Chapter 122

The site of the campaign's second round.

The Ruins of the Adversaries.

Deep in the ruins' left sector stood a lobby that stretched far wider than any of the surrounding rooms.

Murals depicting warriors in battle adorned the walls—prayers for their safe return—while recovery-boosting inscriptions lined the edges.

In a ruin where fighting was constant, this was a space designed for combatants to rest—at least, that was its lore.

The corridors branching off in every direction all look nearly identical, and some of them loop back on themselves. Lose focus for even a second and you'll end up going in circles.

Tap.

That was when a single set of footsteps began drawing closer to the lobby where Mikhail waited.

Verte's, by all likelihood.

Mikhail kept his back pressed against the golden wall and greeted the person who'd just stepped inside.

"Hey, Verte."

The footsteps that had been hammering the floor in a frantic rhythm just seconds ago came to a dead halt.

Verte stood frozen at the lobby's entrance.

He sucked in ragged breaths as though he couldn't trust his own eyes, offering no response to Mikhail's greeting.

"……"

But the shock written across Verte's face was short-lived.

He locked his mist-colored eyes onto Mikhail's face and trembled—his pale lavender hair quivering at the tips.

"Senit. How long have you been here—and how did you even—!"

"I'll answer the first question. A while."

Mikhail cut through the furious barrage with a tone stripped of all emotion.

"And as for the second—I got some information from your teammates."

"…Teammates? Got information?"

"Not through conversation, though."

The instant Mikhail finished, Verte's eyelids twitched and his hands clenched into fists.

An accusation tore out of him, sharp enough to draw blood.

"Don't tell me—you. What did you do to them—!"

"Nothing."

Mikhail caught the question mid-flight with the same flat delivery as before.

A beat of silence dropped between the severed halves of the exchange.

Mikhail tilted his head back. Beneath slowly moving eyelids, his voice continued in a low murmur.

"I just made sure they couldn't come at me."

"?"

Verte looked caught—bewildered, thrown off balance. He mouthed Mikhail's words back to himself under his breath.

Then, with a sudden jolt, his shoulders stiffened and his eyes dropped urgently to the magic tool on his wrist.

[90pt]

The number sat frozen. Not a single fluctuation for some time now.

Verte swallowed hard, his face turning to stone.

His lower lip trembled, then he bit down on it. Wide, furious eyes locked onto Mikhail's face.

"You bastard. Another dirty trick—!"

Verte's voice erupted with raw fury, but Mikhail showed no reaction.

He had no intention of correcting the misunderstanding right now.

Mikhail pushed off from the wall, straightened his posture, and stood facing Verte from ten paces away.

FZZZT—

Erratic sparks crackled at Verte's fingertips. The mana that leapt from them was a clear, vivid sky blue—bright as a lake on a cloudless day.

"Yeah. Can't say I'm surprised. Mikhail Senit. How could someone as lowborn as you ever hold back your vile nature."

Verte's voice seethed, every syllable roiling with the turmoil churning inside him.

"Having every spectator watch me tear you apart piece by piece—that was supposed to be the perfect scene. But it doesn't matter. I've always known things don't play out exactly the way you want. Dragging your broken body out and standing in front of the observation tools with it will make for a fine scene of its own."

Mikhail said nothing. He let Verte's threats wash past him in silence, then posed a question of his own.

"One thing. Let me ask you one thing, Verte."

"Spit it out."

"Where does this fight in you come from? Is it because of what just happened—what I did to your teammates? Or is it something else entirely?"

Verte flinched. He glared at Mikhail, and the corners of his mouth went rigid.

The question had clearly caught him off guard—hit him like a blow he hadn't braced for.

"…Hmph."

But only for a moment. Verte wiped the crack of hesitation from his face and bared the same hostility as before.

"You call that stupid garbage a question? I've always wanted to destroy you in the most miserable way possible. What happened to my teammates was just one more fuse on the pile."

"……"

"So stand and face me. Right now. Don't you dare run or back away—fight me. If there's even a shred of pride left inside that pathetic head of yours—as a legitimate heir of the North, as a guardian!"

Mikhail stared at Verte in silence as the challenge rang through the lobby.

Verte's voice, reverberating like struck metal, was layered with more emotions than old bark had rings.

Long-held anger and grief formed the first layer.

Bitterness and resentment that had gnawed at him through years of suffering made the second.

And the joy—the savage elation of finally settling an ancient score—laid down the third.

By any normal measure, those feelings shouldn't have been able to coexist. Each one should have crowded the others out.

But not now. Every shade of emotion was tangled together into a single mass.

And not a single one of them—not one feeling, not one ounce of will—was anything less than genuine.

"……"

Mikhail pressed his eyelids shut and tightened his grip on the staff.

Behind lowered eyes, he weighed his best option.

If he considered nothing but optimal efficiency, there was no real need to fight Verte here.

His objective was singular.

Keep Verte contained—prevent him from acting as a variable that could create unexpected deviations in the main storyline.

And that… would be accomplished just by running the clock until this stage ends.

