Roran appeared even larger up close. His muscles, bulging with every movement of his bare upper body, seemed like a bomb waiting to go off. Towering a head taller than Nathan, his presence made others feel almost insignificant.
Nathan felt a shiver run down his spine at the sight of Roran’s sharp, angular face and unflinching gaze. His nervous twitches intensified, as if multiplying with each second.
“A Phase 2.6? You lost or something?” Roran’s mocking tone carried a deeper threat, underscored by his low, powerful voice.
Nathan could only shake his head awkwardly, feeling like he had returned to his high school days, facing down the school bullies.
“So, you ready for a punch then?”
Roran raised a hand, flexing his biceps and forearm, the muscles rippling like waves in a masterpiece of physical prowess.
Swallowing hard, Nathan performed the necessary greeting. His feelings were strange—so strange that he couldn’t quite grasp what was happening.
He was nervous, but not afraid. He felt threatened, but not oppressed. He was cautious, but it was the caution before striking an opponent. Yes, ever since stepping onto the stage, he hadn’t once thought of surrendering, not even an hour earlier when he'd been planning his next move.
Was this the effect of [Titan’s Descendant]? he wondered, convinced it was the most plausible answer.
Roran was indeed a giant. But coursing through Nathan’s veins was the blood of a Titan. And a Titan never backed down from a fight. It was bizarre, this sense of expansion within him, as though some distant ancestor was rising, refusing to allow him to retreat.
With the decision made, Nathan’s mind cleared. His feet spread wide, taking a stance to face his enemy. He planned to use his speed to counter Roran while evading the massive punches that those bulging muscles would throw.
Nathan Reed, Tier 1 Phase 2.6, vs. Roran Alastair, Tier 1 Phase 8.1.
A mountain seemed to hurl itself at Nathan when the fight started with a roar. It came so fast he barely had time to react, raising his arms instinctively to block. The ground disappeared beneath his feet, wind whistled past his ears, and in a blur, he caught glimpses of other matches and the elder standing above.
Nathan landed just a step away from the edge of the ring, his body swaying as he dispersed the residual force from the impact. He frowned at his arms. They were sore, but not broken.
Not broken? he thought, surprised.
He waved his hands to check, and the pain gradually faded, leaving everything intact. He wasn’t the only one astonished—Roran, too, looked on with narrowed eyes. The punch hadn’t been his full strength, as he hadn’t intended to cause unnecessary injury, but it should’ve been enough to send his opponent to bed for the day at such a low tier.
Even Elder Marcus, watching from above, cast a few concerned glances, fearing a repeat of the earlier incident with Xander. But no, nothing was amiss.
"Impressive," Roran clapped his hands. "You’re worthy to be my opponent."
Roran’s posture shifted dramatically, leaning forward as his hands curled into claws, his gaze becoming intensely focused.
Nathan returned to the center of the arena, feeling a profound difference in his body. His blood surged, his soul howled.
"Let’s fight," Nathan said, accepting the challenge.
This time, both fighters charged at each other. Without the element of surprise, Nathan could track Roran’s movements. Thanks to [Better Vision], he saw every muscle twitch just before Roran made his move. Nathan dodged punches, swipes, and kicks with precision. Roran, in turn, deftly avoided critical hits while hardening his muscles with controlled breathing techniques.
Nathan’s attacks felt like they were hitting a wall. Roran’s combination of agility and raw strength was seamless. Despite his enormous size, Roran’s strikes didn’t exceed what Nathan could handle. He deduced that Roran’s punches could easily break the 8.1 barrier, potentially reaching 9, but required time to build up that kind of force. However, even with that buildup, it didn’t produce the kind of breakthrough Zarah Kinyara or Xander Caldoran could create.
What was most concerning, though, was Roran’s stamina. He attacked relentlessly, without even breaking a sweat. Both exchanged blows—punch for punch, kick for kick. One of Roran’s punches aimed straight for Nathan’s head. Nathan tilted aside to dodge, swinging his right fist toward Roran’s jaw while blocking a knee strike with his left hand. Roran, unfazed by the punch to his face, sneered and charged forward, forcing Nathan to retreat.
As the fight went on, Nathan surprised even himself. He wasn’t breaking a sweat either. The expected exhaustion never came. It was exhilarating.
