The Final Match will be held on the Grand Colosseum, not VR Arena.

The Grand Colosseum was alive, a singular entity breathing with the roar of fifty thousand souls. Sunlight streamed through the crystalline dome, illuminating dust motes dancing in the electric air.

Banners of the Great Houses hung limp one moment, then snapped taut in unseen mana currents the next.

The energy was frantic, celebratory, yet underscored by a sharp, almost bloodthirsty anticipation.

This was the day the champion would be crowned.

High above the roaring stands, shielded by shimmering privacy wards, sat the true powers of the continent.

The private viewing boxes, usually reserved for visiting royalty or Academy benefactors, were filled today. Raffelo Blackthorn, Master of the Bliss Guild, watched with his usual impassive sternness, though his fingers drummed lightly on the armrest.

Beside him, his Vice Guild Leader, a sharp-eyed woman known only as 'Silas', leaned forward slightly.

Deiman Frostheart occupied his box alone, a figure carved from ice, his pale gaze fixed on the arena floor below.

Scark Stromfang had brought half his clan, their boisterous laughter occasionally audible even through the wards as they placed rowdy bets.

Arnab Lionheart sat stiffly, a portrait of noble stoicism, though the tension in his jaw was visible.

Martin Miller, Master of Ather Guild, observed with the cool detachment of a merchant assessing valuable assets.

Even lesser Guild Leaders and representatives from noble families crowded the adjacent boxes, all eager to witness the culmination of the Academy's brutal Mid-Term trials.

Down in the instructor's gallery, the mood was equally charged.

Evelyn Whitehound stood near the edge, arms crossed, her analytical gaze sweeping the arena floor.

Alastor Greythorn leaned back in his seat, a fierce grin splitting his scarred face – he looked less like an instructor and more like a veteran anticipating glorious bloodshed.

The other professors – Cedric Ironguill fiddling with a potion vial, Sara Everheart reviewing data slates,

Nathan Pendragon cracking his knuckles – all wore expressions of intense focus. Today wasn't just an exam; it was a live demonstration of their students' potential, a reflection of their own tutelage.

A figure stepped onto the central dais, distinct from the faculty.

He was younger, dressed in a sharp, commentator-style suit, a magically amplified microphone hovering near his lips.

This was Jian Kloss, a popular broadcaster known for covering major Hunter tournaments and Association events, brought in specifically to host the final match.

His charismatic voice boomed across the Colosseum, instantly silencing the chaotic roar.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Hunters, nobles, students, and esteemed guests from across the continent!" Jian's voice resonated with practiced energy.

"Welcome! Welcome to the heart-stopping finale of the Arcade Hunter Academy's First-Year Mid-Term Tournament!"

The crowd erupted again, a wave of sound washing over the arena.

Jian let the cheers build before raising his hands.

"We have witnessed incredible displays of power, strategy, and sheer will over the past few days! Thirty-two qualifiers entered, battling through subjugation, surviving the Labyrinth's terrors, and clashing in fierce duels! Now, only TWO remain!"

He paused for dramatic effect, letting the anticipation hang.

"But before we welcome our finalists, let us hear a few words from the venerable pillar of this esteemed institution, the man who guides the future heroes of our world – Principal Herald Crimson!"

Polite, respectful applause filled the Colosseum as Principal Crimson stepped forward.

He looked serene, his ancient eyes twinkling slightly as he surveyed the massive crowd. He didn't need amplification; his voice, though gentle, carried effortlessly to every corner.

"Students. Guests," he began, his tone warm.

"Today marks not an end, but a beginning. What you witness here is more than a competition; it is a glimpse into the future. These young warriors," he gestured towards the waiting area entrances,

"represent the fire, the resolve, and the potential that will safeguard our world in the challenging times ahead."

He smiled faintly. "Strength is honed through adversity. Alliances are forged in battle. Character is revealed under pressure. Remember what you see here today. Support these young souls, for they carry not just their own ambitions, but the hopes of us all."

He raised his staff slightly. "Let the final match be fought with honor, with skill, and with the unwavering spirit that defines a true Hunter! May the best warrior prevail!"

He stepped back, the crowd roaring its approval. Jian Kloss returned to the microphone, his energy levels somehow even higher.

"Thank you, Principal Crimson! Wise words for a momentous occasion! And now… the moment you've all been waiting for! Let's welcome our finalists!"

_____________________

[Waiting Area – Eric William]

Eric stood alone in the stark, stone-walled preparation room adjacent to the main arena entrance.

The distant roar of the crowd was a muffled beast outside his door. He wasn't meditating. He wasn't pacing.

He stood perfectly still before a full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of his immaculate white and gold tournament uniform – a custom design bearing the prominent William crest.

His reflection stared back, cold, composed, perfect.

The whirlwind of emotions from the past few days – the humiliation in the Labyrinth, the burning fury at ranking third, the intense pressure from his father, the strange satisfaction of mastering Stellar Parallax, the chilling efficiency of his victories over Selena and Maria – had been compressed into a single, unyielding point of focus: Annihilation.

'Wilson'...The name echoed in his mind, not with fear, but with a cold, focused hatred. The commoner who dared.

The anomaly who disrupted the order. The one who stands between me and my rightful place. His father's words resonated:

"Crush him swiftly, decisively. The William name demands nothing less."

He closed his eyes briefly, visualizing the fight. Wilson's speed. His unpredictable movements. That strange spatial technique.

