(Hey Author here!! It's been too long since we had action, so I wrote this one on the fly last night! Going to refine it later, so if you come back and things have changed, just remember take the gist of the battle to memory, okay! Also, let me know what you think, no one comments, and if you read this far I'd appreciate it!!!)

  Fear trickled down Jan’s spine. A full tumultuous emotion of pure fear.

  “That’s right you heard me correct!! Two of Kag Academies' finest mages and a handful of our finest troops will be facing off against the defender of Arlon, Corrector of Cities, Jaen of the Arlon, Ilen Plentix!!!!” the announcer continued to roar.

  “This is our thirty-sixth fight of the evening and welcome to a final knockout showwwdooowwnn!!!” another continued.

  Blaring drums and music cascaded through the air like an avalanche assaulting their ears. The two staggered forward. It was clear that infected guards and officials wouldn’t let them anywhere near the exit. Disoriented, they tried to find their ground. Jan instantly ran for the wall only to find himself partly rappelled back by the slamming force of the arena’s enchantments. He knew in his heart he could break through the field, but it would take time.

  [Greater Wa…….

  The spell was interrupted by Aloat’s shouts.

  “Relax.. We’ll get out of this mess. Why don’t you tell me how this “Master” knows you by name Jan? Also, those traitors are going to pose a bigger problem than I thought.”

  Then she turned her head to gaze into the crowd. Her eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, imbued in eternal fire.

  “Block party!!!! Our class holds an annual block party?! I’ve been here for seven years!! How come I’m never invited?!!” Aloat shouted on the top of her lungs.

  She pointed like an angry cactus to the paraphernalia of purple banners, snacks and multi-coloured streamers that surrounded their classmates in a splattered pi?ata. Jan could make equi-distant eye contact with Professor Filt and the others, but further inspection only revealed an eager gathering that seemingly yearned to see both of them utterly pummelled. Two classmates, Ivanu and Alpo gorged on roasted duck, seemingly having the time of their lives while a horde of bullies, distant acquintances and former group project members watched with curious expressions. Milo, a friendly classmate of Jan and Laura, waved sheepishly and gave a weak smile over the roar of the crowd. Professor Filt himself was practically drowning in gambling tokens and paper transcripts, likely having wagered his house on Jan’s imminent demise. Hundreds of thousands of noblemen, guards, merchants and peasants watched the game in a stupor of boredom. Outside the city was on its deathbed, Paxter rallied an army to stave off a horde with little more than broken knives, Laura was struggling to perfect a miraculous task, and here officials dined and laughed like pigs in swine.

  It was a putrid irony. The people would die ignorant and entertained.

  “That's your problem? The block party!!” the scribe wheezed.

  Aloat took a moment to pause and squint her eyes.

  “Relax, they can’t kill us here. It’s against arena rules…..Wait Jan! They’re drinking Laula! Eating spiced pumpkin!! Is that chocolate?!! I don’t understand, I’m popular Jan? Aren’t I famous? I should have been invited! We should have been invited!!”

  Aloat was shouting ontop of her lungs now. She seemed calmer and was almost in her element while she shrieked orders at those above and below. Jan turned twice to squint towards the sandy arena floor. His hair stood on end. He was yet to see the Jaen and for now the arena was completely empty apart from groaning wounded and tufts of broken rock.

  “What do you think the “Master’s not going to break house betting rules? Aloat, we’re about to fight a guy whose nickname is servant of god!”

  The statement sobered her up, but she continued to meticulously heal the now defensive veterans who crowded Jan’s side.

  “What’s the plan?” Jan asked slowly.

  She seemed to joke and make light of the situation, but still held the master’s letter in her hand. Aloat muttered to herself slowly while tracing the letters. She completely ignored the cries of the arena above. Jan tried to wave down an official who instantly spun around and even mocked them with snide expressions from his position thirty feet above the colosseum wall. The infection was either widespread or customer service was at an all-time low.

  “I don’t know, I’m thinking,” Aloat retorted.

  [Lesser Healing 35]

  [Wound-Meld 36]

  “The fight will begin in thiiiiiirrtttyyyyy seconds!!!” the announcer roared.

