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Chapter 66: Spectra Mirage
The sun had dipped just enough to cast golden shadows across the arena, but all eyes were fixed on the lone figure walking into the light.
Elyreina.
Her name echoed in rhythmic waves across the stands, followed by murmurs and whispered theories.
"She crushed a King-Tier beast…"
"Didn't even use elemental magic last time."
"Is she holding back again?"
Her armor caught the light with every step, matte black and silver-lined, refined but worn from battle. She didn't wave. She didn't posture. She simply walked—measured, steady, unwavering.
Across the field, her opponent stood tall and smirking. Broad-shouldered. Wielding no visible weapons.
The announcer's voice thundered through the crowd:
"Contestant 1189 versus Contestant 3—Begin!"
Elyreina moved first—smooth and calculated. A slash arced toward his chest.
He caught it.
Caught her blade between his palms—his skin rippling with hardened texture, almost like obsidian.
His eyes glowed faintly. "Adaptive Resonance," he said, grinning. "You move with fire. I move with stone."
He shoved her back with a pulse of energy. She rolled, rose instantly, and dashed again—her strikes faster now, sharper.
He matched her pace. Parried with his forearms. Countered with footwork that shouldn't have belonged to someone his size.
"Your rhythm's beautiful," he said, weaving around her. "Let me borrow it."
He's mimicking me. Elyreina narrowed her eyes. No… he's mimicking how I feel when I fight.
His tempo matched hers. Her precise dance, mirrored and distorted like a mocking reflection.
Every move she made, he anticipated. Even her feints—read and countered.
Her blade slashed for his side—
He twisted, flowing around her, and for a heartbeat, it was him who looked like the star of the stage.
Until she whispered, "Spectra Mirage."
A shimmer pulsed from her body.
Light fractured. Six figures now danced around the field—six Elyreinas, all in motion, overlapping with perfect synchronization.
The crowd gasped.
Her illusion technique wasn't just misdirection—it was layered illusion fueled by mental acuity and mana finesse. Each mirage shifted independently, making it impossible to read her intent.
Her opponent faltered, eyes darting between each afterimage.
A blade came from the left—he blocked.
Another from behind—he countered.
But they weren't real.
She watched his stance unravel. Adaptive Resonance began to overheat—his form struggling to process too many inputs at once.
And yet… he didn't fall.
Instead, he closed his eyes. Calmed his breathing.
He's trying to feel the real me.
A smart move.
So she changed again.
She dropped rhythm. Broke her pattern. Her next strike wasn't precise—it was wild, emotional, raw.
The illusions distorted—then collapsed into one.
She appeared before him in a blur, both hands gripping the hilt of her sword.
CRACK—!
The impact sent a sonic pulse across the arena.
Her opponent staggered—one step, two—and fell to a knee. He tried to rise…
And slumped forward.
Unconscious.
The crowd didn't cheer right away.
They sat in stunned silence. Then:
Roars.
Thunderous applause. Screams of awe. Observers stood. Notebooks dropped.
But Elyreina didn't bask in the praise.
She breathed out, gaze still locked, steady and cold. Her hand shook slightly from the force she'd unleashed.
She looked up—toward the viewing platforms.
Where Lyrian had been.
Empty.
Her heartbeat skipped.
Where did he go?