The irritatingly effective ice and lightning. Tricks, Eric scoffed internally.

Flashy, desperate maneuvers from someone lacking true, foundational power. His own strength felt absolute, honed, perfected. Stellar Parallax was merely the sharpest edge of his arsenal.

He had faster strikes, more overwhelming light arts, the speed granted by his Wind affinity.

I will break him before he can even use his tricks, Eric vowed silently.

I will show the world the insurmountable gap between noble blood and common dirt. He opened his eyes, the blue irises gleaming like frozen stars.

There was no room for error, no tolerance for anything less than absolute dominance.

He wasn't just fighting for himself; he was fighting for the William name, for the established order, for the very concept of noble superiority.

'Failure was unthinkable.'

The heavy door to his waiting room groaned open.

A staff member bowed. "Young Master William. It is time."

Eric gave a curt nod, adjusted his cuffs one last time, and strode towards the blinding light of the arena entrance, his shadow stretching long and sharp behind him.

________________

[Waiting Area – Michael Wilson]

On the opposite side of the arena, my own preparation room felt less like a champion's chamber and more like a backstage holding cell.

The stone walls were bare, the only furniture a simple wooden bench. The muffled roar of the crowd felt distant, unreal.

I wasn't looking in a mirror. I sat on the bench, eyes closed, Draken resting across my lap. The dark blade felt cool, steady, its ancient presence a grounding force amidst the swirling chaos of my own thoughts.

My conversation with my parents yesterday replayed in my mind. Their worry, their pride. "Come back safe."

The weight of that simple request felt heavier than any tournament prize.

Then there was Denzo Smith, the Dawn Guild, the 3 billion Ren investment – seeds planted for a future I still had to survive to see.

Victor's excited babbling about market domination.

Alex's newfound determination. Leon's shaken but resolute gaze after our duel.

And Maria.

She had sought me out just moments ago, finding me here in the quiet before the storm.

She hadn't offered effusive encouragement or tactical advice. Instead, she had simply walked up, her expression serious, her pale blue eyes meeting mine directly.

"Michael," she had said, her voice low but firm. She reached out, not hesitating, and adjusted the slightly crooked collar of my plain black tournament tunic (a stark contrast to Eric's regal white and gold).

Her fingers brushed my neck for just a fraction of a second, sending an unexpected jolt through me.

"Eric William fights not just with power, but with the absolute conviction of his bloodline. He believes he is destined to win."

She met my gaze again.

"Do not let his conviction shake yours. Your path is your own. Fight your fight."

Then, before I could respond, she gave a single, sharp nod and turned, leaving as quietly as she had arrived.

Fight your fight. Her words resonated. She wasn't telling me how to win, but reminding me why I fought.

Not for a title, not for a weapon, not even just for survival. But to prove that destiny wasn't written in bloodlines. To carve my own path, using my own strengths – the strategic mind, the fused affinities, the unpredictable edge, the will forged across two lifetimes.

I opened my eyes, my gaze settling on Draken. The dark blade seemed to absorb the dim light, its draconic hilt pulsing faintly against my palm.

Eric had his Light Arts, his family's legacy. I had this – a weapon born of shadow and myth, a power awakening from slumber.

My mind felt clear, the psychic scars from the Labyrinth faded into the background, replaced by a cold, sharp focus.

As my Quantum Analysis Mind hummed passively, ready. Aura Dominion coiled within me, waiting for the command. Ice, Lightning, Space – volatile tools ready to be wielded.

The door opened. "Student Wilson. Your entrance."

I stood, sheathing Draken conceptually. I took a deep breath, the stale air of the waiting room filling my lungs one last time.

Then, I walked towards the light, towards the roar, towards the final stage.

***********

[The Arena ]

Jian Kloss's voice boomed, electrifying the Colosseum.

"And now! The moment we've all been waiting for! Introducing our finalists!"

Spotlights converged on one entrance tunnel.

"First, hailing from the most prestigious lineage in the Empire! The undisputed heir of the William Family! Master of Light and Wind, whose speed dazzles and whose power annihilates! The man who aims to reclaim the pinnacle! Give it up for the third seed, ERIC WILLIAM!"

Eric strode into the arena, bathed in golden light. His white and gold uniform seemed to blaze. He didn't wave or smile.

He simply walked to the center, sword materializing in his hand, his expression one of icy, absolute confidence. The noble sections of the crowd roared their approval, chanting his family name.

Jian let the noise swell, then raised his hand.

"And his opponent! The dark horse! The anomaly! The student who rose from obscurity to shatter records and defy expectations! He wields ice that freezes despair, lightning that cracks defenses, and shadows that move faster than thought! They call him the Uncrowned King of the First Year! The Commoner King! Please welcome, the top seed, MICHAEL WILSON!"

I walked out into the blinding sunlight, my plain black tunic a stark contrast to Eric's brilliance. No family crest adorned my chest.

No ancient legacy paved my way. The roar that greeted me was different – less unified than Eric's, a chaotic mix of cheers from commoners and lower-ranked students, surprised applause from some neutrals, and a stony, resentful silence from the noble factions.

I walked to the center, stopping ten meters from Eric. Draken materialized in my hand, its dark presence absorbing the bright sunlight, a silent challenge to his radiant blade.

We stood facing each other, the calm eye of the storm. Light versus Shadow. Legacy versus Defiance.

The final battle was about to begin. The weight of the world pressed down, but in that moment, all that mattered was the opponent before me, and the fight to come.

(To be continued)

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.