  For a moment, the entire chamber shook, dust trickling from columns as even more roars echoed from the ceiling's compartment. Jan could feel the floor shift, countless interlocking plates fabricating a novel terrain. Forests, ships, mountains and fields could all be painstakingly replicated in astounding detail by the building's century-year-old enchantments. From the jungles of Naur to the streets of Kag, the vast amphitheatre was a masterstroke of the empire's power. They say it had cost almost an army to create, and from its prime, it had claimed the lives of a thousand more. Jan could recall his first visits with Irwain. Brutality mixed with primordial re-enactment and fielded by the power of gods. Soldiers trained for every possible situation to ever dawn the Empire’s stretching borders, warriors competing for coin, hunters tracking some of the deadliest animals in the world to stake glory into their bloodied names. Now it took a simpler form, interlocking pillars marked each corner as a sandy mesh caked the contestant’s feet. A ten-foot wall separated the crowd, and ward enchantments ensured not a single drop of blood exited the ring.

  The citizens above were distanced from the brutality they entertained.

  Then they saw the Jaen.

  Uncharacteristically, Aloat turned pale.

  “And nowwww, with an estimated survival time of two minutes, let the warm up round for the Jaen begin!”

  Right now was a situation where the two of them had to fight a warrior so legendary half the continent considered him to be a household name. That was including households that didn’t have access to newspapers, town-criers or any form of inter-communication; his feats were so grand and incalcuable the rumors practically apparated like a backyard fungus. There were homeless trolls living in mosquito-bogs that could probably list Jaen's top ten combat moments like scripture.

  Sill probably would have said something like “You can take him Commander Jan, Did you know your predecessor once killed 34 daliouses with a sharpened rock? Granted the planet was still in pubescent phase so the daliouses were more large lizards and there really wasn't much to use besides rocks!”

  However, for the first time in weeks Sill’s enthusiastic shouts were out of reach and only the silence of Aloat’s screams came into view. She flapped her hands to get the attention of a lowly citizen-official who looked down on them petrified from a viewing box above. He gripped the edge of the deck with his own tunic flapping in the windy air like a tattered flag.

  “Ladder!! You get me a ladder now, open these doors!!! This city is under siege!! I’m a Sheriff of Kag, you hear me!!”

  “Ladder!!!!!!!”

  It was no use. The man ignored them either through ignorance or infection. Filt and the others smiled when they saw Jan and Aloat scramble like tumbleweed on the sandy arena ground. Only Milo gave them a curious thumbs up. The entire crowd booed and laughed at their presence. A contingent of scribes from Jan’s library practically shook their ledger,s eager to see his downfall. Noblemen from his youth and Irwain’s courts were intrigued to understand the Consul’s limits and wouldn’t mind a little blood to show them how. Others watched in anticipation yet cast distasteful glances in the scribe's direction. It was an insult to their power, a disgrace that he would even stand in their presence. A soft-handed child, thinking he could stand up to hardened veterans. This even worse than the time Jan had accidentally burned down the rune of archalis or when he had made all those pies into chicken and chickens into pies. He saw the snide face of a nobleman from the old quarter who had dined with Irwain several times in Jan’s presence glow in utter satisfaction at the prospect of seeing the scribe bleed. Respect, and admiration meant nothing to his cursed name. Peasants cheered and jived at the idea of being able to witness a seemingly pampered elite knocked down to oblivion. It was clear from the tone of every jeer, shout and body movement, the crowd hated them and absolutely adored the Jaen.

  The Jaen was something new.

  All sixty thousand spectators stifled their cries at Ilen’s sight. The red-haired warrior stood like an imposing statue in the windy breeze. His face was like iron tempered out of lesser steel, hardened by the sights of a thousand wars. The few distasteful shouts were subdued by the slightest glance of his emerald eyes and the way he stood with his feet planted like trees into shifting ground. They all knew his purpose, and recognized the terror of his shining blade. What had once been rumours of the street expounded into tales of ecstasy and horror. Newspapers brought a glimpse of his extraordinary feats into their dull husk-filled lives. The mere word of the Jaen’s achievements was both a force of incalculable propaganda and absurdity that a single line had more colour than the lifetime of thousands. Pride, agony, and fear of imperial instability were driven into their beating hearts.

