Cleon hovered a hundred meters away, his eyes locked on mine, both of us suspended in midair like dueling specters.

I waved my hand, the motion as fluid as if I wielded a wand. In response, countless magic circles shimmered into existence around me, their hues of white, green, and blue overlapping like an intricate tapestry. Before I could draw three breaths, I unleashed a barrage of ice, wind, and water attacks toward Cleon.

But he mirrored me, his hand cutting through the air with equal precision. Magic circles bloomed around him too, but his came in five shades—green, white, blue, and the fiery additions of yellow and orange. Ice, Wind, and Water, Lightning and fire surged from his circles, colliding with my elemental onslaught.

The space between us became a battleground of color and fury. Fire met ice, ice clashed with lightning, and lightning tangled with wind. The explosions were blinding, painting the sky with ephemeral brilliance. But light wasn't the problem—the real issue was that my opening assault was being overwhelmed. It made sense. While our skills were both at peak performance, level 10, Cleon was a true mage. I was merely a former one. He wielded more elements, and that forced my hand.

I resorted to using [Zenith of Sorcery], formerly known as Unbound Sorcery, to seamlessly summon elemental attacks without magic circles. Each of my elemental arcana skills was maxed at level 10, and with my [Arcanic Codex] skill also at its peak, the speed at which I could conceptualize and manifest magic circles was absurd. But even that paled in comparison to the instantaneous casting I achieved with [Zenith of Sorcery].

Standing my ground in midair, every attack that threatened to reach me was intercepted effortlessly. I didn’t even lift a finger—the magic responded to my will alone. Cleon, noticing my tactics, seemed offended by the stalemate. Confident he would overpower me, he summoned more magic circles, introducing light and shadow elements into the fray.

It was clear why he hadn’t used these elements earlier—they were weaker compared to his primary arsenal. I didn’t panic. There was no need. I simply intensified my use of [Zenith of Sorcery]. The MP cost was ridiculous, but I could afford it comfortably.

For two and a half minutes, the space between us was nothing but explosions of raw elemental power. We glared at each other through the chaos, both realizing this was going nowhere. Simultaneously, we ceased our magical barrage.

Closing the distance atop my spiritual sword, I charged through the lingering aftermath of our clash. Cleon drew his sword, not relying on his floating platform to approach. Instead, like a raging bull, he propelled himself at breakneck speed toward me.

I considered mirroring his move but chose instead to brace myself. His blade swung heavily, aiming to bisect me.

Clang. Krshh. Clang. Krshh. Clang.

His greatsword met not my flesh, but the spiritual shields I summoned. The first shattered, then the second. Only the third held, and even that was temporary. Activating [Devastator’s Roar], Cleon released a deafening battle cry, his strength surging. My final shield crumbled under the assault.

But I wasn’t unprepared. Another shield materialized, buying me just enough time to reposition. I retaliated with a spear, aiming a kick at his reflexes. The Berserker that he was—a barbarian special class—shielded himself with his sword.

Wasting no time, I made my summoned swords dance like petals in the wind, each swing aimed to carve him apart. [Manifest Spiritual Armament] allowed me to conjure weapons at will, and [Arsenal Dance], an innate skill I unlocked as an Arsenal Ascetic, gave me full control over them. Each weapon was an extension of myself.

But Cleon was relentless. He parried every attack, his greatsword clashing against my spiritual blades as we hung in midair. That being said, Gravity tugged at him. He didn’t possess flying skills. Instead, he relied on his wind element to stay aloft, but it was clear he wasn’t in his true element.

It seems I had chosen the perfect battleground.

As I continued my assault, I watched his platform race to meet his feet. I sent my weapons to intercept, successfully disrupting his balance. But in the half-second I spent dismantling his platform, Cleon found an opening.

He swung his blade with unreasonable strength, releasing a massive shockwave. It engulfed everything in its path, including my spiritual weapons. The shockwave closed the distance in an instant.

