The arena fell silent for a heartbeat.
The commentator’s voice boomed across the coliseum, loud and filled with awe. "Sir Mic Nor is the winner!"
Cheers erupted like a dam breaking.
The tension snapped like a string, replaced by roaring applause, whistles, and deafening shouts that bounced off the stone walls of the stadium.
The sound was overwhelming.
But down in the heart of it all, Michael was calm.
He let out a slow breath, his eyes lingering on the slumbering form of Uga—mouth slightly open, still smiling even in unconsciousness.
His body was battered, but not broken. If anything, he looked... satisfied.
Michael stepped back.
Behind him, Spartan had gone to pick up his discarded spear from the ground.
Michael glanced over his shoulder.
"That’s enough for today."
Spartan straightened and gave a sharp, respectful nod. "Yes, Master."
Then, with no ceremony, Michael lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.
A soft pulse of greenish-black light surrounded Spartan’s form. The undead mage paused, lowered his head once more—
Only the faint imprint of his boots remained in the cracked stone beneath him.
Michael exhaled and turned to look around.
Now that the battle was truly over, the state of the arena became fully apparent.
It was massive—spanning nearly the size of a professional football field. And yet, there wasn’t a single patch of it that remained untouched.
The once smooth and polished surface was in complete ruin.
Cracks ran like spiderwebs across the stone ground. Craters, some shallow, some deep enough to swallow a grown man, littered the field.
Entire sections of the arena had been shattered from the sheer force of spells and punches. Dust hung in the air like mist, thick and gritty in the lungs.
There were scorch marks from Fire Arrows, jagged spikes from Earth spells that had only partially receded.
In the middle of it all was Uga, lying in a crater of his own, snoring softly.
Michael stood at the center of destruction, quiet and composed.
And for a few seconds, no one said a word.
Then the commentator found his voice again, shaky but reverent. "What kind of power are we looking at here, folks? This is not something you see everyday and perhaps in our lifetime. And we were lucky enough to witness it live. We are truly lucky!"
Michael raised one arm slightly and gave a small wave to the crowd, more to acknowledge them than to celebrate.
The cheers grew louder.
He didn’t bask in it.
Instead, he turned and began walking toward the arena’s edge, past the rubble, the broken stone, the scorched earth. A few people were already rushing in from the side gates—some heading for Uga, others waiting for Michael if he needed attention.
But he waved them off gently.
As he stepped into the waiting area, one of the event red robe officials—wide-eyed and pale—stammered, "S-Sir Mic... the competition officials... they want to meet you."
Michael simply nodded. "Okay. Do I go to meet them or?"
"They’ll come to you sir."
Behind him, the coliseum roared—his name now chanted by hundreds.
But Michael didn’t look back.
There was a reason Michael left the stage before the commentator could even declare it.
For one, the arena was in complete ruins. The stage was a mess—cracked, cratered, scorched. And most importantly, its self-repair mechanisms weren’t working anymore.
It looked like a battlefield more than a dueling platform.
Still, Michael felt amazing.
He hadn’t expected anyone in this tournament to push him that hard.
One should not forget that Michael had the power to overpower weaker Rank 2 creatures while still being Rank 1 himself. And that included other Awakeners. That alone should paint the picture of how terrifying his strength already is.
It was the same for Spartan.
Both he and his summon were easily on the level of strong Rank 2 monsters—in this kingdom’s terms, that meant Grand Tier.
It had taken both of them working in sync to finally bring down one Uga.
That alone said everything.
According to what his [Detect] skill had revealed, Uga hadn’t even advanced to Rank 2 yet. And despite that, they had needed to work together just to subdue him.
It was a humbling reminder.
That even among Awakeners—supposedly superior, gifted individuals—there were still beings out there with innate talents so ridiculous, so absurd, that they defied common logic.
Thankfully, Uga’s strength came with its own limitations.
No matter how powerful he was, Uga was never going to beat Michael in that arena.
Still, Michael had been forced to go hard. Not because he couldn’t win, but because he’d handicapped himself.
He was a necromancer...
And he’d chosen to fight with his fists.
If he had gone all in from the beginning—if he had truly fought like a necromancer—Uga wouldn’t have even had the chance to lift his head.
In Group C’s waiting room, the air was tense.
The battle between Uga and Michael had long ended, yet Renn hadn’t moved a muscle since it began.
His eyes remained locked on the projection screen floating in the center of the chamber.
Explosions of mana and brute force.
Renn didn’t blink as he mentally replayed every moment.
Behind him stood the mysterious figure who had entered earlier.
"I told you," the man finally spoke, voice low and even. "You couldn’t win, but you didn’t believe me."
He stepped forward slowly, hands behind his back.
"You’re powerful. Talented. That much is clear from your Perfect Realm Swordsmanship. But you’re far behind that youth."
He paused for a breath.
"And if you still feel the need to compete, let me remind you—what you saw today wasn’t even his strongest summon. That wasn’t his trump card. Not even close."
"You’re outmatched. Completely."
His tone wasn’t cruel. There was no mockery or spite—just cold, objective truth.
As if he were simply stating a weather report.
If Michael had been present, he would’ve recognized the voice immediately.
The sharp, unmistakable presence.
The calm, grounded authority.