  Standing firm amongst the arena’s blowing sands he grasped his sword in anticipation, chalky grey armour glinting in the scattered sun. Arlon priests lined the arena’s walls, saluting for a moment before exiting into the building's shadowed halls. They did it out of both respect and fear. Every inch of his muscles tensed as his veins itched, waiting to react. The crowd above roared as Ilen watched a soldier close the entrance to the lower causeway, face sombre as the iron door sealed the contestants inside.

  There was no time to react. No time at all.

  The two shivered when they saw Jaen's face curl. A warrior from Brathen lay bleeding on a stretcher. The doctors paid no attention to Jan or Aloat but we’re barely keeping him alive with a never ending supply of healing draughts and pilfered herbs. Jan recognized the man’s swelled bruise of a face, he was a famous archer of international renown. The warrior had trained the nation's archer force and invented over sixty spells. He had lasted barely thirty seconds.

  “Aloat, I’ve got a plan,” the scribe coughed.

  “We’re going to fight him? That's a terrible plan? The master just wants us to waste time, we need to reach Irwain!!” She responded before he could even speak. Her own tongue twisted and tied in anticipation.

  Both of them were tremendously nervous.

  “Can you let me finish? I can use a flight spell to reach Irwain’s viewing box! The veterans should be fine and we can cancel the match once we get up there! Grab onto me and we can jump now!”

  She nodded but seemed confused.

  “Can you reach that?” Aloat muttered curiously.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Her finger traced the air in a cautious motion. Irwain’s box was like a tiny speck of ant-dust in the distance. It was like Jan saying he could leap half a city in one fell swoop. With no time to argue, the scribe hugged her and in seconds the two leapt forward, flinging themselves into the crisp air. Then they realized they had made a terrible mistake.

  Nothing ever comes too easily in life.

  “The Kag academics make their first move and it’s an instant reaction!!!”

  [Windcatch 500]

  Ilen responded. The Jaen practically posed in his crisp, shining armour. Not a single drop of blood tainted the warped steel even after an afternoon of fighting. With one swift flick he tensed forward and slammed both of them into the arena floor. Gasps and nods of approval came from the crowd. A five-hundred-tier spell was extremely impressive. It was easy to tell based on both the feats accomplished and the fact any decent magical observer could practically taste the wisps of mana stretching through the air. A small contingent of professors had set up a device to capture the field and project an estimated kilo-levi number. Ilen muttered to himself slowly. The scribe had been planning something. He was easily defeated, but no one all day had made Ilen move so fast.

  The clerics behind smiled with every tick of the magic-measuring device.

  “That’s a spell equivalent to levitating a whopping five hundred, one kilogram rocks simultaneously!!” the announcer whistled.

  While the portable version was more expensive and modern than most inventions, the magical measuring device had become a staple of power-scaling with clerics astoundingly watching the numbers tick up. A cleric even shouted out in excitement when the device measured past two fifty kilograms with Arlon priests quickly converting the mana measurement into cultivation units for Ilen’s own appreciation. Few outside of archmages could perform anything higher than eight-hundred without ritualistic aid. The Jaen’s five hundred was a very commendable number. Still the crowd knew the caliber of the warrior present. They were eager for something higher.

  It was devastating.

  Jan felt a rib crack and instantly used [Lesser Healing 30] to jam the ligaments back into place. Sand filled his mouth with a mixture of blood and ash clinging to his lungs. He turned to see Aloat was still curled in a ball. She grasped her own sword tightly, healing a laceration that crept across her arm like a thin red wire. She looked like she would surely die if hit with one more strike but her resolve was stronger than most.

  “You okay?” She mouthed with her lips, spreading blood.

  “It looks like our Consul has bit the dust!! An astounding ten-seconds!! Still that’s far better than most we’re expecting. I don’t think any of us have seen him use magic once!!!!!”

  “To be fair Aloat Barka, one of our finest was also….”

  The old Jan would have run away. He would have slunk into a ball of sand and hid. The new Jan didn’t let them finish.

  He had a city to save.

  [Pummel 983]

  The crowd above watched in complete awe.

  They gaped and stood to watch the Jaen fall a hundred feet backwards. Aloat too watched in awe. The veterans of the pit stood tall.

  The ticker kept going higher with the clerics shouting at the top of their lungs. It wasn’t record-breaking but it was enough to make Filt drop his gambling book onto a bald peasant’s head by accident and several noblemen spat out their wine in shock.

