CHAPTER 27: A SHATTERED PRIDE

The world filled with burning light and roaring sound.

The miniature sun in Chris’s hand detonated. Not a beam. Not a wave. A spherical, expanding nova of pure, solar plasma. The ultimate expression of the gauntlet’s power. An attack designed not to defeat, but to annihilate.

The crowd cried out. A collective scream of terror and awe. The instructors slammed their hands on the emergency controls. A shimmering shield appeared, its dome straining against the immense, destructive pressure.

Chris stood in the eye of his own hurricane. A triumphant, god-like figure. A cruel, victorious smile on his lips. He had done it. He had erased the Rankless trash from existence.

He was wrong.

A figure moved within the glowing storm of fire.

A silhouette. A distortion in the flames. A dark shape that was not being consumed. It was pushing through.

Edward was running on a razor’s edge of pure, agonizing survival.

The moment the fireball detonated, he had embraced his corruption.

He didn’t unleash a skill. Or a monstrous transformation. He did something more subtle. More dangerous. He drew upon the corrupted 5% of his soul.

The foul, dark energy from the Cursed Soulblade. He pulled it to the surface. It covered him like a thin, shimmering cloak of pure corruption.

Not a shield. An insulator.

The holy, righteous fire of the sunstone was anathema to the dark, unholy energy. The two opposing forces met. They repelled each other. A micro-millimeter of metaphysical space opened up between the inferno and his skin.

The pain was still unimaginable. The blast hit him like a speeding train. The heat was so fierce it burned his lungs, and blisters formed on his skin. His uniform turned to ash. But the core of his being, protected by that thin, profane layer of darkness, remained intact.

He endured.

He burst out of the firestorm, like a vengeful ghost born from the sun itself. His skin was scorched red. His hair was gone. A cold, terrifying light burned in his eyes.

Chris’s triumphant smile vanished. Replaced by a slack-jawed expression of pure, uncomprehending horror. He had used his ultimate attack. He had unleashed the full power of a legendary artifact. And the boy who should have been a cloud of vaporized atoms was still standing. Still coming.

Edward was inside his guard.

The grand, world-ending power of the Gauntlet of the Sunstone was useless at this range. It was designed for artillery. Not for a knife fight in a phone booth.

Chris, his mind blank with panic, tried to throw a clumsy punch. A move of pure, animalistic desperation.

Edward didn’t dodge it. He flowed with it. He ducked under the swing. His left hand shot out. It caught Chris’s wrist. Not to stop it. To guide it. To lock it in place.

Simultaneously, his right hand, holding the Shadowfang Dagger, moved with a speed that was a blur.

The whispers from the dagger were a frantic, ecstatic chorus. Guiding his every strike. Pointing out the vulnerabilities. Not of Chris. But of the artifact.

...The primary power conduit, beneath the wrist joint...

Edward’s first strike was a precise, surgical stab. The tip of the black dagger found a micro-gap in the gauntlet’s articulated plates. He slid the blade in. Just enough to sever a glowing, golden wire of magical energy. The flames wreathing Chris’s arm sputtered and died.

...The stabilizing rune cluster, on the forearm...

His second and third strikes were a rapid, two-pronged assault. He used the flat of his dagger to shatter the runic circle on the gauntlet’s forearm. The air around the artifact shimmered and destabilized.

...The core. The gem. Shatter the heart...

Chris, his mind reeling, looked down just in time to see the final, devastating attack. Edward spun. He brought the pommel of the Shadowfang Dagger down like a hammer onto the massive, glowing sunstone gem.

The sound was not a loud boom. It was a sharp, high-pitched crack. Like the world’s largest diamond being split in two.

For a single, silent moment, the sunstone gem held. A spiderweb of fine, black fractures spread across its surface. Then, with a final, mournful hum, it imploded.

The explosion of power was not fire. But pure, uncontrolled magical force. A shockwave of golden energy erupted. It blasted both of them backward.

Chris was thrown across the arena like a ragdoll. His arm, trapped in a piece of ornate dead metal, bent at a sickening angle. He hit the ground in a heap, his S-Rank pride, his legendary weapon, and his very consciousness breaking all at once.

Edward was also thrown back. He twisted in the air. Absorbed the impact with a practiced roll. He landed on one knee. His body was a screaming symphony of burns, bruises, and sheer, soul-deep exhaustion.

He had won.

He pushed himself to his feet. Each movement was an act of supreme, agonizing will. He walked across the sand. His bare feet sank into the still-hot glass. He stood over Chris’s unconscious form.

The arena was utterly silent. The crowd, the instructors, the Headmaster—all of them stared. Their minds were unable to process what they had just witnessed.

They had seen a boy walk through an inferno. They had seen him, with nothing but a small, black dagger, dismantle a legendary, S-Rank artifact. They had seen a Rankless piece of trash defeat their academy’s brightest star.

Edward looked down at Chris. He could kill him. One quick motion. And no one would have the courage to stop him. The thought was a cold, tempting whisper from the darkest corners of his soul.

But he didn’t.

Killing Chris would be an act of passion. Of vengeance. He was beyond that. Chris was no longer a rival. No longer a threat. Just a defeated, broken boy. An insignificant obstacle that had been removed. He wasn’t worth the effort. He wasn’t worth the soul.

Without a word, Edward made his dagger dissolve into a wisp of black smoke. He turned his back on his defeated foe. On the silent, staring crowd. On the entire system of power and prestige that had just been so thoroughly discredited.

He began the long, painful walk out of the arena. His solitary, scorched figure was a stark, terrifying silhouette against the smoldering, ruined coliseum.

As he walked, in the highest seats of the VIP section, a group of high-ranking nobles watched. Their faces were not of shock. But of cold, calculating fury. They had just witnessed a peasant topple a prince.

A crack in the foundation of their power structure. One of them, a man with cold, cruel eyes and a familiar family crest, gave a subtle signal to a shadowy figure in the alcove behind him.

The duel was over.

But a new, far more dangerous plot against the "Rankless upstart" had just been set in motion.