Northern's gaze rested impassively on the smooth gash carved across the arena floor, stretching from the point of impact all the way to the far edge. It looked as though half the stage was on the verge of splitting in two.
Then, slowly, he shifted his eyes back to Kaelan—who was now tapping the flat of his sword against his shoulder, chin raised, eyes brimming with satisfied glee.
"See? Told you… I wasn't joking with you."
Northern remained silent.
Was he taking Kaelan lightly?
Not exactly. He wouldn't be that disrespectful—not to someone who had at least earned a place on the stage.
But that didn't mean Kaelan's constant yapping or noble pride mattered in the slightest. The truth was simple: Northern had treated every opponent with the same cold efficiency.
And the fact that he could keep up with Kaelan's high-speed movements in his current weakened state only proved what he suspected from the start—
The boy was average at best.
Even with all the flair—those flashy sword arcs, the flamboyant movement—Kaelan lacked in key areas.
He was loud. But not sharp.
Eccentric. But not precise.
Northern exhaled. He lifted the Illusioned Hefter slightly, its silver edge catching the arena lights as his eyes glowed with a composed fire.
"I was intrigued… for a moment."
His voice was calm. Detached.
"But it seems it was all for nothing."
Kaelan's face twisted. His teeth clenched, and with a burst of speed, he launched forward. His twin blades screamed through the wind, slicing the air so violently it forced the atmosphere itself to recoil.
He reappeared in front of Northern, slamming both swords downward with tremendous force—an impact that cracked the earth and split the air.
One hand. One sword. No movement.
His expression remained blank.
Then—just for a flicker—one corner of his mouth curled up.
Kaelan's pupils dilated.
'...Did he just scoff?'
Northern shifted his hand slightly—an almost imperceptible motion that disrupted the equilibrium between their blades.
Kaelan's stance buckled.
In the blink of an eye, he was sliding forward, off-balance. His eyes widened as confusion crashed over him. He stabbed one of his swords into the ground, catching himself mid-fall—but that wasn't the point.
The opening had already been created.
Northern's leg flashed upward with brutal precision.
The kick smashed into both Kaelan's planted sword and his exposed abdomen, bludgeoning the air from his lungs. His face twisted from the impact. Blood burst from his mouth as his body hurled through the air like a missile, carving through the wind.
He crashed into the far end of the coliseum with a thunderous shockwave, the tremor rocking the stadium floor.
Northern calmly lowered his leg and placed his foot back on the ground.
"His sword style is gibberish."
It would've been better if he'd said it to Kaelan's face.
But the Kejar scion was already halfway across the coliseum.
Just then, a tremor rocked part of the coliseum.
From within the rising dust, something sharp and fast broke through the haze—cutting across the sky like a fragment of vengeance.
People in the front rows screamed as the shockwave hit.
Debris scattered, and many were caught in the blast. The crash had happened so suddenly, so violently, that few had time to react. Some were thrown from their seats. Others shielded themselves too late.
But the Academy personnel were already in motion—rushing forward, tending to the wounded. Yet no one dared pause the fight.
The tension in the arena was too volatile. The battle had reached that point—too intense, too unforgiving to allow even a heartbeat of hesitation.
From the air, Kaelan dropped like a pillar of judgment—blades-first, fury condensed into momentum.
His descent screamed power.
But Northern's gaze remained unreadable.
He had gathered enough combat experience in his short years as a Drifter to know when power became a handicap. This was one of those moments.
It's too heavy. Too telegraphed. Too wasteful.
Kaelan had speed—blistering speed. And strength. His lean, coiled muscles compressed enough force to match ten bulls in a charge.
But strength and speed, without control, were just chaos in a different dress.
He was leveraging everything he had in every move. All-in.
And Northern understood why.
Kaelan must've realized early on that Northern wasn't the kind of opponent one could afford to conserve energy against. So he poured out everything.
But that recklessness was exactly what doomed him.
If Northern hadn't mastered the Footsteps of Chaos, perhaps Kaelan's pressure would've overwhelmed him. But he had. And that changed everything.
The essence of Chaos Eyes, and the Demon of Emulation was simple: dissect, dismantle and absorb.
With each movement Kaelan made, Northern understood more of his combat rhythm—and more importantly, where it broke down.
Kaelan was brute strength and wild speed—but lacked restraint.
And sometimes, it was restraint that won battles.
It was the subtle holdback. The delayed strike. The unseen manipulation of force in a moment where others expected overwhelming power.
Chaos Footsteps had taught him that early on.
As Kaelan came crashing down like a divine punishment, Northern raised his sword like he meant to block—
Then vanished in a blur.
He pulled back, shifting his body just slightly, letting Kaelan fall harder, closer to the ground.
And just as Kaelan descended, Northern's sword twisted downward—its pommel driving toward the underside of Kaelan's jaw.
Though belated, the moment Northern shifted, Kaelan moved.
He didn't know what his strange friend was about to do—but the moment he saw that shift, his instincts kicked in. He spun away mid-air, narrowly evading the brutal pommel strike by a hair's breadth. His eyes widened in that flash of survival.
He landed, staggered, trying to create distance.
But Northern was already there.
A wide, sweeping kick slammed into the side of Kaelan's head with crushing force.
His ears rang. The world tilted.
His vision blurred into streaks of light and phantom outlines. His body swayed as his knees buckled—balance lost, awareness fading like smoke in the wind.
Kaelan stumbled backward, arms flailing.
And Northern stood still, unreadable—his sword lowered, his expression impassive as he waited for Kaelan to recover from the stun and get himself.