  “I don’t believe it!! I don’t believe my eyes! Our Consul just performed a spell worth 983 kilograms levitated simultaneo…”

  “983.4!!! Kilograms of levitation!! That’s……………”

  Jan’s unseen speed led Ilen to barely have time to react. The Jaen's instinct kicked in and he drew energy from the planet, sifting what he thought would be his last breath as a wall quickly formed. Jan smashed through it with in an instant and slammed into his chest. Hard. For the first time in six months, not since five thousand Arloni guards cornered him in a single hallway, Ilen was on the defensive. Pain shattered his once sublime existence. He was knocked to the ground, armour split, chestplate bent in half as his mail flaked like snow into the ground on a hot summer's day. It was enchanted and some of the finest steel the Arlon could muster and it had melted like butter. It had been a gift from his mentor, a man who had turned him street urchin to servant of kings. Now it was nothing. He wheezed, vision blurry for now.

  Confusion laced his every move.

  Three of Jaen's ribs were cracked. But he was no soldier of glory; he was a soldier of war. He knew how to deal with pain. He wasn’t expecting this. Perhaps this day would turn interesting.

  Jan stepped forward.

  “Look, we can't fight…the city is under….”

  [Punch 400]

  Ilen didn’t stop to hear him. His ears rang, his leg hurt, his shoulder popped out and his ankle felt broken. But one thing held him up. Honor was his very name, he had a legacy to maintain and the scribe’s power wasn’t something he couldn’t deal with, it had simply caught him off-guard. If he failed today the Arlon would have him running border-postings for seven winters. It would bring dishonour to an entire nation and be equivalent to spitting in the eyes of gods.

  He was ready.

  “You’re more impressive than I thought Consul, you would be wise to join our ranks when this is over” Ilen shouted over a broken tooth.

  Jan mouthed to speak but was quickly overpowered.

  [Slash 830]

  [Burn 845]

  [Windslap 700]

  Brushing towards Jan’s fist, he tried to stab at the scribe's neck, doing anything to slam into his head and knock the scribe out. Still Jan healed, but this time he swiped back to dodge a [Burn 843] and teetered towards [Airburn 834]. The clerics started to look utterly confused. Gambling wagers and betting odds flickered like disturbed ponds. The crowd roared in entertainment. Today was a day that wouldn’t be forgotten. These types of spells were sustainable. Ordinary mages felt like ants watching the gods traverse a world they would never hold dear. Typically battle-mages only had around 2000 kg worth of mana in them on a given day. Right now the magic of ancients was being spent like paltry dimes in a gambling den. Ilen coughed. Sure he had lost his armour but this was exciting. The consul was proving himself to be a formidable opponent. Even more, he was yet to encounter anyone his age who could not only cast such magnificent spells but cast them well. Ilen however fought more tactfully, blocking more of Jan’s punches and strikes as he shot lightning from his own hands. It was terrifying, a singular bolt, almost six meters wide causing air to smoulder and the ground to condense in moisture. It was clear he was dealing with a prodigy however, Ilen had years of battle experience to his name. He had killed almost every monster on this planet. He had hunted every type of game, humans, ratlings, mages, trolls, dragons. He didn’t just practice, he learned.

  “How high can you go?” the Jaen shouted. He was taunting Jan now, almost curious in his half-awake state to see what the young mage could do.

  The Jaen however had made a critical mistake.

  The Jaen was operating under principles that what he fought was human. That he was sparring with a natural creature who had the same lived experience, tribulations and trials that moulded him into a fearsome warrior. He was operating under a sane man’s principles in an insane world. Sometimes learned experience doesn't matter. Practice made perfect but sometimes on the off occasion, it could be outright smothered by talent.

  Sometimes quantity was a quality.

  The master watched his weapon with utter glee.

  [Flame-Harper 3100]

  Hell landed on the arena floor.