Nathan's strikes accumulated as the fight dragged on. His practice of [Martial Art Mastery], along with his studies in the sect library, had equipped him with a treasure trove of techniques. He was no longer limited to the three basic moves he'd initially learned. With a slight adjustment, any punch could be transformed into an entirely different technique. A shift of the hand into a claw, a blade, or a half-fist could fundamentally change a move’s nature.
Like a madman, Nathan charged head-on, meeting Roran’s force with his own.
Triggered [Amplifying Strike]. One credit given.
The first punch stunned him. He had expected backlash—at the very least, a broken hand or temporary paralysis like the devastating impact of the One-inch punch from before. But no, he felt nothing. His body instinctively raised the other hand to continue the assault.
Triggered [Amplifying Strike]. One credit given.
Triggered [Amplifying Strike]. One credit given.
Triggered [Amplifying Strike]. One credit given.
The system notifications flooded his vision, one after another.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
Each punch landed like a gunshot in the open sky. Nathan’s blows met Roran’s with equal force, a cyclone of dust swirling between them. Every clash left a vortex in the air, as if the sheer power was tearing apart the battlefield.
The attention of the entire audience was now fixed on them. Outer disciples, who had been watching from the sidelines, were transfixed, their blood pumping as the clash escalated.
“By the Spire’s peak! Where did this freak Nathan come from?”
“Phase 2.6 going toe-to-toe with Phase 8.1! He can't be a nobody. Someone, check PsiLink! I need info on this guy!”
“Elen, don’t you know him?”
Elen, seated in the crowd, shot a glare at his friend before answering with a growl, “Watch your mouth. He’s an Inner Disciple now.”
Hearing that, the group went silent, their faces falling. The memory of them mocking Nathan just last month flashed vividly in their minds. How quickly the tides had turned. If he sought revenge now, they wouldn’t even dare lift a finger in defense.
Elen, falling back into an old habit, chewed on his fingernail. His emotions were tangled, just as they had been when Nathan accepted the challenge. The image of Nathan, once so approachable and skilled when he first entered the Verdant Spire Sect, surfaced again.
Nathan and Roran locked arms, both pushing against each other, trying to force the other back. Their breaths came in heavy, labored gasps.
“Well… well done!” Roran laughed heartily amidst their struggle.
Nathan tilted his head back and laughed, though his laughter turned into a choking wheeze from the exertion. “Is that… all you’ve got? My grandma… pushes harder… when she’s… constipated!”
Triggered [Bad Mouth]. One credit given.
Nathan’s eyes widened in shock. Damn it, that cursed skill!
The audience erupted in laughter. It was already surprising enough to see a Phase 2.6 hold his ground against a Phase 8.1, but for Nathan to taunt his opponent like this? It was almost unheard of.
“You’ve got guts, Nate,” Zeryn muttered, shaking his head with a grin.
“That disciple really does need his mouth sewn shut,” a female Inner Elder remarked.
A few others voiced their agreement, mostly to curry favor with her.
Alaric, the sect leader, glanced over at the beautiful Elder with the long brown hair flowing down her back. With a smile, he said, “He’s probably just trying to liven things up. No need to get worked up, Esme.”
Elder Esme shot Alaric a sharp look but said nothing more. Her annoyed expression made the surrounding Elders exchange awkward smiles, silently wishing Nathan good luck when he entered the Inner Sect.
Roran, hearing Nathan’s taunt, grinned angrily. “Let’s see if your strength matches your mouth!”
A pressure as heavy as a mountain bore down on Nathan. Roran’s strength hadn’t wavered despite their prolonged clash, but now it came crashing down, enough to flatten ten Nathans. Yet, something had changed. The Titan blood in Nathan’s veins responded, surging through him like a primal force awakened. His body heated up as his muscles tensed.
From the outside, Nathan might have seemed like a tiny figure facing a giant, but only Roran knew the truth—the real giant wasn’t him. He could sense it, that primal strength building within Nathan, the kind that stirred fear deep in the pit of his stomach. For all his pride in his physical power, unmatched by any other outer disciple except a rare few like Qingfeng or Xander, Roran now found himself second-guessing. What was this overwhelming pressure coming from Nathan?
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Roran shook off the unsettling thoughts. He couldn’t afford distractions. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip, his muscles bulging as he bore down on Nathan’s hand, which now looked minuscule in comparison.
