Chapter 189: Slip (1)

“That girl was quite good, but there was a clear difference between their levels.” Bishop Tarley stated, rubbing his chin in contemplation. “It’s a shame, she probably could have made it to the quarter finals in any other year.”

The man beside him wordlessly scoffed, clearly not impressed by the match they’d just witnessed.

“Such raw power but barely any intelligence. I doubt he’ll get scouted by any of the decent noble houses.” The large Lord Marbury stated snidely.

“This is why you’re family is still a middling noble house Beau,” Lord Bishop said with a self-satisfied grin, “the less brains they have, the more work they’ll do without question.”

“Then what’s the difference between them and a slave?” he scowled in response.

“Exactly. Commoners are nothing more than slaves to begin with.”

Bishop Tarley let out a sigh, his expression finally changing as he turned to Octavius. “Octavius, do I need to remind you about my origins? Or do you see me as a mere slave too?”

“Ah no—I…” The man stammered, his thick mustache trembling slightly. “You know what I meant Bishop. I would never disrespect you like that,” he backpedaled, causing the large lord beside him to laugh silently.

“I know what you intended Octavius, but you must be careful in the future. My patience might be expansive, but if it were my father who heard your words…” he stated, not continuing thereon.

At the mention of Tarley’s father, both Lord Marbury and Lord Bishop paled. It was clear they both feared this man.

“Next match, Michael Ellis vs Trent Winters.”

Quinn’s voice echoed over the arena, causing the two lord’s to suddenly pay attention. Both men’s expressions turned to one of open hatred as they heard the announcement.

“Oh? Is that the boy who your sons tried to kill? The one who claimed to be engaged to the girl with the Ancient bloodline?” Bishop Tarley stated in an almost casual tone.

“Yes…” Octavius said through gritted teeth, not denying the fact. But it wasn’t just him who was agitated—the mood in the arena seemed to shift as the tall teen walked onto the center platform, his blond hair reflecting the light of the sun.

By now Michael’s name had spread through the noble circles, but not for a good reason.

Right now he was the boy who had been standing in the way of them acquiring Melody who had the ancient bloodline. In fact, his actions had thrown a wrench into any long-standing plans these noble houses had in place for many years.

On the platform, Michael could feel it—the hundreds of gazes upon him. He could even feel that many were not merely inquisitive, but actually hostile.

He shook his head, trying to ignore the looks. Instead he turned to the boy he would be facing, Trent Winters. The guy was rather short and stocky, but he appeared quite confident.

Michael was mostly aware of Trent’s capabilities from their classes, but there was no way he was going to underestimate him—not after seeing how Stephanie had almost defeated Rudy.

“Let’s go Michael!” a voice called from the crowd, his loud voice echoing within the arena.

He didn’t even need to look at the direction to know who it was. Stifling a chuckle, he took a deep breath and steadied himself. This was the stage where he would show his prowess and announce to the noble circle his intentions.

A flame ignited within him, burning steadily. It didn’t matter who stood in his way, he would take them down and show he belonged in the upper echelon.

“Begin!”

Quinn’s hand flashed downwards, announcing the start of the match.

Before Michael could do anything, Trent already kicked off the ground and was surging towards him with incredible speed. It was clear that he was afraid of Michael’s spellcasting which had improved drastically this semester thanks to his tutoring and the use of the training room.

However, this was not all he had improved at.

With a sense of calm that surprised even him, Michael flooded his muscles with mana—reaching saturation with ease. His eyes narrowed as Trent sent a straight right punch right towards his face with ridiculous momentum, intending on ending the fight in one strike.

Michael weaved his head to the left, using the momentum to send a counter right hook towards the guy’s face. If it hit, the guy would have his own inertia on top of the force of his punch to deal with.

Yet it did not connect.

Trent slid underneath the punch, abandoning his own strike to evade the devastating punch, coming to a stop a few feet behind Michael.

Michael was already chanting an incantation before he turned, thrusting out his arm where a crimson magic circle appeared.

Three magic missiles appeared one after the other in quick succession, looping through the air towards the guy. Since they were so close, there was almost no time to react, yet Trent managed to erect a hasty shield in front of him.

The first attack bounced off the shield, but the second caused it to shudder violently. Upon the third missile however, the shield shattered to pieces, but it only ended up grazing Trent’s shoulder.

A look of desperation clouded his features as the teen surged forward once more, clearly not wanting to spar with spells any longer. Just this exchange was enough to know the disparity between them.

A chopping right kick struck Michael’s calf, sending a wave of pain up his leg. But he stood strong, surging forward and grabbing the guy’s uniform tightly before delivering a headbutt.

His eyes watered as the impact landed, but it had successfully stunned his opponent. Without waiting for an invitation, Michael began to throw fierce punches towards the guys face and body with intent.

With each blow he landed, Michael felt something stir within him, something not exactly foreign. Trent struggled within his grasp, clawing at him to try and escape the onslaught—yet it was for naught.

THUD THUD THUD

He could feel the boy go limp in his arms, a clear sign that he was unconscious. Only then did Michael slowly lower him to the ground and turn to Quinn. The woman was watching on with interest nearby, clearly unaffected by the violence she’d just witnessed.

A moment later she declared him the winner, but there was no feeling of triumph.

Even though the fight had come to an end, Michael felt that familiar yet unidentifiable feeling remain in his heart. It was uncomfortable—jarring even.

“Go get seen by Madame Hilda,” Quinn said to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and snapping him out of his reverie. If it weren’t for the satisfied smile on her face, Michael might have thought she was concerned for him.

He nodded, walking off the platform towards the medical area.

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