those words struck a nerve.
"How does he know?" Reaver's thoughts spiraled.
"Ah, so that's it," Orson murmured knowingly, his smile sharp as a blade.
To break a professional player, you start with their pride.
"Wind Whisperer."
Orson's soft incantation activated a six-pointed star, lighting up the glyph of wind magic.
"Triple-class magic user?" Reaver's eyes widened.
To him, such a build was a joke—a reckless choice that only amateurs would make. Spreading points across multiple magic disciplines left players underpowered in the mid-to-late game.
The increased skill flexibility might offer short-term strength, but it came at the cost of diluted talents, inadequate skill points, and crippling financial costs.
"You'd go this far just to get revenge on SSR Club?" Reaver scoffed, assuming he'd figured out Orson's motivations.
Suddenly, Orson's first fireball struck him square in the chest.
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Reaver staggered, his health dropping sharply.
The wind magic's attack speed buff had thrown off his timing, causing him to misjudge his block.
Orson followed up with rapid-fire projectiles, each 20% faster than before.
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-Blocked!
Reaver barely managed to deflect the final shot, his smug expression now replaced by alarm.
From a distance, Madman gawked. "Holy sh—he was baiting that guy with those weak attacks! He was just lulling him into complacency!"
Orson chuckled mockingly, locking eyes with Reaver. "You're not cut out for being a warrior. And as a mage? You're even worse. Why you see me as your rival is beyond me. Are we even on the same level?"
Every word stabbed at Reaver's pride, his face darkening with fury.
Clutching a health potion, Reaver surged forward, believing he'd adapted to Orson's new tempo.
But the mage abruptly shifted tactics. His fireballs began flying at unpredictable intervals—sometimes slow, sometimes fast. There was no discernible pattern.
What looked like chaos was deliberate.
As a former professional, Orson understood that every player had their rhythm. Once you disrupted that rhythm, cracks would appear.
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Another fireball landed, leaving Reaver barely clinging to life.
"Didn't I tell you before? Your approach is flawed," Orson said casually, as if explaining something trivial.
Reaver prided himself on his rigid adherence to meta strategies. But that very rigidity was his downfall. He thrived when opponents followed predictable patterns, allowing his overwhelming aggression to shine.
Against Orson? He couldn't even touch him.
"W-why can't I hit you?!" Reaver shouted, disbelief etched across his face.
"Because your 'meta' is a cage," Orson said. "And I'm a feather, floating wherever I please."
Madman's jaw dropped. "This… this is insane! A mage that doesn't follow the rules?! What kind of alien are you, Orson?"
Orson's skill came from surviving the game's hardcore mode. His strategy was pure chaos—an ever-shifting puzzle that no one could solve.
The duel had been decided the moment Reaver stepped into Orson's 20-meter range.
Orson had already accounted for his opponent's psychology, movements, and weaknesses. This wasn't a fight—it was an execution.
"I won't lose!" Reaver roared desperately.
Orson smirked. "Don't kid yourself. Even pros have their limits."
With a flick of his wrist, Orson fired a basic attack.
The fireball streaked forward, ending Reaver's misery. "Goodbye, old friend."