The ground cracked beneath their feet from the sheer force of their struggle, stone fragments splintering like a spider’s web. Nathan was slowly losing ground, his legs sinking into the floor as Roran leveraged his height and weight advantage. His back bent under the crushing force, the rational part of his mind urging him to break away, use his superior speed, and strike from another angle. If he retreated now, it would be easy to outmaneuver Roran and secure a victory in the top 16.
But something inside him refused to listen to reason. Retreat felt like a betrayal of something fundamental—an instinct woven into his very essence. He wasn’t meant to run. He was meant to face this head-on. His teeth ground together, blood trickling from his gums as he clenched harder. His eyes, wild and unseeing, locked onto Roran with an intensity that bordered on madness.
And then, slowly but surely, Nathan’s back straightened. Inch by inch, he forced himself upright, his spine aligning as his breathing steadied. Each breath burned like fire in his lungs, igniting every fiber of his body. Steam began to rise from his skin as if his very core was overheating, and yet he kept pushing forward.
Roran's eyes widened in disbelief, his grip almost faltering. What was this? This wasn’t just strength—it was something far more dangerous. But instead of pulling back, he let out a triumphant shout, deciding to face this challenge head-on. If he was going to lose, he’d do it with honor.
The fight shifted from a display of techniques and skill into a sheer contest of brute force. The crowd’s excitement reached a fever pitch, their cheers growing louder with each second.
“Nathan! Nathan! Nathan!”
“Roran! Roran! Roran!”
All around, the other contestants had finished their battles, many using the advantages of their phase or exploiting weaknesses in their opponents’ styles. But now, they were transfixed, drawn to the raw, unfiltered contest still raging in the center.
Nathan and Roran stood nose to nose, growling like beasts. As their foreheads pressed together, veins bulging, Nathan began to inch forward. Each step he took was a small victory, with cracks in the stone floor forming a trail behind Roran as he was forced back.
Though exhausted, Nathan didn’t stop. He could feel the strength of the Titan within him, the relentless drive to keep advancing no matter the cost. Step by step, he pushed Roran further, even as his own muscles screamed in protest. And then, with one final push, Nathan forced Roran over the edge of the ring.
The crowd erupted into cheers as Roran’s foot stepped outside the boundary, marking the end of their brutal contest.
Roran released his grip, panting heavily, but there was no anger or resentment in his eyes—only respect. A broad smile broke across his face as he extended a hand to Nathan. “Well fought, Nathan Reed.”
Nathan, still panting with the exertion, returned the gesture, shaking Roran’s hand with equal respect. “You too, Roran Alastair.”
For once, [Bad Mouth] remained silent, leaving Nathan grateful for the moment of peace.
Roran walked away, leaving Nathan to bask in the glory of his victory. He raised his hand, fingers clenched, as if grasping some unseen trophy. The crowd around him exploded in chants.
“Green grows the spire through blood and fire! Green grows the spire through blood and fire!”
Zeryn welcomed him with an enthusiastic clap on the back, nearly knocking Nathan off balance. “Bravo! Bravo!”
Nathan grinned, feeling the weight of the moment. “So, how much did you win?”
Zeryn beamed, nodding eagerly. “You wouldn’t understand the joy of being rich! Though it’s a shame I couldn’t bet more on you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re on the blacklist now, man. After today, no one’s going to take bets on you. You’re too much of a sure thing.”
“If you hadn’t placed such a big bet, no one would’ve lost money!” Nathan shot back.
Zeryn laughed, though the words hit a little close to home. It was true—he had nearly caused a riot with the amount of money he had on Nathan’s victory, not once, but twice.
Despite the teasing, Nathan felt like he was walking on air. Just a month ago, his only goal had been to survive in the outer sect. Now, he was one of the top 16 disciples in the tournament—a feat that marked him as one of the most promising talents among the outer disciples this year.
He glanced toward Roran, who was seated a distance away, receiving treatment. His arms hung limp at his sides, his back hunched in exhaustion, while the medics attached small white patches to his body. Nathan could see the blue-green wisps of mana mixing with steam rising from Roran’s form, the effects of the healing herbs already taking hold. Feeling Nathan’s gaze, Roran raised a weary fist in acknowledgment, signaling a promise for a future rematch.