I ejected myself from my flying sword, knowing there was no dodging that attack. My sword was consumed by the shockwave, which continued its destructive path into the stratosphere.

Summoning another spiritual sword to ride, I glanced toward Cleon. He had conjured a new flying device—a platform crafted from his level 7 earth magic. With wind elemental runes properly inscribed, it propelled him skyward, freeing him from gravity's grasp.

Wasting no time, Cleon gave me chase.

Elemental attacks tore through the space between us—lightning and light, the fastest elements in his arsenal—streaking toward me with blinding speed. I weaved through them, countering with precision. And soon I noticed it—something subtle but telling.

I was faster.

Compared to his platform, my floating sword sliced through the air with effortless agility. I wondered how I could capitalize on this advantage, but before I could act, he abruptly ceased his elemental barrage. Why?

It didn’t take long to figure out.

Using his platform as a springboard, Cleon hurled himself toward me.

"What the hell," I muttered, watching him close half the distance between us before summoning another platform beneath his feet. Then another. And another.

As he neared, his weapon shifted from a two-handed greatsword into a massive warhammer. He swung it at me with a speed that left me no choice but to use my flying sword as a shield. It shattered instantly, leaving me defenseless. When he swung again, I had nothing but my left arm to protect myself.

There was a clang, followed by the sickening sound of bone cracking and the spray of blood. Pain lanced through me, but I forced a smile, staring into his eyes as I successfully shielded my head from the blow. Chains coiled around his hammer, anchoring it in place.

"It didn’t even hurt," I lied through gritted teeth. With my right hand, I lifted a miniature moon to his face level. More mini moons hovered around him, then exploded violently. Each one packed enough force to erase a city from the map. At this range, there was no missing.

But that wasn’t enough.

I closed the gap, curling my right hand into a fist. I drove it into his chest with all my strength, sending him hurtling backward. He stabilized himself mid-air, summoning yet another platform.

Greed got the better of me. I charged, ready to deliver a second blow, but aborted the attempt as he unleashed a new wave of elemental attacks. Barely dodging, I withdrew, using the retreat to glance at my arm.

It was in pieces—torn, bloody, and bent at unnatural angles. I winced, not from the pain but from frustration. I wanted to be the one to draw first blood, but he had beaten me to it. I glanced back at Cleon. He stood, seemingly unscathed. I hadn’t expected him to die from that attack, but was it too much to hope for at least a scratch?

Sighing, I healed my arm. In less than three seconds, it was good as new. I stretched the regrown limb, never taking my eyes off Cleon. He studied his weapon, around which my ethereal chains were tightly coiled. There was no removing it unless he had a specific skill, and I doubted he did.

Taking a deep breath, I decided to stop holding back. In hindsight, I should have done this from the start, but I wanted to see how my level 101 self would fare against him. I knew, with absolute certainty, that it wouldn’t be enough to defeat him. He hadn’t even used his monarch advantage yet. Still, it wasn’t pointless. It was humbling.

With that newfound humility, I summoned the sigil that once belonged to the Umbryan Patriarch—the Obsidian Tree. Encompassing over five kilometers in diameter, the gigantic black tree manifested, its roots plunging deep into the ocean beneath us, and its branches stretching high into the heavens.

"An Ancestral Tree..." Cleon mused, genuine fascination flickering in his eyes. But before that I believed I saw something else. Something I’d never seen in this wannabe god’s eyes.

"It seems you recognize what this is," I taunted. "I take it you’ve seen one of these before."

"I have," he replied. "Heavens know I have... his was just blue." His words felt like they weren’t meant for me, but the next ones were. "Is this thing what gave you the courage to come and wreak havoc on my domain?"

"This is indeed what makes me believe I can defeat you, Your Majesty. But it’s not the only thing." With a call, I summoned it. "Come to me, Tharazul."