  The Jaen’s eyes widened. The crowd was flabbergasted. The entire block party was standing up now in confusion and sheer terror. The guards on the arena floor, even the imposter westerlings stood with shivers on their backs. Milo was jumping up and down. Ilen barely had enough time to tuckroll out of the scribe’s way before a tornade of flames turned an entire column of the arena into ash. The Consul seemed to leap upwards, once again trying to go into the air for no apparent reason. It looked like he was trying to flee but given what had just transpired Ilen instantly assumed he was going for an aerial advantage. The other one, Aloat Barka, started shooting [Flame 300] towards the Jaen. She would have made an entertaining opponent but she was nothing but fodder compared to the scribe infront. She was what the Jaen expected, studious, imperfect and cocky not this monstrosity. Ilen could feel the heat against his brow, ash clinging to his skin as his eyes closed on instinct. A crater marked where the priest had stood, clumping mounds of earth piled high as the Jaen’s mangled body lay scattered like reeds among a winding river. Still he got up. It was magnificent, a beam so bright the sun paled to it’s everescent glow. Heat blistered from Jan’s palm as he felt fatigue seep into his soul.

  The Jaen watched in shock, still catching his breath as the scribe walked forward. Magic crackled from Jan’s feet, a torrential current of power so large, Ilen had to resist the urge to flee.

  Danger.

  For the first time in his entire life, that was the first and only emotion Ilen felt. Danger.

  He had felt it before but this time it made no sense. He felt like the child he had been when he first arrived to Kag, helpless and insecure. He felt like the old Ilen who had hid in hay-bales to avoid street gangs and dined on whatever scraps a beggar could afford. His heart pounded, it reversed, it screamed to run away from the creature of a scribe that attacked infront. He had slain titans that elicited less sheer terror.

  [Smack 30]

  Ilen’s face darkened. This was insane. He was being toyed with, the prodigy was insulting him with a move like that? His face went pale, heart shaking as he saw the mage step forward. Prophetic thoughts flickered through Ilen’s mind as he could barely comprehend the events unfolding. His mouth sat in awe, his face stuck in confusion. The world seemed to twist, swirl, weave around Jan’s body as his eyes shone with a light so white it seemed impossible. He hadn’t sparred with someone this powerful since Wei assassins marked his head months ago. Even then those were quickly dealt with, mages often considered glass cannons with their stamina and defense sacrificed for precision attack.

  [Defend 30]

  [Defend 300]

  [Ice-wall 600]

  Ilen blocked his sight with his gauntleted hand. The master watched from the infected eyes of a nobleman and was laughing now and cackling at the beauty of his own creation. It cherished the taste of a vine of grapes and smiled like a proud father. For the first time in his life, Ilen was actually starting to get worried he might lose. That was until his heart started to remember what life was like before he got these scars. He remembered the dirt that once clung to his fingertips, the pain of seeing his only brother die starving over a lump of gruel.

  “I don’t know….What is happening right now? Can I believe my eyes?” the announcer roared.

  Ilen knew what was happening. He couldn’t let himself be beated by a pompous noble-born. He hadn’t come this far for nothing. He had bled, killed, spared and sacrificed too much to be stopped at the door. Aloat ran forward and slashed him with her own sword, the Jaen parried and then slammed towards Jan.

  [Black-burn 4100]

  “4100.5 on the kilo scale!!! 4100.5 kilograms of mana!!!!!!”

  This was a day history would remember. Oil and ooze stretched from the Jaen’s sword as tendrils seeped up from the ground and slammed into Jan’s chest. The clerics invigilating the fight looked on in pure glee. He felt blood catch his lips and waited eagerly to see if the scribe could surpass his power. Only adrenaline kept him awake now. They were sparring at archmage level. It was a mortal wound. This would surely kill the prodigal child if he didn’t repent and submit to Ilen’s feet now. The entire arena shook with Ilen’s strike, grape bowls and fruit in the spectators' boxes started spinning like thrown discs.

  Jan however, had to admit he was having the time of his life.

  That is, we’ll if you count a very bruised face and broken bones as a great time. However sparring with a Jaen was infinitely cool. Sadly, this mean’t he was woefully unprepared for the [Black-burn 4100].

  He took the hit hard. The blade slid straight into the scribes chest. It hit his liver, part of kidney, and his gallbladder. It went clean through and blood splattered everywhere. Jan felt his fingers go numb as the tendrils letched from the sword onto his feet, he was losing. He had to do something, anything. Aloat ran to his aid. She cast [Fireball 300], briefly distracting the Jaen and using the free time to slice at his thigh, still it was too late.

  “And it looks like the Consul is going down!! This is………….” the announcer roared!

