Without waiting any longer, Misha moved like a gust of wind freed from its bounds. Her blade swept outward, shimmering with condensed mana that danced like pale green flames, revealing her trump card for the first time—her Level 7 Art: Wind of Nature.
The two S-rankers reacted instantly, their weapons flashing as they intercepted the strike. Vance, still shocked from Misha’s exhibition of strength and almost regretting having her agree to fight, surged forward from the side, his sword aiming for her flank. But Misha’s expression didn’t waver—she pivoted on the ball of her foot, her movements as fluid as flowing water yet sharp as steel.
The air around her shifted, becoming heavier yet impossibly swift, like the pressure before a storm. Every step she took was powered by a level of control only possible through mastery of a mana base—not simply fueling her techniques but weaving mana into every motion, every strike, every breath. She wasn’t just releasing energy; she was shaping it.
The audience quickly realized she was no ordinary person. The wind around her became her weapon and shield, flowing along the path of her blade, forming barriers that softened blows and gusts that drove her opponents back. Even when Vance’s blade descended, heavy with force, it was met with a swirling current that deflected his attack without losing speed.
Her Dual Art combinations began to emerge—merging the Wind of Nature with condensed bursts of her Shattering Flower Style. When one of the S-rankers tried to overwhelm her with a rapid thrust sequence, she met him with a layered defense: a crescent of wind shielding her front, and a sharp mana pulse bursting outward at the precise moment to stagger him.
Every exchange was precise. Every movement spoke of someone who had drilled beyond exhaustion until instinct and technique were one. The spectators—soldiers, guild members, and mercenaries alike—were leaning forward in their seats, expressions torn between awe and disbelief. An A-rank was standing toe-to-toe with two S-ranks and a sub-rank-higher opponent without being pushed back.
Minutes turned into dozens. What would have drained most fighters’ mana reserves in mere minutes stretched into nearly an hour. Misha’s mana base allowed her to regulate the flow of energy, never letting it spill wastefully, pulling in ambient mana from the air to sustain her output. Her stamina was stretched thin, yes, but her power never faltered.
The S-rankers were no pushovers either. They defended with skill, counterattacked with relentless precision, and used their rank advantage to test every gap in her guard. But each time they pressed, Vance—supposedly their ally—would falter. A step too slow. A mistimed strike. A poorly aimed lunge that forced them to cover for him. Their expressions grew strained, not because they were losing to Misha, but because they were forced to fight while dragging along dead weight.
And yet, even without Vance, they wouldn’t have gained much ground. She read their movements like wind sensing the shape of the land, adapting with seamless fluidity. The match was no longer just a test of strength; it was a war of endurance.
When the hour mark passed, the atmosphere was suffocating. The audience—now on the edge of their seats—had begun whispering predictions. Some swore Misha would win. Others reminded them that two S-ranks, no matter how hindered, were still S-ranks. But what no one could deny was that this duel had shattered their expectations of what the so-called Golden Generation could be.
Finally, the first sign of strain showed. Misha’s breath came a fraction faster, her shoulders dipping slightly between strikes. Hiro, watching from the sidelines, narrowed his eyes. He knew her well enough to see the subtle signs—the faint tremor in her wrist after deflecting a heavy blow, the half-second longer it took for her wind to reform into a shield.
The crowd didn’t notice. They still believed she was unshakable. But Hiro knew she had pushed herself far past the point most would have fallen. And the two S-rankers, sharp enough to sense weakness, began subtly tightening their coordination.
Hiro exhaled and stepped forward. His voice cut through the hum of the crowd."I think you have done enough, Misha."
The S-rankers froze for a moment, their gazes snapping to him. They had never truly seen him fight—his reputation was more rumor than record—but they were barely able to keep up with an A-rank from their group, one thought to be the weakest. They couldn’t comprehend the power of an S-rank. Misha’s gaze flicked toward him for only a second, but it was enough. She knew he was stepping in not because he thought she couldn’t win, but because she had already proven her point.
The two S-rankers exchanged a look, then stepped back in unison. Their decision wasn’t cowardice—it was practicality. No background, no rank bonus, no political favor was worth gambling their lives against someone who radiated that quiet, absolute confidence. They had joined the military with one goal: to get their revenge on the devils who attacked their home. This... was not worth it.
"Not interested in dying today," one of them said under his breath before leaving the stage. The other followed, their departure swift and unceremonious.
Now, only Vance remained. Without his reluctant allies to cover for him, the shift was immediate. His earlier arrogance melted into an awkward stiffness, as if the weight of the audience’s eyes pressed down on him. The subtle shield of his status—of hiding behind stronger companions—had been stripped away.
He was no longer a proud contender. He was a lone man standing before people who had just witnessed what true strength looked like.
The difference was stark. Where once he stood with an inflated chest and sharp tongue, now he looked smaller, the swagger chased away like a child who had just learned the difference between play and reality. He could feel the weight of unspoken judgment in the crowd—the quiet understanding that strength, not background or inherited name, was the currency of respect here.
Hiro’s gaze was steady on him, unreadable yet unyielding. Misha, still catching her breath but with eyes burning with the remnants of her battle, didn’t even raise her blade again. She didn’t need to.
The message had been delivered.
And Vance, for the first time, understood why most people—whether common soldier or famed commander—bowed not to titles, but to the undeniable proof of power.