The arena roared with excitement as battle after battle unfolded. Each fight was a clash of strength, skill, and magic. Some were predictable, others thrilling, but none had truly shaken me.
Until he appeared.
A tall figure dressed in pure white stepped forward. His presence was eerily silent, yet it commanded attention. He moved with the grace of a phantom, his every step deliberate, his posture relaxed—yet it felt like he could strike at any moment.
His silver hair flowed down his back, loosely tied with a silk ribbon, its strands catching the arena's light. A pristine white blindfold covered his eyes, completely concealing his gaze. No slits. No gaps. Nothing.
Yet he walked as if he could see everything.
His attire was unlike anything I'd ever seen. An asymmetrical white coat, one sleeve missing, revealing a forearm covered in silver-etched runes that pulsed faintly with power. His pants were fitted for swift movement, tucked into white, knee-high boots lined with silver embroidery. Chains of silver draped across his chest, holding an obsidian pendant engraved with ancient symbols.
He wasn't flashy. He wasn't armored.
But he didn't need to be.
"A noble?" I thought. No. A monster.
His name—Xeran Claudius.
The son of a Duke and a direct descendant of Anatheara, the Four-Winged Dragon.
The moment he stepped onto the battlefield, the air itself changed.
He calmly whispered a single word:
"Kamaitachi."
The wind obeyed.
A sharp gust sliced through the air, so thin it was nearly invisible. A second later, his opponent staggered back—deep gashes appearing across his arms and legs. Not deep enough to kill, but precise enough to cripple.
It was instant.
A flick of his twin daggers, and a second gust of slicing wind followed, finishing the fight before it even began.
The crowd was silent.
The match was over.
I clenched my fists.
"He's strong. Too strong."
---
Kotoba Magic – The Magic of Words
Xeran wasn't using normal wind magic.
He was using Kotoba Magic—the power to turn words into magic. But it wasn't as simple as just speaking a word. No, the words had to hold weight.
A phrase must have historical, scientific, or philosophical significance to manifest as magic. And not just any word worked—only those born from deep meaning and ancient power.
Most mages could only control one to three words in their lifetime. Using more than that risked death or worse—becoming a mindless monster under the Curse of Mindlessness.
And yet… Xeran wielded Kamaitachi.
A word from old legends, referring to wind so sharp it cuts without being felt. It gave him hundredfold heightened senses and the ability to manipulate wind at will.
He wasn't just fast. He moved at the speed of sound. His reflexes, his precision, his control—they were all inhuman.
And now…
I was his next opponent.
---
"Number 71, Phantom! Step forward!"
I exhaled sharply and stepped into the arena.
Xeran tilted his head slightly, like he was studying me.
Then, he smirked.
"Show me what you got, Phantom."
I grinned. "I was about to say the same thing."
The crowd held their breath.
Then—
"Begin!"
To Be Continued…