Activating the ability Tharazul, the Rotten Beholder, the grotesque being appeared behind me. Its countless small eyes and one large central eye hovered above a gaping, fanged mouth. It was a creature that seemed simultaneously demonic, eldritch, and undead.

Wasting no time, I activated [Fate Reversal] and several other Hexcaster abilities. A crown materialized, floating above my head as Tharazul’s many eyes and its mouth closed, leaving it in a seemingly dormant state.

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I wasn’t finished.

I activated [Yin Manifestation], summoning a clone that shared not only my appearance but also all my basE stats. It possessed my Cryomancer and Ice Mage skills, meaning it could wield all my spells and [Ice Elemental Arcana]. The clone was a cold-blooded powerhouse.

Normally, I’d avoid using this skill due to its ridiculous fatigue cost. It drained 25% of my total fatigue percentage. Even in my low-level Highbreed days, I’d never had an ability that demanded so much. But today wasn’t a normal day.

This was a battle with so many atypical parameters.

Summoning an array of weapons that danced around me while my [Chain of Permanence] wrapped tightly around my arms, I declared to Cleon, "Now, Your Majesty, I think that's enough contemplation. Let's finish this."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Cleon replied, charging at me with unrelenting force. I met him head-on.

We collided hard in midair. He swung his hammer; I raised a shield. The shield shattered under the impact, but I didn’t falter. My left arm lifted instinctively, summoning another shield. Unlike before, where my arm had snapped under the warhammer's might, it held strong this time. Not because I hadn't sustained damage—I had—but I redirected the brunt of the force to my right arm instead.

Cleon barely had time to process this before my spiritual weapons came at him from all directions—a two-bladed greatsword, a claymore, a spear, a warhammer identical to his own, and two varieties of axes. He reflexively tried to shield himself, but his defense was far from perfect. The weapons struck, but instead of slicing through him, they ricocheted off his high defenses.

Not surprised, I closed the gap between us. Clenching my already healed right arm into a fist, I struck fast and hard. My blow landed square on his torso, and I saw him wince as he was knocked off his flying platform.

That finally hurt, didn’t it?

I’m essentially a monk, but since I chose Weaponry Ascetic—a hybrid-centric class—as my special class, I wasn’t as strong as I could have been if I’d picked a more SP-focused variation of the monk class. I knew the trade-offs when I made my choice.

It was fine by me for I knew that while my raw strength as a monk would be taxed, my speed wouldn’t. As a class, Weaponry Ascetic didn’t hinder my affinity with the agility attribute, and that was an edge I knew I could exploit.

After all, I wasn’t just a Weaponry Ascetic—I was also a Sorcerer. One with multiple [Elemental Arcana] skills that, thanks to my [Zenith of Sorcery], I could adjust and cast like instant spells. In simpler terms? When I punched Cleon, I didn’t just hit him with raw speed and strength—I hit him with the force of an elemental attack. To make it even simpler: I punched him with a spell.

As Cleon tumbled through the air, I used the [Chain of Permanence] to yank him back, halting him about twenty-five meters away. My arsenal followed, the spiritual weapons slashing toward him. Most connected, though he managed to block the last two with his hammer.

Baring his teeth like a wild animal, he failed to notice—until it was too late—the four moon-like spheres encircling him. They hovered, summoned by my cold-blooded twin from a safe distance.

"Lunar Cataclysm," I whispered alongside her.

The resulting explosion was colossal. After he tasted its full might, I yanked him upward into the sky with my chains. My clone and I followed, sending our weapons ahead, exploiting his aerial disadvantage.

Noticing the skill he was about to unleash, I activated my passive [Arcanic Codex] along with [Perfected Evil Eyes]—an evolved version of the skill once known as Eye of Nullification. This disrupted the magic circles he summoned, causing the lightning to discharge directly into his face. His confusion was almost comical.

Moments like this made me thankful for the system granting me [Identification]. Appraisal would be great, but I’d hate to be in a situation where I had no clue what was happening.

