CHAPTER 135: CLASH OF CHAMPIONS BEGINS

The crowd gasped—then erupted in cheers, thrilled by the promise of a wild, unpredictable match.

Suddenly—Aslan lunged forward, blade pointed straight at Darian like a spear.

Darian’s brown eyes lit up, earthy glow shimmering from his irises. A thick brown aura engulfed his body.

Stones rose from the platform, floating and orbiting him like satellites.

Then—his feet sank into the platform itself, merging with it.

He was rooted. Unmoving. Unshakable.

Aslan’s sword came slicing toward him—

CLANG!

With a sharp movement, Darian deflected the blade sideways, the metallic clash ringing across the arena.

Aslan stumbled, the unstable raft-like surface betraying him.

He tried to regain footing, but—

BOOM!

A colossal stone shield smashed into him from the side.

Aslan flew, tumbling like a rag doll across the arena. His body slammed into the golden barrier with a resounding thud.

The crowd roared, some rising to their feet.

Riven blinked—vanished—and reappeared right in front of Darian’s extended arm.

SLASH!

His daggers sliced across Darian’s forearm, sparks flying as steel met enchanted armor. The cut landed, but much of the force was absorbed.

Before Riven could pull back—

CRACK!

Darian’s elbow smashed into Riven’s face like a falling meteor.

THUD!

Riven staggered back several steps, nearly slipping on the unstable, swaying platform. Blood dripped freely from his broken nose, trailing down his lips.

His face twisted in pain, eyes watering, breath sharp.

Clutching his face with one hand, he glared at the mountain of a man still rooted to the raft, unmoving—like a fortress in a storm.

The crowd gasped—two of Veylor’s strongest had already taken hits in the opening minute.

Across the platform, Aslan groaned, pushing himself up from the cracked golden barrier. Dust clung to his armor.

He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and took a shaky breath.

The umpire jogged over, sharp eyes scanning him.

"Will you be able to continue?" he asked firmly.

Aslan nodded, voice hoarse but steady:

"Yes."

The umpire gave a sharp nod. "Okay."

Aslan stepped forward. His eyes had changed—no longer light or relaxed.

They were sharp.

Like an animal had awoken.

Aslan stepped beside the Earth Dragon.

"Sir Riven," he said calmly, "you cross the column. I’ll handle this one."

Riven nodded, eyes still fixed on Darian. He readied himself, waiting for the opening.

Aslan moved forward, his steps light and quiet, as if he was walking on air.

The raft wobbled beneath them, but his balance remained perfect.

Then he lunged.

Leaping high into the air, his sword flashed, aimed straight at Darian’s neck.

Squelch!

The blade sliced across Darian’s upper right shoulder, drawing blood. Darian’s eyes widened from the impact.

He growled under his breath,

"Sword attack... Blink!"

Aslan landed on the swaying platform, momentum forcing him into a roll. He rose to his feet in a single motion, still slightly off-balance.

He clicked his tongue, annoyed.

"Tch. I missed it."

But the opening was made.

Riven didn’t hesitate. He darted forward, crossing into the second column, followed closely by Lyra and the rest of the attacker team.

Tina stood tall, her crimson eyes burning like a Fire Dragon’s fury.

One hand held her gleaming katana, extended outward with deadly poise.

Her muscles tensed, abs glistening with sweat beneath her red tank top, droplets falling on the stone beneath her feet.

Arms wide, she balanced effortlessly on the unstable, wobbling raft-like platform—like a sailor long used to rough seas.

Riven’s eyes narrowed.

He muttered in frustration, "Was the Rebel team always this strong?"

Beside him, Lyra struggled, her feet slipping slightly as the platform swayed. She tried to anchor herself, but the constant motion made it nearly impossible.

She moved with the platform—up, down, side to side—fighting for every step.

Riven scanned the space around him.

Not sealed.

He moved quickly toward the edge of the second column, eyes focused.

Then—he blinked, vanishing into the void to cross over.

But the moment he entered—

A chill struck him.

His body tensed.

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

He tried to escape—too late.

From within the void—

A red blade flashed.

SSSHHHSSS!

A sizzling burn echoed.

SQUELCH!

The sword pierced clean through his thigh.

"ARGHH!!"

Riven tumbled out of the void, rolling on the ground like a child tossed in a storm.

Blood poured from his leg, staining the white platform red. He clutched at his wound, eyes wide and watery from the sudden pain.

He’d made it to the third column, but barely.

Tina’s glare followed him, sharp and unforgiving. Her focus returned to the others.

Gritting his teeth, Riven pulled a high-grade healing potion from his ring. He uncorked it and drank fast, the warmth surging through him, sealing the wound as the pain began to ebb.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

Just then—

The platform tilted sharply to one side.

Cheeky Brat slid down, riding the incline like a board, arms crossed casually as he drifted to a stop beside Riven.

He looked at him with a mocking grin.

"You cry like a kid?" he said.

Riven’s violet eyes snapped open, seething with fury.

He stood, hands gripping his daggers so tightly it looked like he’d slice the air itself.

But the Cheeky Brat just lay flat on the platform, chuckling as the raft tilted back and forth.

"You really are something," he laughed. "A Veylor clan heir... crying like a little kid?"

Then, he slowly opened his eyes—smiling darkly, voice dipping into a whisper:

"Wait, wait... You’re not even a true heir, right?"

Riven froze. His eyes widened in shock.

He stumbled backward and landed hard on his rear.

What...? How does he know?

Panic flooded his mind.

Does he know this isn’t my body? That I’m not originally from this world? That I was... reincarnated?

No—no, no! That can’t be possible... right?

But how could he know I’m not the true heir...?

Does he know about Alex?

No one knows... No one should know...

He clutched his head in both hands, pulling at his hair, sliding from side to side as the platform rocked beneath them.

The Cheeky Brat slid alongside him, hands behind his head, humming casually as if they were enjoying a day at sea.

The crowd gasped. Murmurs spread like wildfire.

Riven Veylor, heir of one of the strongest clans—unraveling before their eyes.

His fans, especially the girls, looked on in horror.

Many were already chewing their nails, whispering in desperation:

"Please help Sir Riven... please, please..."

Others scowled, glaring at the thin boy next to him.

"Kill that bastard! He’s messing with Riven’s head!"

And then—

[UMPIRE ANNOUNCEMENT]: "15 minutes remaining."

The booming voice cut through the stadium like thunder.

Riven’s eyes widened.

He suddenly stood, fists clenched, breathing heavily.

"What am I doing?" he growled. "Why am I thinking about all this garbage?"

The Cheeky Brat sat up, arms behind him, gazing lazily at the sky.

"Hey, Umpire!" he shouted. "You interfered! Isn’t that a violation? No interference rule, remember?"

Riven’s glare turned murderous.

His eyes locked onto the brat like he’d tear him apart.

The boy smiled and raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright. You can go. Or... you want to stay and have a deep, emotional talk?"

Gritting his teeth, Riven turned and stepped into the fourth column, the fury burning behind his eyes louder than the cheers around them.

Earlier, in the second column...

Lyra slid from one side to the other, her feet guided by swirling water elemental energy around her boots.

The platform beneath her swayed, but she glided like a dancer on waves.

At the center stood Tina, unmoving—like a red statue of wrath and control.

The umpire’s announcement echoed overhead:

"15 minutes remaining."

Tension surged.

The Veylor members panicked.

Two of them jumped too soon, trying to escape the tightening pressure of the column.

Tina’s eyes flared crimson.

FLASH!

She moved like lightning.

SLASH! SLASH!

Her katana gleamed midair—and two screams followed.

"ARGHHH!!"