The Law of the Jungle
"Are you looking down on me?! Don't you get cocky with me!"
The battleaxe cleaved through the air, venting a burst of mana horizontally in a furious arc.
Yet Junon slipped just barely out of reach by a hair's breadth, retreating a half-step only to relentlessly drive his counter into the gaping opening left by the oversized swing.
"Guh...!"
It was a pathetic-looking strike. There was barely any weight behind the blow, let alone any substantial mana.
And yet, despite not even taking the shape of a weapon, it was insidiously wearing down Demian's flesh, the shock nibbling away at his stamina little by little.
Every time the bastard slipped away like a greased loach, Demian felt those nagging, rhythmic taps jarring his frame, grinding his teeth down to the nerve.
"Aaargh!"
Just as he had done against Lana, Demian lost his temper completely and began flailing the axe in wide, frantic arcs.
Because of the sheer quantity of mana poured into the armament, the arena floor gouged, fractured, and collapsed under the shockwaves. Yet for all the destruction, the blade failed to graze its intended target even once.
"Kuh-ack!"
Despite whipping himself into a frenzy, Demian was the only one repeatedly taking hits and getting pushed back. He gnashed his teeth in sheer disbelief.
What... What the hell is going on?
The disparity between them was unmistakable.
Power was ultimately directly proportional to mana capacity. The one who commanded greater reserves was naturally destined to triumph. One spent mana to cast spells, and when concentrated mana sat dense and viscous in the circuits, endurance in prolonged warfare was guaranteed.
Furthermore, pouring greater mana into a spell yielded greater power. That principle held absolute regardless of the art, applying even to elementary body reinforcement.
Among all the renowned powerhouses of the world, not a single one lacked vast reserves.
Whether it was the Tembris Party or the Arcab Party, those possessing Mizar Type mana—and even the imperial legends of old—none of them were exceptions. Even if Junon possessed Mizar Type mana as well, the rule should have stood.
In fact, Junon was absurdly frail for someone bearing that mana type, to the point of arousing suspicion. How could such a pathetic wretch ever stand as an equal to those born blessed?
Yet why was this scrawny dog using such meager traces of mana to swat away an aura several times his own so effortlessly?
No. I'm not the one losing ground! If this turns into an endurance match, he'll burn out first!
In a war of attrition, anyone would eventually collapse. Physical stamina, mana pool—Demian remained convinced that he held the upper hand in both.
Right. He's using some kind of cheap trick. The reason my hits aren't landing is just smoke and mirrors!
Demian reassured himself that he had merely fallen for the same parlor trick that had deceived the rest of the crowd.
Yet such self-soothing was utterly pointless.
No matter how many times he lunged, his attacks cleaved nothing. The only time Demian's body made contact with Junon was when he was on the receiving end of a fist.
A mounting dread seized Demian's mind, warning him that he needed a drastic pivot. Before long, his lips twisted into a venomous sneer.
No matter how clever you are, you won't see this coming!
Once more, he wildly brandished his weapon just as he had before.
Predictably, Junon took the bait, driving straight for Demian's unprotected chest.
Grab!
Demian seized Junon's right arm in an iron grip.
He had made it look like a reckless overextension, but in truth, he had deliberately yielded that opening.
Just like he had done to Lana.
"Caught you at last, you slippery rat."
The corners of Demian's mouth curled upward. The pest had scuttled around quite well, but lay down a trap, and he stumbled right into it like clockwork. Like a helpless rodent caught squarely in the jaws of a snare.
"Thanks for tickling me this whole time. Any last words?"
Whatever Junon had to say, the conclusion was already written in stone. What Demian truly wanted was to see Junon drop to his knees in pathetic, groveling submission.
Having already broken Lana, he knew exactly how this played out. He wanted the bastard paralyzed by terror, thrashing and weeping just to escape the agonizing pain. And the moment he surrendered completely, Demian would shatter every expectation and permanently retire him from the tournament.
