SSS Rank: Spellcraft Sovereign-Chapter 100: Challanger (2)

"Gen," he said flatly.

"Good guess."

Lucen turned, phone half-lowered. "If this is about the rookie—"

"Oh, it’s about the rookie."

Lucen stayed standing. "Tell me he didn’t say my name."

"He didn’t."

Lucen blinked.

Then Gen added, "The chat did."

Lucen closed his eyes.

Gen sounded amused. "You’re trending in the drift bracket. Not your face. Not your spell list. Just ’the Ghost Tracer’—guy who melted the last match without flaring a rank tag."

Lucen didn’t speak.

Gen let it hang a moment longer.

"Rikta’s leaning into it," he continued. "Not saying your name, but talking like he wants it. ’If that support kid’s still out there, I’ll give him round two.’ Stuff like that."

Lucen walked across the room slowly, phone still at his ear. The window wasn’t open, but he could feel the city behind the wall. Breathing. Watching.

"He’s playing it smart," Lucen said. "No direct callout. No liability."

"No proof."

Lucen looked down at his desk.

The system pinged softly from the archive. Idle.

"He have a sponsor?" he asked.

"Unofficial," Gen replied. "Looks like a side fund. Could be guild-backed, could be corp. I’ve got eyes digging."

Lucen nodded once to himself.

Gen lowered his voice a hair. "You want this shut down quiet, I can reach out. Leak a spell. Smear the stream. Stage a throw match. Make him look worse than he is."

Lucen didn’t answer immediately.

He tapped the archive once. The interface bloomed open—spell slots, stats, mana pool. All humming quiet like they knew they weren’t needed yet.

He looked at the empty slot.

Then at the one labeled [Shockweave Bolt].

He said, "Let him talk."

Gen hesitated. "You sure?"

"I’ve got spell loops now," Lucen said. "Let’s give the camera something to film."

—

The apartment lights stayed off.

Lucen stood by the open system panel, the dim blue glow brushing his coat’s edge, reflecting against the glass desktop like a soft perimeter. His phone rested flat. Still connected. Gen hadn’t hung up yet.

Lucen spoke without looking down.

"You still there?"

Gen’s voice crackled faintly. "Still listening."

Lucen moved to the desk drawer. Pulled it open. No weapons inside. Just the matte recording device Gen had given him weeks ago.

Low-profile. No broadcast signature. Just clean resolution and a direct uplink to Gen’s vault. He hadn’t used it yet.

He turned it over in his hand.

Then set it on the desk.

Gen’s voice filtered in again. "What’s the angle?"

Lucen tapped the lens once. It hummed to life, green dot, silent cast-ready.

"I’ll give him what he wants," Lucen said. "But I’m not posting footage of a fight."

He stepped back, keeping the device square in front of him. No background setup. No adjustment to the light. Just Lucen, tired coat, torn sleeve, low shadows.

Gen was silent.

Lucen looked into the lens.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t posture.

He just started speaking.

His voice was level. Bored, almost. But precise.

"If you’re watching this, and you’re Rikta, you’ve been running your mouth."

He leaned forward slightly. Not aggressive. Just closer.

"I don’t care about your streak. I don’t care about your followers. But I saw my name in your chat. So now I care about that."

Lucen held the silence. The light from the panel reflected faintly off his eyes.

"I’ll make it simple. I’m not a duelist. I don’t care about rankings. But if you want to find out how fast your sword breaks when someone doesn’t play fair—"

He paused.

Then let the smallest twitch pull the edge of his mouth.

"—you can meet me in a sanctioned cage this weekend. You pick the arena. You get your stream. But when it ends, we both know what the footage is really for."

He stepped closer again. Not to menace. Just to remind.

"You get one cast."

He reached down and stopped the recording.

The device dimmed. No fanfare.

Just done.

Gen’s voice returned through the phone. Low. Admiring.

"You’re gonna ruin that kid."

Lucen shrugged, voice flat.

"He’s asking for it."

—

Rikta leaned back in his chair, one boot up on the armrest, the other heel tapping rhythm against the edge of the broken desk fan beside him. The studio lights were still on, three dull halos rigged to the ceiling corners, and the air smelled like old soda and spell-oil from last night’s dummy cast.

The room was messy.

On purpose.

Worn jackets over the green screen frame. Stickers half-torn from the control panel. Two unopened mana drink cans on the floor, deliberately framed behind him in the camera’s bottom corner. Branding, but not too obvious.

It all looked spontaneous.

It took him two weeks to plan.

"Views hit seventy-eight thousand," Vesh said from the corner, still watching the monitor. His voice was tight behind the gum in his mouth. "Replay’s looping. Chat’s crawling."

Rikta didn’t look up.

He knew.

He could feel it.

Even muted, the vibration of numbers climbing felt like a pulse under his chair.

"Push the segment where I clip the Ice Breaker swing," Rikta said. "Slow-mo. Label it: clean counter, no overcast."

Vesh nodded. "Done."

Rikta finally sat forward. Adjusted his collar. Checked his hair in the corner preview screen. Slight mess. Good mess.

Then the door pinged.

Rikta blinked. "Who?"

Vesh looked up. His expression shifted.

"Encrypted drop. Direct feed. No label."

Rikta frowned. "Play it."

Vesh hit the key.

The studio speakers clicked once. Then dimmed.

A screen unfolded.

Low lighting. Dust. Quiet.

A desk. No flair.

And him.

The guy from the clip.

No spell ID. No rank tag.

Just the coat.

And that voice.

Rikta straightened slightly. Boot hit the floor.

"If you’re watching this, and you’re Rikta, you’ve been running your mouth."

The room went silent.

No music.

No chat.

Just that voice.

No performance. No raise in volume.

Just cold, focused words. The kind that didn’t threaten, they assumed the outcome.

"You get one cast."

The video ended.

Black screen.

No outro. No watermark. Just off.

Rikta didn’t speak for a second.

He finally leaned back, hand tapping the desk. One, two, three fingers in slow rhythm.

Vesh stared at him.

"Rik?" freewёbnoνel-com

Rikta blinked. Once.

Then smirked.

"Clip it."

Vesh opened his mouth.

Rikta didn’t wait.

"Post it," he said. "With a reply."

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