SSS Rank: Spellcraft Sovereign-Chapter 107: Battle (1)

Lucen’s boots pressed into the floor. Solid contact. Not smooth, just gritty enough that he could feel the pattern of the arena beneath him. Composite stone, reinforced. Probably etched with light mana-locks to keep excess blast friction down.

The glyph wall finished sealing behind him.

The hum kicked in.

Low. Constant.

He didn’t need to look at Rikta.

Not yet.

Instead, Lucen rotated his right shoulder once. Slow. Let the tension stretch out.

Across the cage, Rikta cracked his neck twice, rolled his wrists, and smiled like someone about to win a bet he didn’t even place.

"Crowd’s hot," he said, voice just loud enough to carry across the ring. "Hope you don’t mind playing the opening act."

Lucen looked at him for the first time. Briefly.

Then replied, "You talk too much."

Rikta grinned wider. "You gonna be this charming the whole time, or just ’til you hit the wall?"

Lucen flexed his fingers once. The mana trace flared faint, subtle. Already charged.

"Let’s find out."

A flat chime echoed.

Not a bell. Just a tone. Neutral. Final.

Fight time.

Rikta moved instantly.

No pause. No buildup. No testing the range.

Just a blur of coat and steel lunging forward with all the confidence of someone who’d never once lost momentum and never been punished for it.

Lucen didn’t blink. He didn’t even flinch.

He whispered [Threadmask].

The illusion shimmered left, baiting the first swing clean. It was fast, clean enough to sell the fake, not flashy enough to raise suspicion.

Rikta bit immediately. His blade cut through empty space, and the feedback glyphs on the arena edge buzzed once as if registering contact that never happened.

Lucen was already sliding low in the opposite direction.

He fired [Shockweave Bolt] as his knee grazed the ground.

The arc cracked outward, tight angle, chest height, and clipped Rikta center-mass. It didn’t knock him back.

But it made him stutter. The jolt hit his frame like a slap to the ribs, enough to break his stance and split the timing of his follow-through.

Lucen was already moving again.

Two steps forward, left foot turning in sharp. No overcommit.

He whispered [Soundlash].

Point-blank.

The shockwave cracked like a short, sharp explosion in a concrete alley. Concussive mana warped the air in a tight cone. The floor hummed. The aftersound rolled through the cage like pressure chasing a punch.

Rikta staggered.

No stumble. Just the kind of wobble that ruined clean strikes. His jaw clenched. Shoulders hunched too tight. His eyes snapped back toward Lucen with a flash of frustration, brief but raw.

"You’re fast," Rikta said, voice ragged, breathing already upticking. "But you’re soft."

Lucen rolled his right shoulder once and didn’t look at him.

"Soft doesn’t get you to twenty."

Rikta didn’t respond this time.

He came in again, harder.

More vertical this time. Overhead slice, two hands on the grip. Speed and strength pushed together. It wasn’t wild. It was clean. But clean didn’t mean controlled.

Lucen shifted his stance and cast [Frost Spire].

The spike erupted from the stone just in front of his left leg, angled high, timed to catch the edge of the incoming blade.

Ice slammed against metal, shrieked with friction, and splintered like a shattering bone.

Rikta didn’t fall.

But he hesitated.

Lucen didn’t.

He dipped right and back. Just enough.

Then cast [Draft Bound].

The air bent.

Not visually. Not loud.

It just changed.

A subtle but deadly ring of compressed wind sealed into a six-meter dome around them both.

Not visible to the naked eye unless you looked just wrong, like seeing heat off a rooftop or reflections in a warping mirror.

Rikta noticed.

He turned his head, mid-movement, eyes flicking to the space beyond Lucen’s shoulder. His expression faltered. One second too long.

Lucen saw it.

The dome locked their movement. You could still dash, still charge, but the vertical ceiling and outer wall pushed back against attempts to leap or reposition wide.

It killed footwork patterns. Turned every angle into a tight loop.

Exactly what Rikta wasn’t trained for.

The swordsman hissed between his teeth.

"I see it now."

Lucen stepped forward again. Not casting.

Just walking.

"Then adjust."

Rikta answered with a thrust, not a slash this time. Fast. Linear. Mid-level jab toward Lucen’s centerline. A stab meant to discourage, not finish.

Lucen sidestepped.

Minimal motion. One-half rotation.

He whispered [Ignition Burst].

The firebolt snapped out, tight spiral, low-slung angle, just behind Rikta’s extended leg. Not to hit.

To force posture.

The spell burst on impact with the wall. The pressure rippled back. Rikta had to shift weight or take the blast in the hip.

He turned.

Lucen waited.

A flicker ran through Rikta’s eyes. The kind of flicker that said he was starting to hear the rhythm and not like it. His stance dropped slightly. The sword dipped just a fraction lower.

Then, he feinted.

A left-hand twist, sudden. He brought the hilt up for a fake shoulder bash, something to close space.

Lucen didn’t cast.

He moved.

Hands dropped to his sides. Not passive. Ready. Like a wire about to spring.

Rikta came in.

This time with real weight.

Lucen let the first step come. Let the shoulder close. Let the sword tilt in, slightly low—

Then he whispered [Burn Logic].

The glyph snapped crooked through the air, jagged, angry, like someone drew it while falling down a flight of stairs.

The fire didn’t form a bolt. It looped. Unstable, wobbling through the air like heatstroke hallucination.

Rikta’s eyes tracked it. Wrong move.

The spell burst, not at him, but above and behind, sending a jolt of panic through his system. He turned, flinched, shielded his face—

Lucen spun forward and rammed a shoulder into his chest.

It didn’t hurt him.

But it moved him.

Rikta hit the inner edge of [Draft Bound] and rebounded like he’d slammed into air wrapped in rubber. The impact broke his angle. He hit the ground, back first, rolled with it, sword scraping a line behind him.

The crowd outside roared.

Lucen ignored it.

He didn’t chase.

He just stood at center.

Let the ring fade.

[Draft Bound] dissolved without a sound.

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