NAIDEL’S POINT OF VIEW (POV)

The air in the royal training field crackled, not with residual lightning, but with a tension thick enough to taste. Knights and guards, who had erupted in cheers for Theria’s swift victory, now murmured in confusion. On the ground, outside the stone dueling ring, healers tended to a coughing Runo, whose pride seemed more bruised than her body. Inside the ring, Theria stood tall, brushing dust from her tunic with an air of practiced indifference. Her gaze, however, was locked on the viewing stands, her expression a mixture of triumph and disdain. She raised a hand, her index finger crooking in a silent, insolent summons. A challenge.

Directed at me.

I watched from the sidelines, my expression unreadable. I had only come to check on Runo’s progress, having no official instructor and thus no reason to be on the training field in my casual attire. But this... this was an invitation I couldn’t refuse.

This girl needs to be taught what exactly happens when she messes with the great me, a flicker of annoyance stirred within me. I descended the steps and walked toward the ring, my pace unhurried and filled with grace.

I don’t want to admit it, my thoughts continued as I ascended the steps to the ring, but what she just did against Runo was impressive. She has high-level judgment for a hot headed girl, which is why I’m not quite sure I can take her. The irony was galling. I, the former apex of existence, was hesitating.

I’ve long since mastered every form of human magical profession — even evolved some into more powerful arts and created new ones — all while polymorphed as a human. After all, that was the only way to perform those techniques.

Therein lay my current problem. I used a specific polymorphed alteration of an adult human, as some of the arts required intimate knowledge and synchronization of one's physicality to the mind and mana system. Now that I’ve reincarnated into a growing human body that can’t be altered, I have technically lost all my achievements in those professions. My secret nightly training sessions were a desperate attempt to bridge that gap — to synchronize the vast combat experience in my mind with the unfamiliar vessel I now inhabited. Of course, it’s going to take me years to adapt, but I’m making progress. Now to see if that progress is enough to defeat this female brat.

I made a decision. I’m going to use the same battle mage art as Runo to teach her how it should be done. Normally, one can only use an art based on their elemental affinity, but that human logic does not apply to me. My world mana allows me to use all elements.

Before the fight could commence, it was essential to revise my millennia-old understanding of the combat arts.

The combat arts weren’t just about raw power; they were about a combatant’s evolving understanding of their mana system, their body, and the fundamental principles of their chosen art. Integrating these three pillars was the key to evolution. The more synchronized they became, the stronger the combatant — allowing them to ascend to the next stage of their profession.

Magic combatants, like Theria, integrated elemental affinities to boost their combatant stage.

A knight instructor, serving as referee, stepped forward. “Are both participants ready?”

Theria’s smirk widened — a sharp, predatory expression. “More than.”

I simply nodded, my face a mask of placid indifference.

“Fight!” the referee yelled, leaping back from the ring’s center.

The referee’s yell had barely faded before Theria exploded into motion. She crossed the distance in a powerful surge, her body alight with a dense, crackling aura. There was no tentative probing, no testing of defenses. She charged me with the full force of a Combat Expert. The air crackled around her.

So that’s her level, I thought, my mind processing the visual data with extreme calmness. The aura is potent, integrated directly into her physiology. The mark of a Combat Expert. She's far beyond a novice who can only manage a simple Mana Sheathe.

Her first attack was a right jab — impossibly fast. I tilted my head a fraction of an inch, the blow slicing the air where my temple had been. She spun into a leg kick, and I took a single step forward, inside its range, letting it sweep harmlessly behind me.

My own body, after my secret nightly training, has only reached the level of a Second-Rate Combatant. I can manage a basic sheathe and a kinetic mana burst on impact — nothing more. A vast gulf in raw power separates us.

She unleashed a furious combination, each strike backed by the full force of her station. This was the difference a mana weave made — a permanent enhancement of her physical abilities. And yet... she was predictable. She relied on power, not insight.

