The impact shattered the chunk midair, compressing it violently instead of dispersing it. Earth folded inward under sheer force and control, density spiking as Ludger poured mana into a single, brutal directive.

Go.

The mass vanished from where it had been, and appeared right in front of her a heartbeat later.

Not summoned. Displaced.

The woman’s eyes widened just as Ludger stepped through the space it occupied.

His same punch followed.

It drove straight into her stomach.

The sound echoed across the arena, sharp, brittle, unmistakable. Like thick glass cracking under too much pressure. Whatever layered defense she’d managed to pull together in that last instant shattered completely, mana collapsing inward as the blow landed cleanly.

Her body lifted off the ground.

She flew backward like a thrown doll, cloak snapping as she slammed into the arena wall with a heavy, hollow impact. The barrier flared once, absorbing the worst of it, before she slid down and hit the sand in a heap.

Unconscious. Silence slammed down harder than any explosion. Ludger straightened slowly, chest rising and falling as his mana circulation struggled to settle again. His arm dropped to his side, fingers flexing once before relaxing. Enough.

He looked at her crumpled form for a moment longer, confirming the lack of movement, then turned away as the referee rushed forward, panic and awe written across his face.

The fight was over. And this time, there were no tricks left to hide behind.

Still… The referee didn’t move right away.

He stood there for a few seconds longer than protocol demanded, eyes fixed on the fallen woman as if expecting her to stir, to push herself up, to prove that the match wasn’t finished yet. Her body twitched once, a weak tremor running through her limbs, but that was all.

The damage was too much.

Even if there had been enchanted plating beneath the cloak, runic reinforcement, layered defensive arrays, emergency buffers, it wouldn’t have mattered. The blow had been too clean. Too concentrated. Whatever protection she’d managed to keep active had shattered the instant Ludger’s fist connected.

She wasn’t getting back up. The referee swallowed, then raised his arm.

“The match… is over.”

The words echoed across the arena, hesitant at first, then firm.

A heartbeat later, the narrator’s voice followed, loud and breathless, trying, and failing, to wrap itself around what had just happened.

“F-FOLKS, I’LL BE HONEST WITH YOU—” he said, half-laughing in disbelief, “—I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND HALF OF WHAT I JUST SAW!”

The crowd reacted immediately, a mix of laughter, cheers, and stunned applause.

“FIELDS OF MANA, MOVING MINES, FIRE AND ICE COLLIDING, AND THEN THAT FINISH!” the narrator continued, voice climbing. “WHATEVER THAT LAST MOVE WAS, IT ENDED THE FIGHT IN AN INSTANT!”

He paused, letting the noise swell.

“ONE THING’S CERTAIN, THIS HAS BEEN ONE OF THE MOST COMPLEX AND INTENSE MATCHES THIS ARENA HAS EVER HOSTED!”

He let out a breath, still riding the adrenaline.

“LUDGER STANDS VICTORIOUS ONCE AGAIN!”

Healers rushed onto the sand as the barrier dimmed, carefully lifting the unconscious woman and carrying her away. Around them, the arena erupted fully now, people on their feet, voices colliding in a roaring wall of sound.

At the center of it all, Ludger remained where he was. Tired. Standing. Victorious. And very aware that the eyes watching him now weren’t just impressed… They were calculating.

While the arena crew cleared the sand and the announcer worked himself hoarse trying to keep the crowd’s energy high, Ludger returned to his waiting posture at the center of the field. Arms crossed. Breathing measured. Eyes forward.

In the stands, the his family leaned together, voices low despite the noise around them.

Elaine was the first to speak.

“This isn’t just competition,” she said quietly, gaze fixed on the arena where Ludger stood alone again. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. “Someone is deliberately trying to get in his way.”

Arslan didn’t look at her right away. His eyes stayed on Ludger, sharp and calculating.

“Yes,” he said. “They are.”

Elaine frowned. “But why like this? Assassins. Such weird magesmages. Public duels.” She shook her head slightly. “They’re being obvious. Half the arena can tell something’s wrong. Why push it so far when so many people are watching?”

Viola let out a quiet, humorless huff.

“Because they don’t care if it’s obvious,” she said. “They care if it works.”

Elaine turned to her. “That still doesn’t explain it.”

“It does,” Arslan cut in calmly. “Just not in a comforting way.”

He folded his arms, mirroring Ludger without realizing it.

“This isn’t about winning this duel,” Arslan continued. “It’s about stopping what comes after. Ludger isn’t just fighting for a labyrinth. He’s becoming a problem.”

Elaine’s eyes narrowed. “A problem… for who?”

“For anyone who benefits from things staying the way they are,” Viola said, her jaw tightening. “Old guilds. Capital power blocs. People who don’t want a border guild getting stronger, richer, or more independent.”

Arslan nodded. “Indeed. If Ludger wins cleanly and walks away unchallenged, Lionsguard’s rise becomes inevitable. More contracts. More influence. More leverage against noble houses and capital guilds.”

