CHAPTER 2: THE TOP NOTCH ACTION - PART 3
A hush, thick and expectant, fell over the amphitheater as Rocky returned to the center of the ring. The roar had died to a low, electric hum. He stood opposite his final opponent.
Elara (Arcane Fencer). She was a study in controlled grace. Silver hair tied back in a practical yet elegant braid, eyes the color of a calm sea. She wore light, silver-blue enchanted leathers that shimmered with defensive runes. In her hand, she held not a heavy greatsword or a clunky staff, but a slender, perfect estoc—a thrusting sword with a triangular blade, its guard filigreed with arcane circuitry that glowed with a soft, blue-white light. She was the Academy's golden child, the aspirant from a lineage of legendary Mage-Knights, expected to win with effortless superiority.
She regarded Rocky not with Bolas's contempt or the others' wary calculation, but with pure, analytical curiosity. She offered a small, respectful nod, which he returned.
The referee, looking more harried than ever, stepped between them. "Final match! The rules remain! Begin!"
The gong sounded.
Elara did not move. She simply raised her free hand, fingers weaving a swift, intricate pattern in the air. [Cast: Arcane Lattice]. A geometric grid of shimmering force, like a giant honeycomb of light, materialized across the entire dueling ring, from wall to wall, about three feet off the ground.
Rocky recognized it instantly. A control spell. The lattice wouldn't hurt him, but passing through any of its hexagons would trigger a feedback pulse—a [Minor Shock] that would sap stamina and disrupt muscle control. It was a cage. She was dictating the terrain, limiting movement, turning the open ring into a treacherous maze. It was a brilliant opening move against a mobile opponent. Against his heavy, stamina-drained self, it was potentially crippling.
His mind raced. Stamina: 8%. Shield: Damaged, mana-dispersal lattice offline. Weapons: Longsword, one pistol with 12 rounds (standard), no more tricks in the bag. Opponent: Magically shielded, faster, with ranged options.
He couldn't afford a single misstep. He had to win fast, or not at all.
Elara moved. Her footwork was a blur—[Featherfoot] enchantment. She glided over her own lattice as if it were solid ground, the estoc held in a classic fencing line, its tip aimed unerringly at his heart. She thrust. Not a physical lunge, but a [Magic Missile: Blade Channel].
A bolt of condensed arcane energy shot from her estoc's tip, homing in. Rocky raised his scarred shield. The bolt struck. Without the lattice to disperse it, the impact was purely kinetic and concussive. BANG. The shield held, but the force drove him back a step onto one of the lattice's hexagons.
ZAP! A jolt of paralyzing energy shot up his leg. His muscles seized for a half-second. Stamina: 6%.
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move, to get off the hex. Elara was already repositioning, firing another [Magic Missile], then another. They came in quick succession, forcing him to block, to shuffle, to constantly risk the deadly floor.
He was being herded. Played. He was a beast in a trap, and she was the hunter picking it apart from safety.
He couldn't reach her. He couldn't shoot through the lattice without triggering it. He was losing, and he had seconds of operational stamina left.
Then, he saw it. A pattern. Not in her movements, which were fluid and adaptive, but in her spellwork. The [Arcane Lattice] was a sustained spell. To maintain it over such a large area with such precise trigger conditions required constant, minute mana channeling. Her left hand, the one not holding the estoc, was subtly flexing, her fingers making tiny adjustments. The estoc's glow pulsed in time with the lattice's shimmer.
It was her focus. Her control mechanism.
An idea, desperate and razor-thin, formed. It would require perfect timing, his last reserves of strength, and a sacrifice.
He stopped retreating. He planted his feet, ignoring a hexagon brushing his heel that sent a fresh jolt through him (Stamina: 4%). He raised his shield and took the next two Magic Missiles full on, the impacts pounding him like a drum, but he held his ground.
Elara paused, gliding to a stop about twenty feet away, her estoc held ready. She was analyzing his sudden stand. "You have courage," she said, her voice calm and clear. "But your endurance fails. Surrender with honor. You have proven much."
Rocky said nothing. He let his shield arm drop slightly, as if weary. A calculated show of weakness.