She is a Combat Expert, I mused while effortlessly evading her storm of attacks. I was once a Combat King when I transform to my human altered form as a dragon — the pinnacle of combat and its related professions, a being whose very will could distort the battlefield. This body may be weak, but the knowledge... that remains.

Two stages separate us. But that does not determine a fight’s winner. Factors like experience, superior art, refined circle, advantageous environment — all can give the weaker person an edge.

Her second wave of attacks began with a left jab, aimed straight at my face. It was impossibly fast — a piston of mana-clad knuckles that should have connected before I could even register it. Yet, I tilted my head a mere fraction of an inch to the left. The blow sliced through the air where my temple had been a microsecond before, the wind from its passage ruffling my white hair.

Without breaking her momentum, Theria spun into a sweeping leg kick aimed at my head. The mana sheathe around her shin glowed intensely, promising a shattered skull on impact. Instead of leaping back, I took a single, short step forward — inside the kick’s optimal range. The attack, meant to knock me out, swept harmlessly behind my head. I hadn’t blocked; I had simply ceased to be where the attack was aimed.

The crowd, which had roared in anticipation of Theria’s overwhelming assault, fell into a confused murmur. From their perspective, it looked as if the fearsome eldest princess was repeatedly missing a stationary target.

Frustration flickered in Theria’s eyes. She unleashed a furious combination — a flurry of hooks, uppercuts, and sharp stabbing kicks. Each strike was a blur, backed by the full force of a Combat Expert, yet none found their mark. I was a phantom, my movements economical to the point of absurdity. A slight dip of the shoulder, a subtle twist of the torso, a half-step to the side. I was a stone in a raging river, allowing her torrent of attacks to flow around me while remaining utterly unmoved.

I was using her, letting her relentless offense tune my senses and reacquaint my young body with the rhythm of battle.

A low snarl escaped Theria’s lips. Taking two sharp steps back to create distance, she drew upon her mana, her expression hardening with resolve. The air grew heavy, smelling of ozone.

“Thunderstrike Art: Thunderstrike Clone!” she roared.

With a sound like tearing silk followed by a deafening crack of thunder, her form split. Three perfect replicas of her, wrought from raw lightning, flickered into existence at her side. All four figures — the real Theria and her three clones — were instantly cloaked in the same crackling, blinding energy. They exploded into motion, circling me in a chaotic, disorienting vortex of blue-white light that made it impossible for the naked eye to track any single one of them.

To the onlookers, it was a masterful display of high-speed misdirection. To me, it was a rudimentary puzzle. I could use my sight magic, I thought, but that’s not how I want to win this fight.

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second to sharpen my other senses — not to shut out the world, but to feel it more keenly. I activated the skill, a technique called Veil Skin Sensory. The world shifted. The distracting light show vanished, replaced by a new kind of perception. The air itself became a tangible medium — a web of energy I could read through the feeling on my skin.

I could feel the four distinct mana signatures swirling around me. Three were faint, their energy thin and staticky, like harmless phantoms. The fourth, however, was a dense, hot, and potent core of power. The real Theria.

The images aren’t tangible. They’re a feint, I confirmed, my mind processing the information instantly.

Her plan is to overwhelm my senses with the clones, exhaust me, then finish it with one strike.

I processed all of this while dodging the relentless attacks from Theria and her clones. The high-speed maneuvering, however, was putting a strain on my twelve-year-old body. My body began to react slower. Her plan was beginning to work.

If I don’t end it now, I’ll lose.

It was time to end it.

I opened my eyes and deliberately shifted my weight, inviting an attack. One of the lightning clones took the bait, lunging forward with a fist extended. I stood my ground, and the image passed directly through my chest without effect — a harmless ghost of energy.

From across the ring, Theria saw it as a successful hit, a fatal opening. “The kid finally made a mistake,” she must have thought. Patience utterly exhausted, the frustration of not getting a hit on me had taken a toll. She committed everything to a final, decisive blow. The real her burst from the chaotic dance, her right arm pulling back as it blazed with the full, concentrated might of her mana.

This was not a feint. This was her finishing move.