Nathan smiled back, but his thoughts drifted to something else. Ten years—that was the time frame Elder Kyron had mentioned. Even if he won the tournament today, it wouldn’t mean much. As the sect leader Alaric had said, tomorrow, Tier 2 would present a completely different challenge. He knew Zeryn had been holding back in their training sessions, not unleashing his full mana control in order to avoid discouraging him.
The fleeting glory of victory was quickly washed away by a cold dose of reality. Nathan returned to his seat, his eyes losing their earlier sparkle.
Zeryn, noticing the shift in his friend’s mood, said nothing. He understood the weight of what was coming next and knew that, for now, all he could do was provide some companionship, sharing the burden of the uncertain road ahead.
As the next round of fights began, all eyes turned to Keira Valaine. For the first time, Nathan had the chance to fully take in her appearance.
Her long, golden hair gleamed in the light, and her sharp features looked as if they’d been sculpted by a master artist. Her amber eyes shone beneath perfectly arched brows, her high nose complementing her full lips. Her entire presence exuded grace and authority, even as she wore the same gray outer disciple robes as everyone else. The mere sight of her demanded attention, and compared to the crowd's earlier focus on Nathan, her arrival made that attention feel trivial.
Her opponent, a male disciple wielding a broadsword, seemed visibly shaken. His weapon was massive and unwieldy, contrasting sharply with Keira’s slender blade, which looked almost effortless in her hand. The male disciple’s eyes were distant, as though already defeated before the battle had even begun. His spirit was scattered, crushed under the weight of Keira’s indomitable aura.
But the most pathetic reaction came from the fool next to Nathan. A loud, obnoxious whistle escaped Zeryn’s lips, echoing through the arena.
"Can you shut up?" Nathan hissed, clamping a hand over Zeryn’s mouth.
The two idiots from that fateful day—the day they were caught spying—were here, and their target was standing in the ring. The last thing Nathan wanted was to draw Keira’s attention again. It had been over a month since the incident, and maybe she had forgotten by now. But if Zeryn’s antics drew too much attention, there was no guarantee she wouldn’t remember the two troublemakers.
“Why though?” Zeryn protested, muffled by Nathan’s hand. “She’s beautiful!”
“And that is not how you honor beauty,” Nathan retorted sharply.
“Well then, what’s the proper way, wise master?” Zeryn grinned.
“Shut up,” Nathan growled, his eyes darting nervously toward Keira, who thankfully hadn’t noticed.
Zeryn reluctantly nodded, though his mischievous eyes told Nathan he wasn’t done. Nathan could only hope that Keira’s attention remained on her match.
As the signal to begin rang out, Keira’s opponent seemed to regain some of his focus. He tightened his grip on the broadsword, deciding that if he was going to lose, he would at least put up a fight. Yet, the result was never in question.
Keira moved like flowing water, her steps light and graceful, leaving the impression of a flower dancing in the wind. The male disciple, despite his bulk and powerful weapon, was utterly outmatched. He swung his sword overhead with all his might, but Keira was already gone, sliding behind him with a graceful pivot. In her hand, her blade reversed, the tip pressed against the back of her opponent’s neck before he could even blink.
“I surrender!” the male disciple muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The match ended exactly as everyone had expected—Keira had overwhelmed her opponent without breaking a sweat. While the fight lacked the raw excitement of a brutal clash, the crowd was left in awe of her sheer mastery. It wasn’t just her beauty that captivated them, but the absolute control she held over every aspect of the battle.
Keira bowed with practiced elegance before turning to leave the ring. But as she descended the steps, her sharp eyes caught Nathan’s figure standing beside Zeryn. Her gaze lingered on them for just a moment, a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
Nathan felt his stomach drop into an abyss of cold dread. Zeryn, on the other hand, was oblivious, grinning from ear to ear.
“She looked at me!” Zeryn exclaimed, tugging at Nathan’s sleeve like an overexcited child.
Nathan, however, felt his knees go weak. That look from Keira—it was either the beginning of a disaster or the first spark of suspicion. Had she recognized him? Back then, when he had stupidly turned around without masking his face like Zeryn had? And that damn inner disciple uniform had made him stand out. Even if Keira hadn’t noticed him right away, he was now undeniably within her scope of curiosity.
His anxiety boiled over, and in an instant, Nathan grabbed Zeryn by the collar and shook him violently. “You idiot! You’re going to get us killed!”