Taking advantage of his disorientation, I sent my weapons into a violent dance. Cleon reacted swiftly, but not swiftly enough to handle the barrage—especially when I joined the fray with my elemental-imbued punches.

To counter me, Cleon transmuted his warhammer into a spear, thrusting it repeatedly in hopes of impaling me. But in midair, I had the advantage. My class was nearly as agile as his—if not more so—and I evaded his countless attempts with ease. My [Perfected Evil Eyes] ensured he couldn’t summon any more platforms.

After throwing him off with several equally confusing maneuvers, I exploited a brief moment of inattention. I closed the distance, landing another devastating blow.

The air cracked with frost as my fist, imbued with an intricate lattice of ice magic, slammed into Cleon’s ribs. The crunch of ice and bone was simultaneous, a sickening symphony of power. His body arched from the force, blasting backward through the air like a meteor. But I wasn’t done.

My chains lashed out with the speed of thought, their frozen links snagging him mid-flight.

For a brief moment, I thought I had him again—that I had yanked Cleon back into my grasp like before. But Cleon, swifter than ever, seized the chain, halting his momentum. The air between us thickened with tension as we locked eyes, mutual defiance burning in that stare.

He pulled.

I pulled harder.

He pulled ever harder.

The contest of force was brief, brutal, and wholly one-sided. Cleon’s strength eclipsed mine, and with a ferocious yank, he reeled me toward him—or more precisely, toward his weapon. It shimmered with malevolent energy as it reformed in his hand, becoming a glaive. The blade was aimed directly at my chest.

I clenched my fist, ice and chains coiling around it like a serpent, and met his glaive head-on. The clash was deafening. Three distinct sounds rang out: my fist colliding with the blade, the glaive shattering like fragile glass, and finally, my fist connecting with his hand. My spell triggered instantly, spreading frost and hexes through the contact point.

Boom.

Kinslaughterer. Demon-Slaughterer. Marks of infamy, proof that I was a bane to humans and elves alike. But if there was something I was more a bane to than any living being, it was weapons, armor, and artifacts—all too vulnerable to my curses.

Cleon’s glaive had been cursed the moment my chains touched it. Rust and decay consumed the weapon as though time itself had fast-forwarded. He hesitated, momentarily thrown off by the loss of his weapon. But he recovered faster than I expected, his hand darting out to seize my wrist before I could retreat.

“Crap,” I muttered, activating [Cryostasis]. A sphere of slowed time enveloped us, reducing motion to a crawl.

His hand flattened, rigid and sharp like a blade, and thrust toward me with lethal precision. Despite the slowed time I couldn’t evade that one attack. It speared through my gut, the sheer force sending a burst of blood cascading into the frozen air. Pain flared, white-hot and searing, but I gritted my teeth. [Pain Immunity] dulled the edges, but the sensation was still there.

Cleon’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. Before it could fully form, I plunged my thumbs into his eyes. He screamed, the sound distorted by the slowed time. I didn’t stop. I pressed harder, twisting with savage intent. Then, with my face inches from his, I bit down on his cheek, tearing away flesh in a gruesome display. His scream became a roar of fury.

With a sickening motion, he dragged his impaling arm to the side, ripping a chunk of me free. I screamed, blood pouring from the wound, but my mind stayed sharp.

Pain was accessory now, nothing more.

He aimed his next strike at my head, but I summoned my spiritual weapons. Within the Cryostasis field, they moved at normal speed—in other words, they moved like a blur. The first wave deflected his thrust. The second bent his arm at an unnatural angle. The third severed it entirely.

“Aaaaaaargh!” Cleon’s voice was guttural. His remaining arm swung at me, but I caught it with both hands. Using his own momentum, I twisted, bringing him into a looping dance, then hurled him—not randomly, but into the perfect position for my clone outside the Cryostasis field.

The clone had been preparing [Judgment of the Firmament]. The giant spear descended like a meteor, its golden glow piercing through the icy haze. It struck Cleon with catastrophic force, driving him into the ocean below. The impact created waves that reached the heavens, only for my clone to utter the words: “Arctic Oblivion.”