Elara took the bait. She wanted a clean, decisive end. She gathered mana, her estoc glowing brighter. She was preparing a stronger, single shot—an [Arcane Piercer] designed to puncture his damaged shield and end the fight.
This was the moment. Her focus would be at its peak on the attack, her control of the lattice momentarily secondary.
As she thrust, the concentrated beam of blue-white energy lancing toward him, Rocky moved.
He didn't try to block it.
He threw his shield.
Not at her. Downward, with all his remaining strength, onto the hexagon of the [Arcane Lattice] directly at his feet.
Technique: [Improvised Creation] / [Grounding Rod]. The shield, a mass of metal and composite, was conductive. It slammed onto the magical force field.
The lattice, designed to shock living tissue that passed through it, was not designed to have a large, grounded object forcibly bridge its energy matrix.
A catastrophic short-circuit erupted. The hexagon under the shield flashed blinding white. The feedback raced through the connected matrix of the entire lattice. For a split second, the beautiful, controlled spell raged, energy arcing wildly between hexagons like a lightning storm in a cage.
Elara's eyes went wide. Her [Arcane Piercer] beam, halfway to Rocky, flickered and distorted as the backlash hit her sustained spell control. She gasped, her left hand clenching in pain as the magical feedback scorched her channels.
The lattice collapsed in a shower of harmless sparks.
Rocky was already moving, a final, desperate burst of adrenaline-fueled speed. He drew his longsword and charged, not with skill, but with pure, linear intent. He was inside her effective magic range now.
Elara, stunned but not beaten, recovered with elite reflexes. She parried his clumsy overhead chop [Falling Mountain] with a sharp clang of her estoc, the magical blade holding firm against steel. She riposted instantly, a lightning thrust [Void Pierce] aimed for his shoulder.
Rocky twisted, but not enough. The estoc's tip grazed his armor, but more importantly, the magic channeled through it discharged. [Shocking Touch]. Electricity coursed through him.
He screamed, muscles locking. Stamina: 1%. He was on the verge of blacking out.
But his charge had served its purpose. He was inside her guard. As the electricity subsided, leaving him trembling, he did the last thing she expected.
He dropped his sword.
It clattered to the ground. Elara blinked, her perfect form faltering for a micro-second in confusion.
Rocky's right hand, now empty, shot forward—not in a punch, but in an open-handed grab. He caught the blade of her estoc, just below the guard.
The crowd shrieked. He was disarming himself completely!
His palm was instantly cut to the bone by the monomolecular-sharp magical edge. Blood poured. But his grip, fueled by [Iron Will] and the last dregs of his strength, was a vice. He wasn't trying to take the sword. He was anchoring it. And her.
Elara tried to pull back, to free her blade for another thrust or a spell. She couldn't. He was leaning his entire weight into it, the blade slicing deeper into his hand, a grisly lock.
Her left hand came up, fingers glowing for a point-blank [Arcane Blast] to his face.
That's when Rocky's left hand—the one not currently being filleted—moved. It disappeared under the torn cloak near his chest and reappeared holding the SIG Sauer P226 from his shoulder holster. He had never drawn it in the tournament. It was his last, hidden card.
He didn't aim at her. He couldn't. Their bodies were too close, entangled. He angled the muzzle downward, pointing at the floor near their feet.
He pulled the trigger. BANG.
The sound, explosively loud in the confined space, was a physical shock. Elara, a noble-born mage-duelist used to the elegant clash and hum of magical combat, was utterly unprepared for the visceral, concussive BANG of a 9mm round fired next to her leg.
She flinched. A massive, instinctive, full-body jerk. Her concentration shattered. The glow died on her left hand.
In that split-second of stunned disorientation, Rocky released her blade, his right hand a bloody mess. He drove forward, his forehead aiming for her nose in a brutal, close-quarters [Headbutt].
He pulled the impact at the last second. His forehead connected with a solid thunk, but not with bone-breaking force. It was a control strike, a distributor of momentum.
Elara stumbled backward, dazed, her nose bleeding, her estoc dangling loosely.