The next few matches were less eventful, though one did stand out—Zahra Kinyara’s fight. She was a Phase 8.1 contestant going up against a Phase 9.2 disciple, a man who wielded a long staff. Zahra, as usual, wore her simple, tight-fitting combat gloves, her short hair bobbing as she stepped into the arena with a relaxed demeanor.
Nathan had expected a quick defeat for Zahra. After all, the gap between Phase 8.1 and 9.2 was immense. But as the fight progressed, it became clear that Zahra had a strategy.
Rather than targeting her opponent directly, she aimed her strikes at his staff. At first, the audience was confused, unsure of what she was trying to achieve. But soon, Nathan’s sharp eyes picked up on the pattern—Zahra was concentrating her attacks on one spot, focusing all her power into single points of impact. Slowly, cracks began to form in the staff, unnoticed by its wielder at first.
By the time the male disciple realized what was happening, it was too late. Zahra’s movements were bizarre, her attacks unpredictable, making it impossible for him to avoid the pressure she was applying to the weak points of his weapon.
The staff finally snapped under the relentless assault, leaving him weaponless. His attempts to land a hit on Zahra were futile—she dodged everything with fluid ease. With his weapon destroyed, the male disciple had no choice but to admit defeat.
Zahra smiled innocently as though she had just finished a fun game, bouncing off the arena to the applause of the crowd. Though she lacked Keira’s regal elegance, Zahra’s quick thinking and speed had won her the admiration of many.
Nathan, watching Zahra closely, felt a sense of unease. His [Martial Art Mastery] skill had been analyzing her moves, and the conclusion it reached was troubling—Zahra’s speed far exceeded his own. While Xander had raw power and deadly precision, Zahra was a different beast altogether. Her style was all about whittling down her opponents, a battle of attrition that left little room for error.
He could imagine how a fight against her might play out, but even with a strategy in mind, Nathan knew he wasn’t equipped to counter her speed at his current level. If they were grouped together in the free-for-all round, his usual tactics wouldn’t be enough. Against Zahra, his confidence in his speed would crumble to nothing.
The top sixteen were finally decided, and the next matchups appeared on the large display above the arena. As names shuffled and paired off, Nathan’s eyes caught his own name lighting up.
Nathan Reed vs. Yao Qingfeng.
Nathan’s heart raced as he stepped forward into the arena. His opponent, Yao Qingfeng, bounded up with an almost childlike energy, her ponytail bouncing behind her as she skipped into the ring. Her short stature and lively demeanor made her look more like a kid on a playground than a warrior about to engage in combat. Strapped across her back was a longbow, and in her quiver, twelve arrows gleamed under the sunlight.
She beamed at Nathan with a bright smile. “Nathan Reed, prepare to face your reckoning!” she announced, her voice bubbling with laughter.
Nathan blinked, confused. “Reckoning? For what?”
Qingfeng pouted, clearly disappointed by his lack of recognition. “For Roran!” she said, pointing dramatically toward the medical tents. “I promised him we’d meet in the finals.”
Nathan couldn’t help but laugh. “Finals? You’ll have to get past me first, shorty!”
Triggered [Bad Mouth]. One credit given.
Qingfeng’s large, round eyes narrowed into a dangerous glare. “You’ve got a big mouth for someone so clueless. I’m going to make sure you regret that.”
“I’m sorry,” Nathan said honestly, but his apology only seemed to stoke her competitive fire.
Qingfeng raised her bow, nocking an arrow with alarming speed, her expression now one of deadly focus.
The signal to begin rang out, and Nathan sprang into action. His feet dug into the ground as he launched himself toward her, [Amplifying Strike] and [Flowing Strikes] stacking to propel him forward in a blur of motion. He closed the distance in two heartbeats, his fist already aiming for her.
But before his punch could land, he struck only empty air.
Qingfeng had leaped backward, her feet hovering six feet off the ground, her laugh ringing out as she released her first arrow. Nathan barely had time to tilt his head, and even then, the arrow’s edge sliced across his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
Nathan's eyes widened. She was fast. Faster than Zahra, faster than anyone he'd faced so far.
His gaze flicked to the arrow embedded in the ground. It hadn’t ricocheted or bounced. It stuck firmly into the stone, quivering with power.
And before he could fully register what had just happened, Qingfeng had already nocked two more arrows, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.