The explosion froze the waves mid-motion, transforming the sea into an apocalyptic expanse of ice. The Parting Sea had become a glacial wasteland, its surface reflecting the pale light of the sky.

Hovering above the devastation, my clone joined me. I noticed something still hanging from my mouth and spat it out with a grimace. Blood smeared my face. I wiped it away, a grim smile tugging at my lips. The blood wasn’t mine. Cleon—a man I had once only dreamed of defeating—had been brought low. It had cost me half my gut, a wound that would’ve been fatal under normal circumstances. But here I stood.

I was still wiping the blood from my face when a notification blinked in the corner of my vision.

“Sigh.”

With a resounding crash, a lightning bolt split the frozen sea, shattering it into jagged peaks of ice that collapsed into chaotic fragments.

From the chaos, Cleon’s elements surged forth with untamed fury: lightning whipping in all directions, beams of light piercing the air in countless straight lines, and fire spreading in an ever-engulfing inferno. It was unprecedented chaos—or perhaps not entirely unprecedented, as I had witnessed something even worse a decade ago—but you get the point.

It was chaos incarnate.

Evading the torrent of random elemental attacks, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of vindication at my earlier decision to manifest the Obsidial Tree not as a prison, but as a barrier. It allowed the chaos to vent harmlessly into the surroundings rather than directly against my sigil. With my copy, we maneuvered through the storm of destruction, evading or blocking the onslaught. It was overwhelming to witness, but nothing we couldn’t handle.

Hovering in the air, hand in hand with my cold-blooded self, we watched as Cleon emerged from the partially melted, shattered remains of the frozen sea, ascending to our level. His once-imposing presence was now reduced to a miserable state. The disheveled appearance of the millennia-old monarch stood in stark contrast to the stoic figure he previously embodied.

Wet and bloodied, with one arm missing and the other side of his body obliterated, he looked more like a walking corpse than a ruler. Despite his eyeless sockets still oozing blood, his fury was palpable as he glared at me.

I curtsied, ensuring he could see the full extent of my recovery. The chunk missing from my gut had fully healed, not a scratch marring my skin—skin now covered by the armor summoned through my [Mantle of Serenity]. I made sure to smirk as I said, even though I was certain he couldn't hear my words from this distance, “What do you say now, Your Majesty? Did I match you well enough?”

Cleon didn’t answer with words. Instead, he summoned the one thing he had, in his arrogance, denied me the sight of until now: his sigils.

Monarchs define sigils, but it wouldn't be wrong to also say that sigils define monarchs. They are after all, the crystallization of their power, their very essence. While their forms vary, consistent patterns emerge depending on the wielder’s race. For elves, a sigil often manifests as a tree that can serve as either a prison or a barrier. For humans, however, it typically takes the form of a weapon tied to their chosen class or classes. Cleon, being a dual-class monarch, summoned two sigils: a floating grimoire and a sword. The sword, I knew instinctively, wouldn’t remain just a sword.

The grimoire lit up almost immediately. I braced for an attack, but the next moment revealed his true intention. The light wasn’t for me; it was for him. Cleon’s body began to glow, and I realized with a sinking feeling what he was doing. His mangled flesh regenerated in an instant. A new arm sprouted, his obliterated side restored, and even his eyes returned, clear and sharp. His sigils weren’t just tools of power; they were conduits, allowing him to draw resources from his subjects. He had drained the vitality of his kings, nobles, and every soul sworn to them, siphoning their life force to heal himself.

“Showoff,” I muttered. “I can do that too, so there’s no need to parade it in front of me.”

Cleon’s stare burned with unbridled rage, but beyond the fury, I recognized something else. Greed. He wanted my sigil. The thought was almost laughable. Did he really believe he could take it from me and wield it for himself? How amusing it would be when he discovered the truth of how I actually operate it.