Their voices rose in confusion, not fear.
But the excitement didn't dim.
In fact—it increased.
Because while they couldn't follow the details, they could feel the pressure. The hum in the air. The impossibility of human movement being displayed below.
It didn't matter that they couldn't see the magic.
This was what they came to witness.
A show of power.
And power had arrived.
"Whew! Did anyone else feel that?! I don't care if you can't see it, folks—you felt that chill run down your spine, right?" the mentator's voice echoed once more, clear and booming.
"And for those of you wondering what just happened—yes, that was an assassination attempt, launched from the shadows, by our mysterious Lige!"
The mentator proved he too was no ordinary person just from the ability to see what was going on.
"See that? That wasn't just a strike—that was a slash meant to kill in one hit. And Dela…" He pointed dramatically at the screen. "Dodged it like she was born in the shadows!"
The crowd exploded in cheers.
On the field, Dela crouched low, one knee bent and her eyes narrow. She didn't smile. She didn't speak. She moved.
Twin daggers danced again in her grip, and then she vanished in a blur—heading straight for Joss Tren.
"You want to talk about instincts?" the mentator said. "Dela's not waiting to see if Lige tries again. She's going on the offensive! Straight for the flanker!"
And she was fast.
Joss barely managed to intercept. His sabre clashed with her twin blades, sparks flying. But the clash lasted only a second before Uzen slammed into the melee like a wall of muscle and steel.
The impact sent both Joss and Dela tumbling—Dela flipped back in perfect form while Joss staggered away, gasping.
The crowd erupted again.
They didn't need to see every detail. The momentum was visible. The energy was real. The magic of the stage barrier allowed some of the impact force to ripple through the coliseum air, giving the audience a faint taste of the battlefield's fury.
Meanwhile, Lionel engaged Fenrick, both warriors weaving light and blade like dancers. Their weapons moved with precision, clashing at speeds the eye could barely follow.
"Lionel versus Fenrick! Nobility meets nobility, folks!" the mentator said, now fully animated. "But watch their footwork—Fenrick's favoring his left. Did Lionel already land a strike?"
Sir Ma still hadn't moved.
He watched, patient, his hand on the hilt of his blade, eyes never leaving the space behind his teammates.
The mentator noticed.
"Sir Ma… hasn't joined the fray yet. Waiting. Calculating. Protecting the rear? Or expecting another sneak attack?"
And he was right to wait.
Suddenly—
A flicker behind Sir Ma.
But his sword was already moving.
Steel rang through the arena.
Some sharp eyes caught iy—a glint, a flash, a faint shimmer in the air that collided with Sir Ma's guard before vanishing again.
"No kill today, Lige!" the mentator barked, grinning. "Looks like the Steel Kingdom's knight is sharper than he looks!"
The crowd was enthralled.
Every clash. Every movement. Every surge of power.
Many didn't understand the techniques.
But they understood spectacle.
And this?
This was a spectacle worthy of nobles and moners alike.
And the tension kept building.
While the crowd was still roaring from Sir Ma's last-minute deflection, the sharpest watchers started asking the question that had been lingering since the beginning of the battle:
Where was Lige now?
The answer was—everywhere and nowhere.
He hadn't disappeared. There was no magic veil, no spell of invisibility.
He was simply fast.
Too fast for most eyes.
Too fluid for the untrained mind to track.
Lige didn't move in straight lines. He didn't stay in open space. He weaved through the smoke, the dust, the shadows cast by lunging bodies and flaring auras.
And that made him terrifying.
He was a phantom not by spell, but by movement.
The mentator saw it.
"Listen carefully, folks. I know some of you are wondering—'Did he vanish? Was it a spell?' But no. There's no illusion. No blink. No teleportation. What you're watching… is pure technique."
"He doesn't vanish. He hides in motion," the mentator continued. "A bat style used by certain rogue circles and eastern assassin guilds. Each step made to draw no sound, each angle taken to fall just outside the line of sight. Even many of the batants haven't realized how close he's gotten."
"He's fast… but more than that, he's smart. He's not looking for a duel. He's hunting for a moment."
And just like that, the scene jumped back to the present.
Down below, Fenrick launched a lunge at Lionel, aura crackling at the tip of his blade.
It was a brilliant strike.
Until—
A flash.
Not from Lionel.
But behind Fenrick.
Lige.
A dagger arced forward, silent and curved like a snake's fang.
It was perfect.
But Lionel—Lionel—twisted at the last moment, and Fenrick stepped forward a half-step more than planned, causing the dagger to barely miss his spine.
Lige flowed with the motion and disappeared into the dust again before either of them could counter.
The mentator barked a short laugh. "HA! Almost had two birds with one blade—but Lionel's noble instincts aren't just for show! And Fenrick... well, he's blessed by fortune today!"
The crowd howled in disbelief. Some screamed Lige's name, others Lionel's, others just cheered the madness of it all.
This wasn't just a fight—it was a game of shadows, bursts of raw might, and flashes of insight.
And amidst it all…
Dela re-entered the fight.
In the preparation rooms beneath the coliseum, silence reigned.
A young swordsman from Group D whispered, "Was that a feint or—no, wait, he's behind him again? How…?"
"No. He's not blinking," another muttered. "He's just—he's just fast."
Even the arrogant, smirking warriors from the Earth Dragon Kingdom had stopped laughing.
Their eyes followed the flow now. Not a single one underestimated what was happening anymore.
Among them, Michael sat still.
His spear rested beside him, one hand lightly on the shaft. His eyes were fixed on the illusion screen.
For a time, he was confused.
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