The crowd’s cheers rang like gunshots across the arena, echoing between the ears of the two fighters.
Most of them shouted for Amon. But not all.
Some just wanted a good fight.
I was one of them. Yeah, no way I’d miss this. I had to see it—what it really meant to fight among the strongest.
My eyes locked onto the long-haired one.
Salazar. Don’t disappoint me. I’ve got a feeling... you’re a monster in disguise.
And across from him stood Amon il Sunfrost—the academy’s prodigy of High Magic. There’s no one here who knows more spells. Summoning magic. Rune magic. Even Resonance magic.
Honestly, the only thing he’s missing is "Activated Charcoal Magic," so I can cure my headache from reading his spell list.
Even the council professors showed up for this match.Dean Hellmaine, that girl with the obnoxiously big wizard hat, and even the Chemistry teacher—they sat in a private balcony above the ring, watching in complete silence.
From within the crowd, the other Top 5 fighters stirred. I made sure to note them. They all looked confident, sure—but their eyes lingered on Salazar a little too long. Nervous.
I get it. Rank 2 going up against a near-unknown freshman?
No hitting below the belt.
High Magic, Elemental Arts, and close-quarters combat: all allowed.
"THREE!! TWO!! ONE!!"
The crowd roared out the countdown. The fighters raised their guards.
Amon looked like your typical nerd with glasses. But the moment he stripped off his maroon shirt, I knew. This guy was a veteran.
His frame was solid—scarred, lean muscle. Without hesitation, he tied his green hair into a tight bun right there on the ring.
You should take notes, Salazar. Compared to that, you really do look like a damn princess.
As if launched by the crowd’s shout, Amon pressed his index fingers together.
That was the trigger.
Above him appeared six glowing runes, circling rapidly. From each, a crystal shard the size of a shoe materialized and whirled into orbit around him like a frozen halo.
Amon cracked his knuckles and flashed a confident smirk.
With it, he could conjure crystalline constructs—each perfectly controlled by will alone. Most rune-users produced unstable blobs.
His were solid. Real. Dangerous.
Salazar didn’t budge. He just shifted his stance—leaned in, bracing.
The first crystal launched from Amon’s side with no chant, just intent. It tore through the air with a slicing howl that made the audience inhale collectively.
That was the beauty of his technique—he could fire one... or all six.
No warnings. No charge-up. Just thought into action.
The shard raced toward Salazar. But he moved—just his fingers.
In an instant, a transparent pane of glass manifested before him.
The moment the crystal struck it—it reversed course like a ricochet.
The pane vanished immediately after.
It took Salazar 1.13 seconds to analyze, react, and respond.
Amon didn’t even register the counterattack. The redirected crystal flew past his cheek—slicing off a few strands of hair.
The only magical path without limits. No formulas. No incantations.
Only willpower and imagination.
Such magic did Saddler use against me.
And in that moment, Salazar silently named his creation: "Anti-Glass."
He adjusted his hair coolly and brought all five fingers together.
His entire right arm hardened, encased in crystalline ice.
Amon took a cautious step back.
Salazar lunged forward—straight into melee.
Taking on a rune-user at close range? Bold.
But just as Salazar’s hand closed in, the second crystal fired. This one from a much shorter distance—even deadlier.
Salazar raised his icy hand defensively. He had already predicted its path from the spin of the shard.
Both the crystal and his frozen arm shattered on impact.
Only one icy layer remained.
Amon slipped to the side, fast. Leapt back—into the air—and formed another rune with his fingers.
In less than a second, a mid-sized sigil appeared, conjuring a glowing purple orb that launched in a perfect straight line.
Its speed wasn’t impressive. Salazar easily dodged.
But the moment it touched the arena wall—it exploded.
Salazar wasn’t ready.
He was blasted toward the ropes—his body scorched on one side.
If he’d been closer... he would’ve been a roast chicken.
That image stuck in his mind.
Thankfully, the arena had a magic limiter—no spells could breach the outer walls. The whole ring was like an invisible cube.
(Probably a rule they implemented after my match, come to think of it.)
One side of Salazar’s kimono was burned away. His arm was fine, thanks to Frost Touch.
Tiny runes appeared on his fingertips—each one became a sphere.
He fired them in rapid succession, nonstop, raining down purple orbs.
Salazar now had to dodge two variables—the orb and its detonation timing.
His green eyes flickered under pressure.
He couldn’t dodge them all.
A few hit. Exploded on contact.
Minimal damage, but brutal nonetheless.
His skin burned. His kimono smoldered. And the orbs kept coming.
"He’s spamming again!"
"It’s that broken-ass spell!"
"I wouldn’t wanna be in his shoes!"
The crowd broke into divided opinions.
But technically, it was all legal.
No rule against spam.
Amon’s grin said it all. The bastard was enjoying every second.
"What now, princess?" he taunted. "Still feeling cocky? You should’ve known better than to challenge me!"
Salazar pressed his fingers together.
A glowing purple rune materialized before him, forming a shield that absorbed the incoming spheres. Each orb exploded against it—but instead of draining him, the barrier redirected the energy back to his mana core.
Brilliant move, princess.
But then I noticed it—Amon’s grin. Twisted.
He fired more spheres, but this time... intentionally missed.
The orbs whizzed past Salazar, exploding behind him.
He was caught off-guard. The blasts struck his back—unexpected pain always hurts the most.
He staggered. Eyes wide.
His breathing became ragged.
"You’re a first-year, and they call you a prodigy?" Amon sneered. "You’re just another nobody in a world of real mages!"
Salazar vanished—sound barrier cracked as he blinked across the arena.
One second, Amon was gloating.
The next—Salazar was in his face, hand extended toward his throat.
In a blink, his arm glazed over—ice stretching from fingertips to shoulder.
If he grabs him now—this could be the end for Amon.