Elaine swallowed. “So they’re trying to break him here… by any means necessary.”

“Or at least map him,” Viola said. “Figure out how to kill him later.”

Arslan’s voice stayed even, but there was iron under it. “Public pressure. Forced exposure. Mana drain. Psychological wear. Every fighter they send is another attempt to find a limit.”

Elaine’s gaze dropped back to Ludger, standing small against the massive arena, surrounded by eyes and expectations.

“And if they fail?”

Viola’s grin was sharp, proud, and dangerous.

“Then they’ve just taught everyone in the capital exactly who not to mess with.”

Arslan exhaled slowly. “And that,” he said, “is why they’re running out of time.”

Down below, Ludger remained still, waiting.

And whether his enemies liked it or not, the cost of testing him was climbing fast.

Lord Torvares spoke without raising his voice, but when he did, the people closest to him listened.

“I’m worried about Ludger,” he said, eyes never leaving the arena. His expression was calm, composed, but there was tension beneath it. “He has an unusual number of cards. Far more than most realize.”

Elaine glanced at him, then back at her son. Torvares continued.

“He’s been creative, yes. Adaptive. Efficient,” he said. “But creativity doesn’t change the fact that he’s showing those cards. Every duel reveals something new, control methods, thresholds, recovery time. Even when he wins cleanly, the information bleeds out.”

He tapped the head of his cane lightly against the stone floor.

“I believe it would be unwise to let him endure a third day of duels in this place. By then, anyone who wants him worn down will have a solid strategy prepared. Not guesses. Not probes. A plan.”

Arslan nodded slowly.

“I agree,” he said. “This arena is turning into a ledger. Every exchange gets recorded, by guilds, nobles, private eyes who don’t clap or cheer.”

He paused, then let out a quiet breath.

“But convincing Ludger to step down…” Arslan’s mouth twitched despite himself. “That’ll be about as easy as convincing Elaine to change her mind about anything.”

Elaine didn’t look at him. She folded her arms, eyes fixed on Ludger’s tired but steady figure below.

“Correct,” she said flatly.

Viola snorted under her breath.

Torvares allowed himself a thin smile, then sobered again. “Stubborn runs in the family,” he said. “But even stubborn people listen when the cost becomes clear.”

Arslan’s gaze hardened. “The problem is, Ludger already knows the cost.”

Down in the arena, Ludger stood waiting, unaware of the exact words, but not of the concern behind them. He could feel it in the air. The attention wasn’t fading. The pressure wasn’t easing. And if this continued into another day, the capital wouldn’t be testing him anymore. They’d be hunting him.

Ludger was tired of this.

Not physically, though the drain was there, a dull ache behind his head, mentally. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. His plan had been simple, even if it was brutal: step into the arena alone, shoulder the pressure himself, and end the dispute cleanly. Win fast. Win decisively. Leave no room for arguments.

He hadn’t expected Ashbound Compact to throw away their pride.

Letting assassins into their ranks. Cloaking fighters. Hiding identities. Turning what should have been a guild duel into a sequence of targeted tests meant to cripple him instead of beating him. That wasn’t desperation, that was rot.

Their Guildmaster wouldn’t have allowed this under normal circumstances.

Which meant someone had a hand on him.

A lever pressed into a weak point, debt, leverage, fear, promises of protection after the fall. Ludger didn’t need to know which. He didn’t even particularly care. The why didn’t change the outcome.

Manipulated or not, Ashbound had crossed a line.

He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded as his mind shifted gears. If they were willing to burn their reputation to stop him, then the conflict was already larger than a labyrinth contract. That meant his next steps had to account for what came after the arena, politics, retaliation, containment.

End this cleanly. Limit exposure. Leave no unfinished threads. He was midway through adjusting that plan when something cut through the background noise.

Not from the stands. From behind the gates. Ludger’s eyes sharpened.

A disturbance rippled from the opponents’ waiting chamber, raised voices, hurried footsteps, metal scraping against stone. The sounds were muted by distance and barriers, but the urgency bled through. This wasn’t the orderly preparation of the next fighter.

This was scrambling. Something was happening back there. And whatever it was, it didn’t sound like it was part of the plan.

Ludger heard it before he saw anything.

Grunts—strained, irritated—followed by the sharp crack of something giving way. Wood splintering. Stone grinding against stone. Then a heavier sound, like a support collapsing inward, followed by shouts that cut off too abruptly to be reassuring.

Whatever was happening in the waiting chamber, it wasn’t orderly.

The gate creaked again.

Shadows shifted, stretching across the sand as a figure stepped forward into the arena light.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Built like a frontline fighter rather than a caster, muscle packed dense beneath worn gear that looked more practical than ceremonial. Scarred leather. Reinforced boots. The kind of equipment chosen by someone who expected to get hit.

But what caught everyone’s attention wasn’t his build.

It was the bottle.

He walked into the arena drinking from it, head tilted back as he took a long, unhurried swig. Liquid sloshed audibly as he lowered it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and let out a satisfied…

“Ahhh… that hit the spot.”

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