“Thunderstrike Art: Thunder-Speared Fist!”

She lunged. From her fist to her arm, a projectile of lightning surged forward, aimed straight at my chest.

Just as her fist was about to slam into my chest, I moved. My motion was a blur of absolute precision.

My left hand, enhanced and wrapped with a layer of mana, shot out — not to block the punch, but to catch her wrist, the very limb that was discharging lightning. My small fingers, reinforced with two-layered mana to amplify grip strength, clamped down with intense force. In the same fluid motion, I pivoted on my heel — also mana-coated — turning my back to her and sinking low.

Theria’s entire forward momentum — the force of her charge, the power of her punch, her body weight — was suddenly hijacked. She was no longer the attacker, but a projectile launched on a new, unintended trajectory. Using my own body as a lever and her momentum as the force, I flipped her clean over my shoulder.

For a breathless instant, she was airborne — her eyes wide with shock.

Then she crashed onto the stone floor behind me with a definitive, sickening thud. The air exploded from her lungs in a choked gasp. The reinforced dueling ring cracked audibly beneath her.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

Then — silence.

I released her wrist, straightened my casual tunic, and looked down — not with triumph, but with mild amusement, despite the challenge. Then, speaking softly to myself, letting my voice carry in the silence:

“And to think, I considered using the Lightning Dragon Art. How unnecessary.”

The referee snapped out of his stupor and stumbled forward, shouting:

“Match over!”

The arena remained stunned. The match hadn’t ended in an explosion of light — but with a brutal, quiet demonstration of superior timing, control, and battle mastery.

Auren's Point of View

High above the arena, I stood as still as the stone gargoyles flanking me. My hands, resting on the balcony rail, had gone white-knuckled. Corrin beside me was unflinching, though his eyes burned with rare intensity.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Then, murmuring, more to myself than anyone:

“He didn’t even use a magical art.”

No thunderbolt. No grand incantation. Theria came at him with all the force of a Combat Expert... and he simply stepped aside.

“His evasion was flawless,” I said slowly. “Not a wasted movement. Not even a counterattack. Just complete... mastery.”

Corrin nodded once. “He fought with intuition. And more than that — with insight.”

My brow furrowed. “About the Thunderstrike Clones — he could’ve used Mana Sight. It would’ve been the obvious answer.”

Corrin answered flatly. “He didn’t. He used Veil Skin Sensory.”

I blinked. “Veil Skin?” The reach magic?

Corrin nodded. “And that confirms it: Prince Nadiel also possesses Mana Reach.”

My mind reeled. “He already had Mana Sight — and now Mana Reach?”

Corrin confirmed: “Yes. He not only has both senses — but he has already learned to master them. Most adults with Mana Reach can’t use Veil Skin effectively under pressure. He did — mid-fight.”

“And,” Corrin continued, “he didn't take the easy path. He didn’t use Mana Sight, though it would’ve guaranteed the win. He chose to fight with Reach — the harder, riskier method.”

I was stunned. “But… two mana senses in one body? That’s... unheard of.”

“It’s rare,” Corrin said. “But not impossible. The current First Heaven holds three. It’s part of why he defeated and took Gustan position”

Still, it troubled me. “Then when did Nadiel learn to endure the burden of two senses? Mana Sight alone causes migraines and vision overload in the untrained. Reach is worse — all that information pouring in through your skin... yet I’ve heard no reports of him suffering from either.”

Corrin’s answer was quiet

“That’s what I don’t know, Your Majesty. If I had to guess I’ll say he endured it — without telling anyone.”

Nadiel's Point Of View — After the Duel

In the ring, I was declared the victor.

I gave the crumpled form of Theria a final glance. Then walked calmly toward Runo, who was now upright, watching me with wide, fascinated eyes.

“That’s how it’s done,” I said dryly.

I crouched and explained — briefly — how I had felt the difference between the clones and the real Theria, not through sight, but through Reach Magic.

“With enough practice,” I told her, “you could learn to use Mana Reach to overcome illusions too.”