  Jan held onto consciousness by mere straws. Then his mind fixated on something extraordinary.

  [Healing 300]

  [Summon Impervious 3000]

  It was insanity.

  “Three-thousand mana!! Three thousand mana!!!!!!”

  The two made the mages of the audience look like peasants with parlor tricks.

  Ilen heard a clang from below. Then another and another. The scribe had summoned something. Not created, summoned, it was being dragged to them as they spoke, but what? What on earth could he be dragging that required ten thousand kilograms of mana? The bleeding scribe smiled. The Jaen was confused, eliciting that kind of power should have left the consul as a bleeding subform, an unhuman whisp of a skeleton clinging onto dear life. Right now he was fine. The crowd roared. They we’re certainly being entertained.

  Then he felt it. Ilen too smiled in an instant. The scribe was an idiot and had made a fatal mistake.

  The scribe had summoned a watcher.

  A rock came out of nowhere, it smashed thirty bricks from the colosseum's walls streaking at lightning speed towards Jan’s head. Many in the audience wondered where it had been sourced. The scribe too questioned what government building or administrative headquarters now sat with a craterous hole but these were questions for later times. He dodged, cat-like reflexes causing the projectile to slam against his robe however he was too late. Rubble caught his arm and the mage fell back, he could feel the bone break, pain shooting into his head.

  At this point Jan was simply surprised he still had bones to break.

  The watcher’s effect went in place.

  Magic left the arena floor.

  Ilen smiled while he took his final seconds of magic to heal his aching bones. Then once the stone had truly dissipated any allure towards the planet he stood tall. His mind slowed while he slipped over tactics. Time was precious and the scribe wasn’t an opponent to be underestimated; he had chosen this for a reason. Surely the princeling had made a terrible mistake? Even if he had the swordfighting skills of academic elite, the Jaen was a veteran of creed. When the mana went dry, and fatigue rolled over a mage in the battlefield, it wasn’t luck that kept you alive it was skill. In the defence of the Arlon against five thousand traitorous guardsmen, the Jaen had broken thirty swords for a reason and it wasn’t with whisps of mana formed into parlour tricks. He had shattered those swords on bone. He had killed Dalious with nothing but a sharpened rock and fought in the presence of watchers in nearly every war.

  Ilen staggered forward and raised his sword. Without mana he seemed simpler, more rough and coarse around the edges but his constitution mirrored the statues which lined the colosseum’s lofty pillars. He turned to spit sand from his mouth that clotted on the ground below. Blood mixed well with the orange rock.

  Ilen raised his sword ready to strike. It wasn’t a killing blow but it would surely incapacitate the scribe infront.

  Lightning met his fist.

  It was an action that caused all sixty thousand spectators to stare in open shock. Filt, Milo, Ivanu and Alpo, Elder Patrich, the entire conglomerate of nobel elite, generals, merchants, peasants, shoe-shiners and market-sellers all looked like they we’re about to faint. The crowd went silent. No one reacted, no one uttered a single word. Shock clung to the air so thick Aloat could cut it with the swipe of a sword.

  The clerics at the measuring booth simply blinked. Their entire understanding of the working world was turned upside down while the device failed to register a single click. One elder cleric practically collapsed. An Arloni abbot had to steady himself against a knobby old cane else fall to pieces on his chair. The Master laughed behind stolen eyes. A cat meowed loudly, water-droplets shot back up to the ceiling, even pieces of fried duck in Filt’s hand recognized the significance of the moment.

  Watcher’s blocked magic. It was how life worked. It was like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. The sky was blue, ratlings were evil, water had to be drunk.

  Today, for all of their information, the scribe was preforming magic.

  He soared.

  Jan’s eyes lit up in a fluorescent blue. Fire laced from his palms to cake the Jaen’s feet in a blanket of light. Then as would a god unto it’s solemn world Jan seethed as the clouds above began to gather. Grey wisps caught the air as lightning shot down from the heaven to slam into the sand. Then he grabbed Aloat by the waist jumped to Irwain’s box.

  Ilen stood there on the ground, not defeated, but useless and abandoned.

  He stood there, mouth open, confused and uncertain but needed in the upcoming war.

  Then he knelt as would a servant to a god.

  Aloat and Jan touched down on the spectator box.