His insides churned in turmoil, Chaos surging through his veins like a relentless storm. He could feel it moving, an untamed force racing through his body with ferocious speed—the raw, unbridled might of a primal predator. It shredded through every external influence within him, annihilating all foreign interference.
The process made movement agonizing. His body burned in several places, searing with an unbearable heat, and a maddening urge clawed at him—he wanted nothing more than to submerge himself in an ocean of freezing waters.
But this was Chaos.
It had claimed his body just as the Void had claimed his soul.
The two primal forces had reached a strange, tentative compromise, coexisting in an uneasy truce. For now.
And that was a good thing.
Because it granted Northern certain boons—such as this, for example.
He stood there, his expression strained, unmoving. None of them had moved since the fight had been announced.
Uron, the boy before him, simply stood with his hands behind his back, exuding an air of confidence. He was convinced, perhaps even assured, that Northern would still fall under his control.
Northern thought about it for a moment and frowned.
’Isn’t this basically murder?’
That was exactly what it was.
Perhaps not directly—he didn’t know what would truly happen to his soul. Would he lose consciousness forever? Would he remain aware, trapped inside his own body, unable to act?
Whatever the outcome, it was grim. And worse, Uron had slipped it in while Northern had been focused on another opponent.
That, more than anything, annoyed him.
Uron was a coward. A fool with no honor in battle.
He despised people like that the most. People like Braham.
Yet, he wasn’t foolish enough to let sentiment cloud his judgment.
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Cowardly or not, Uron’s tactics would have ensured his victory against any strong opponent.
’...Just not me, I guess.’
Yes.
Uron was simply unlucky.
Because he was fighting Northern.
And nothing else.
His yellow hair fluttered, it’s tail dancing as the wind suddenly picked up, yet his expression remained neutral, patient.
But something was shifting beneath that facade—a slow, creeping confusion. Subtle, almost imperceptible hints of uncertainty flickered across his face, breaking through his otherwise impassive look.
It made sense.
He should be confused.
By now, Northern should have been on the ground—writhing in agony, or worse, a hollow husk as hundreds of thousands of consuming insects devoured him from within.
Yet the strange guy was still standing.
The coliseum stirred with murmurs, whispers giving way to louder jeers.
"I came here for blood, not a dramatic pause!"
"At this rate, the dust is fighting harder than they are."
"Somebody throw a rock at them, see if they’re awake."
Someone actually did. Maybe not a rock, but something. It didn’t make it into the arena.
Neither of them reacted.
They simply stood there, locked in a silent standoff.
A dozen seconds passed.
Then, Northern finally exhaled, a strange calm settling over him.
Chaos had dealt with every last insect in his body, consuming them like a merciless predator. And now, he felt good.
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Refreshed.
Uron’s eyes flickered with unease. The moment Northern’s posture shifted—his expression smoothing into something almost… relaxed—anxiety coiled around Uron’s throat like a vice.
Why wasn’t he falling?
The ability should have taken effect by now. It always worked.
Yet, nothing.
This had never happened before. Not once in all his history of subduing people.
Northern finally moved, stretching his arms overhead before bending side to side, working out the stiffness.
"Hm. Alright," he muttered. "Looks like my body’s back in shape."
Then, he fixed Uron with a nasty glare.
"Now we can begin properly."
Uron didn’t even get the chance to process the words.
Northern was already in front of him.
A blur. A flash of speed so quick, so instantaneous, it ripped a collective gasp from the coliseum crowd.
Uron’s eyes barely widened before—
A fist slammed into his face, twisting his head viciously as his body launched backward.
He flew—tumbling through the air like a ragdoll—before crashing into the base of the coliseum with an unforgiving, bone-rattling impact.
And that was it.
The bastard was out cold.
Northern slowly withdrew his fist, flexing his fingers, frowning slightly.
’I think I might have put too much power into that blow.’
He was a bit angry, after all.
The crowd stood in stunned silence, eyes fixed on the motionless body of Uron. It was clear they had all expected him to stand back up—after all, every student knew him. Wicked. Dangerous. Strong.
Surely, he wouldn’t be the easiest opponent to defeat.
Northern hadn’t landed a hit on either of his previous opponents, yet they had still forced him to display his might—even if it had been overwhelming and, to some degree, for show.
But this one?
This opponent hadn’t even made him flex.
All it took was impossible speed. And a single blow.
Disappointment rippled through the coliseum.
Students who had once held Uron in high regard now wore expressions of disbelief, even dismay. His family representatives sat frozen in the audience, their faces unreadable. The citadels that had set their sights on recruiting him watched in silence.
For now, all attention was focused on one person—the black-haired student with blue tints, clad in a black and white uniform.
Northern.
The announcer stepped onto the stage, his voice booming, amplified by a spell-crafted microphone.
"The winner of this match—Rian Lael!"
A roar of mixed reactions erupted from the stands—cheers, murmurs, even frustrated shouts.
Meanwhile, his other team members climbed onto the stage.
Typically, there should have been four of them, but only three had been allowed to participate in the battle. A last-minute decision by the instructors. They wanted the fights to progress faster.
Northern, after merging back with his clone, found himself puzzled by the sudden urgency.
Why the rush?
It hinted at something. A deeper knowledge. Perhaps the instructors knew something about what was happening.
But he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it.
He had other things to deal with.
Lithia was calling.
It was still a strange sensation—being able to extend his consciousness across hundreds of miles, existing in two places at once.