A quiet breath left his lips, and with it, a whisper of authority.
The effect was immediate. Absolute.
The world came to a screeching, silent halt.
Dust hung in the air like frozen stars. The disturbed stone fragments floated mid-shatter.
Even the sweat beads trailing down the foreheads of wide-eyed students shimmered mid-air, caught in an eternal second.
Everything was frozen.
Everything... except Leon.
He stood amidst the suspended chaos, the only ripple in a pond of stillness.
His eyes settled on Zyon’s motionless form.
Even in this unmoving moment, Zyon looked poised, unbothered—like a sleeping dragon frozen mid-dream.
Leon took a step forward. Then another.
He circled around the still image of his opponent, eyes sharp, calculating, yet darkened by a shade of respect—and frustration.
"Tch... even now, you’re calm," he muttered under his breath.
Then he raised his fists.
Not a weapon this time.
No conjured blade, no constructed ice. Just his fists.
He pulled mana from the air. Not fire, not ice—something rarer, deeper.
The distance between him and Zyon collapsed. Folded inwards.
Leon didn’t move to punch—he just stood in place and let space deliver his strikes.
His fists blurred with unnatural speed, each strike calculated to land on a vital point—temple, sternum, solar plexus, ribs, neck, knees, heart.
Each blow carried enough force to rip through the scales of a Skyshadow Basilisk.
Enough to crush the armor of an Elder Crocdaemon.
Dozens. Hundreds. Maybe more.
And then, with a flick of his fingers, time resumed.
And the world caught up.
In an instant, the delayed punches slammed into Zyon’s body. A flurry of unstoppable force.
Each strike thundered like cannonfire, the wind screaming around the dome as the air violently expanded from the release of compressed energy.
The earth cracked beneath the force.
And Leon’s smirk died on his lips.
Zyon stood in the same place. His uniform torn, shredded to strips that fluttered around his frame—torso bare.
Not even a drop of blood.
Leon’s fists trembled at his sides.
He had used both temporal and spatial manipulation. Had launched a barrage strong enough to flatten a fortress.
And it had done—nothing.
He couldn’t even graze him.
His mind raced. Staggered.
’What kind of monster... what is he?’
Then Zyon tilted his head, ever so slightly. His gaze calm, amused. As if he had just awoken from a nap and found himself surrounded by broken air.
A chuckle escaped his lips, soft and heavy like thunder behind a veil.
"Temporal and Spatial elements," he muttered, eyeing Leon. "You’re strong."
But the genuine tone—that—was what hurt the most.
The casual acknowledgement.
Leon gritted his teeth, frustration bleeding into his voice. "You’re one to talk."
Zyon’s eyes sparkled. "Am I?"
Blurred. Flashed. Phased.
One second he was standing still, the next—he was in front of Leon.
Before even a warning could flash through Leon’s nerves, Zyon’s hand engulfed his entire head.
Zyon slammed Leon’s skull into the ground.
The impact was apocalyptic.
The arena floor shattered. Not cracked—shattered.
Chunks of stone flew in all directions, the shockwave disintegrating them before they even hit the ground.
The dome, reinforced by Celia herself, collapsed in an instant—unable to withstand the raw, overwhelming power.
And when the dust cleared...
Zyon stood tall amidst the rubble, his hand still on Leon’s now-unconscious form, embedded halfway into the earth.
Crushing, complete silence.
Everyone just stared.
No one moved. No one breathed.
A cocktail of emotions ran through the watching crowd like a plague.
Cassius’s eyes narrowed.
Even she was stunned. Her mouth slightly agape. No snark, no commentary. Just stunned silence.
But Cassius wasn’t alone.
From across the shattered stands, his gaze met Art’s.
A silent understanding passed between the three of them.
A flicker of something irrational, stupid, but utterly human.
The moment Leon’s crumpled body was left on the floor, they moved.
From whatever madness had seized them—from whatever hidden rivalry or camaraderie—they ganged up on Zyon.
Because even monsters bleed... right?
Our attack was perfect.
For some fucking reason, we had the kind of sync people trained for years to achieve.
And we hadn’t even sparred once.
Not a single coordinated drill. No battle strategy. No plan.
Just three idiots, who exchanged a single glance—three nods—and decided, ’Let’s gang up on Zyon.’
And somehow, it clicked.
Art was the first to act. Of course he was. That bastard loved flair.
He leapt high into the air, his coat flaring behind him like he was some fallen angel with a god complex.
His hands twisted unnaturally, bending in ways I swore shouldn’t be possible.
Then he whispered it.
[Creation: Hell-Chains]!
Pitch black chains erupted from the air like they were forged from sin itself.
Wreathed in purplish purgatory flame, they twisted and turned midair like living serpents.
Each link screamed with dark magic, each wrap around Zyon’s limbs felt like the world itself wanted him bound.
And it worked—almost.
Zyon, the untouchable, the unfazed, the cool-as-hell nightmare, actually dropped to one knee.
His knee sank into the ground with a loud thud, cracking the earth beneath.
He didn’t even grunt.
But he was restrained.
Which meant Emris struck next.
That ghostly freak blurred into existence like a specter of violence.
One moment he wasn’t there—the next he was hovering around Zyon’s flank, blood-soaked daggers gleaming like demonic fangs.
His body phased in and out, distorting like he was cutting through reality itself.
He went for the heart.
Because of course he would.
Right through the ribs, bypassing every vital point like he had a surgeon’s precision with a serial killer’s intent.
Slipping through the chaos like liquid death.
The world fractured around me. Afterimages peeled off with every step—three, four, five of me littering the battlefield in a web of false intent.
Lightning cracked down both arms, raw mana pumping through me like adrenaline on steroids.
My fists felt like comets. I didn’t need Emris or Art to yell "go"—they left me a path, and I took it.
I aimed straight for Zyon’s smug, beautiful, punchable face.
The training ground beneath us was already a mess—Celia’s containment dome shattered, sigils gone, rules forgotten.
We were fighting on raw earth now. Unfiltered. Untamed. Unforgiving.
Zyon’s knees were still deep in the soil. Pinned.
Every sign pointed to one thing:
Our attacks succeeded.
Chains shattered around him like sugar glass—not dispelled, just broken. Like his body simply refused to be bound.
In one brutal twist, he grabbed Emris’s wrist mid-strike, dagger and all—turned it inward—and plunged both blades into Emris’s own ribs.
A breathless, choked gasp followed. Emris’s eyes widened in disbelief before his body went limp, blood spraying like a fan from the wound.
’Emris... brother you should probably change your daggers. They broke TWICE on the same day.’
The black chains hadn’t vanished yet—Art still held their tether, stupidly.
The magic betrayed its master.
Art was dragged from the sky like a meteor—screaming.
And right as he reached Zyon—
A merciless, earth-shattering, gut-collapsing kick.
Zyon sent him flying.
We both skidded across the battlefield like broken puppets tossed aside.
The impact was so strong it ripped up the ground, kicking up a wall of dirt and debris behind us.
Cracked into the charred earth until we stopped—dazed, breathless, defeated.
Somewhere in the haze, I lifted my eyes.
Chains shattered around him.
Blood dripping from his knuckles.
’Yes!!!! Blood!!! Fuck Yeah!!!’
Head tilted slightly, like he was evaluating an art piece he wasn’t impressed with.
Just... cold calculation.
The kind of smirk that made you wish you’d stayed in bed this morning.
The kind that made you question if attacking him had been some cosmic mistake.
I wiped the blood from my mouth and groaned. ’Fuck this... aura-farming bastard.’
Art groaned next to me.
Somewhere, Emris let out a muffled curse.
He just watched us—like we were nothing.