Rocky followed, his left hand—still holding the pistol—shot out. He didn't strike her. He pressed the hot muzzle of the SIG against the delicate runework on her leather breastplate, right over her heart.
The world froze.
Elara stood, blinking away tears of pain and shock, feeling the hard, circular pressure of the gun barrel. She looked from his blood-soaked, determined face to the weapon, then to her own estoc, held uselessly at her side.
The message was clear. In a real fight, at this range, her magic was too slow. This primitive, loud, ugly tool would have punched a hole through her runes and her heart before her next spell syllable was formed.
The elegant duel was over. Replaced by something raw, ugly, and brutally effective.
A single, perfect tear traced through the blood on her cheek. It wasn't just pain. It was the shattering of a paradigm.
She let her estoc fall from her fingers. It clattered on the stone, its magical glow winking out.
"I yield," she whispered, her voice trembling.
For a long, agonizing three seconds, there was no sound but Rocky's ragged, wheezing breath and the drip of his blood on the arena floor.
Then the referee, his face pale, raised his hand.
"WINNER... AND TOURNAMENT CHAMPION... ROCKY!"
The amphitheater did not erupt. It detonated.
The sound was a physical wave—a cacophony of screams, cheers, stomping feet, and disbelieving shouts. It was chaos. The underdog, the Jobless, the walking armory who had shed his armor and won with a discarded shield, a bloodied hand, and a single pistol shot, had done the impossible.
Rocky staggered, the world swimming. He holstered the pistol with a clumsy motion. He looked at his mangled right hand, then at Elara, who was being attended by a healer. He gave her a slight, weary nod of respect. She stared back, her sea-colored eyes holding not hatred, but a deep, troubled awe.
Pro Hunter Vance was the first to reach him, catching him as his knees finally buckled. "Easy, kid. Easy. You did it. You crazy, brilliant, stupid bastard, you did it."
Elder Elara descended from the box, her presence parting the crowd. She stood before the collapsed Rocky, her gaze inscrutable. She raised her hands for silence, and gradually, the noise subsided to a throbbing hum.
"Aspirant Rocky," she said, her voice echoing in the sudden quiet. "You have won the Tournament of the Muster. By tradition, you may claim a boon from the Academy's armory, or a favor from the Council."
Rocky, supported by Vance, looked up. His voice was a dry rasp. "My shield. The Crafter, Rika. She needs it back. To study. To improve."
A murmur. He asked not for a legendary weapon, but for the return of a loaned, damaged prototype.
Elder Elara's lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile. "It shall be returned to her. And she shall be compensated for its loss. But the victor's boon remains. Choose."
Rocky closed his eyes, then opened them, the gray flint hard again. "Access. To the restricted stacks of the Academy library. The histories. The records of... unusual classes. And failed ascensions."
A deeper silence. That was not a request for power, but for knowledge. Dangerous knowledge.
Elder Elara studied him for a long moment. "The library's doors will be open to you, Champion. But knowledge has its own price. Remember that."
She turned to the crowd. "Let it be known! The champion of this muster is Rocky, of the Jobless class! Let no one ever again say that classification defines destiny!"
The cheers began again, but they were different now. Mixed with the excitement was a new, pervasive note of… fear. And speculation.
As healers descended to tend to his hand and his exhaustion, Rocky's mind, even in its fog, was already turning. The tournament was over. He had a foothold, a title, a sliver of respect.
But he had also made powerful enemies (Bolas's rage was a palpable force from the sidelines), intrigued dangerous allies (Vance's glee was almost worrying), and exposed a fraction of his unorthodox methodology to the entire power structure of the Academy.
Most importantly, he had his library access. The path to understanding his own condition—and the "footnotes of failure" that Elder Elara had spoken of—was now open.
The victory was sweet. But the cost was written in blood on the arena floor, in the smoldering crater of his destroyed gear, and in the dazed, paradigm-shattered eyes of the prodigy he had just defeated.
The Jobless Hunter had arrived. And the real hunt—for answers, for power, for a place in a world that denied him a class—was just beginning.
[CHAPTER 2: THE TOP NOTCH ACTION - END]
[NEXT: CHAPTER 3 - THE FLASHBACK OF THE LEGEND]