Whether it meant scattering Verte's focus with pointless conversation to eat up time, or exploiting the maze-like layout to toy with his movements before slipping away.

So all he had to do was follow the strategy. He hadn't the slightest doubt about its soundness.

And yet. Even so—

The scene from just before he'd found Verte surfaced in his mind.

[KA-CRACK!]

The ice wall he'd raised in front of the research institute's members had been unusually thick and cold. Dense enough that no ordinary heat could bring it down.

Back then… I ignored what they'd chosen.

Mikhail curled his frigid fingertips inward and closed his eyes.

But then he drew a deep breath, lifted his eyelids, and met Verte's stare head-on.

"Verte Fischer. If that's the choice you've made—I'll answer it."

A voice like marble accepted the duel. Blue mana flared across the surface of his eyes as he faced forward.

FZZT!

Verte took in the sight of Mikhail—hair whipping in the biting wind his own mana had conjured—and a fierce grin split wide across his face.

That was the last moment of stillness between them.

A massive sphere of mana materialized at Verte's fingertips.

WHIIIIRR—

Verte swelled the sphere's size at a rapid pace, all the while studying Mikhail's expression with care.

A duel between mages might look different on the surface, but the fundamentals that decided victory were the same as any fight.

Hide your own weaknesses until the very end. Identify the enemy's openings a half-step faster than they find yours. Seize the decisive moment and press the advantage with everything you have.

Which meant that if you wanted to exploit a moment when it mattered most, you needed to watch—to learn where and when the opponent's guard slipped, what made them waver, consciously or otherwise.

TSSSZT!

Verte's mana sphere grew by the second.

It swelled until it filled the space, radiating pressure—then whipped up a fierce wind that added menace to its mass.

Verte watched Mikhail across the gap and pulled the corner of his mouth sideways.

If he has any insecurity about his mana's quality or power, the moment he sees output that exceeds his own, he'll flinch. Even if it's only for an instant.

But Mikhail showed nothing. Not a single tremor, not one crack in his composure—even as Verte's sphere ballooned before him.

Whiiirr—

If anything, his stance said this much, I can match head-on. He simply raised his own mana to meet it, mirror-still and unflinching.

"……"

Verte let a deflating laugh slip in Mikhail's direction, then launched the sphere without hesitation.

KA-BOOM!

The two orbs of mana collided in midair and shattered into fragments.

Shards of blue light shrieked apart in every direction.

Verte was already preparing his next spell. He thrust his hand forward and slashed it through the air in rapid strokes.

No point showing all my cards this early. Let's test the waters with something moderate.

FWOOSH!

Four blazing flames ignited along the path Verte's fingertips had traced.

He aimed them at Mikhail's silhouette across the lobby and unleashed all four at once.

KA-KA-KOOM!

But the charging flames slammed into a massive barrier that erupted from the floor and went no further.

Hisssssss—

Steam billowed upward, filling the space.

The volley had come to nothing—but Verte didn't hesitate. He fired another round of flames in immediate succession.

Fsssh.

Same result.

The flames struck the frigid wall Mikhail had conjured, bled their heat against its surface, and died.

Hmm.

Verte watched Mikhail dismiss the barrier and let a quiet, thoughtful sound trail from his throat.

A barrier… Doing that has to cost more mana than intercepting each projectile individually. Does he lack the fundamentals of spell mechanics? Or is this a bluff—trying to seize the psychological edge early? …No, wait. If it's neither of those—

Then it was proof that he hadn't learned Expansion—the skill that allowed multiple simultaneous spell manifestations.

Seventeen. Well, considering his age, that's not unreasonable. Factor in his reputation as a washout, and it makes even more sense.

A loaded smile settled on Verte's face, and he squeezed his outstretched hand into a tight fist.

Whatever the reason, this is good news. One more card stacked in my favor. Even if I drag this fight into a war of attrition, the advantage is mine.

FWOOOSH!

Flames roared to life around Verte once more, hissing as they ignited.

Twice as many as the last volley—every one of them trained on Mikhail at Verte's command.

Verte kept his true thoughts hidden behind an easy expression.

Doesn't matter what happens—I won't drop my guard. Not for a second. I'll take every precaution to make the perfect picture I've been waiting for.

Meanwhile, Mikhail was watching the cluster of fireballs coiling around Verte.

FWOOOSH.

Multiple projectiles, conjured all at once in the blink of an eye.

Expansion—a spell Verte possessed and Mikhail had yet to acquire.

Expansion was one of the spells learned around the game's midpoint. By increasing the number of simultaneous spell manifestations, it boosted both a caster's offensive power and spatial control.

Its effectiveness was so reliable that every single mage class learned it without exception.

If I read the situation at face value, that's one more card stacked against me.

Mikhail clenched the hand hanging at his side and stared into the flames blazing before him.

"……"

Each time the crimson fire warped and flickered, the deep blue of Mikhail's eyes glinted cold against the contrast.

But the number of spells you can cast doesn't decide who wins.