Yet the words leaving Junon's lips were far from what Demian anticipated.
"I let you catch me, you dumbass."
"Ha! Look at this bastard making shit up the second he's pinned. You think I'm gonna let go just 'cause you talk tough?"
"I never asked you to let go. Did you have a nice little daydream about that? Or is that just wishful thinking?"
Far from showing fear, Junon retorted with shameless arrogance, raking directly across Demian's raw nerves.
"Is that so?! Then why don't you follow that little bitch straight to the infirmary?!"
Losing all composure, Demian instantly reformed his battleaxe. Pouring every ounce of his strength and mana into the swing, he brought the blade crashing down with lethal intent.
He couldn't care less about what the judges would say afterward. For Demian, victory took a back seat to breaking the wretch before him, reducing him to writhing despair. Going a step further, he intended to inflict injuries that would cripple Junon long after he left the arena—just like Lana.
And yet...
Crack!
"...Huh?"
The sharp sound of shattering glass rang through the air, and the battleaxe gripped in Demian's hand vanished without a trace.
"Is that all you've got?"
The direction of the blatant mockery had reversed completely.
An unprecedented spectacle was unfolding before their eyes.
When Demian had crushed Lana underfoot, it had seemed like a foregone conclusion. But the moment the match was interrupted and Junon stepped onto the stage, the atmosphere had warped entirely.
Still, Erika had doubted that Junon's presence would change anything. While his unsettling habits and knack for causing trouble irritated her, Demian's innate mana pool was staggering by any metric.
Yet what was this reality?
Erika found herself questioning her own vision.
What was that just now? His weapon disappeared the second it made contact? How is that even possible?
Could one even call that 'disappearing'?
The instant Demian's armament struck Junon's left forearm, it had completely lost its structural integrity. It looked less like an evaporation and more like Junon had shattered the axe with his bare flesh.
Is he cheating...? Yes. That has to be it!
Erika immediately wished for an official investigation into foul play.
Overcome by bewilderment, Demian finally released Junon's arm, his own instincts warning him that something was terribly wrong.
"Referee! This bastard has to be carrying an illegal artifact!"
From the stands, Erika silently agreed. Exactly!
For such an absurd phenomenon to occur, he had to be borrowing the power of an external artifact. A magic armament was the pure condensation of a human's internal mana. While it was true that the Mirage Type lacked durability and suffered from severe mana volatility, it was still forged to withstand clashes with demonic beasts. It was fundamentally impossible to shatter one with sheer physical strength.
Even for someone wielding Mizar Type mana, that law was immutable.
It's not like that scoundrel could have mastered Shell Type Magic Armor like Professor Muniherr, could he?
She was certain that was impossible. Erika had seen it clearly with her own two eyes: Junon had merely coated his fist in raw mana.
Demian protested loudly toward the official platform, but Muniherr, who had descended near the boundary, merely snorted in disdain.
"Competitor Junon entered this arena without carrying a single prohibited item. Stop whining and focus on your match."
He declared Junon completely clear of suspicion.
What? He didn't bring anything in?
Then what on earth was that shattered armament?
Erika had expected at least an inquiry for suspicion of cheating, hoping that a disqualification might hand them a windfall. But contrary to her hopes, Junon was completely bare of gear.
This makes no sense.
Everyone knew a Mirage-type Magic Armament couldn't be broken with physical force alone. Had Demian infused too little mana into it? Impossible. No one held back at the decisive turning point of a duel.
No matter how hard Erika racked her brain, the answer eluded her.
Meanwhile, Demian had begun to retreat.
Every time he lashed out, his armament crumbled. No matter the angle of attack, no matter how desperately he lunged, Junon casually deflected and shoved him back with light taps.
"..."
Junon's intention was glaringly obvious.
He was fully capable of ending the match right now, yet he refrained from landing a decisive blow. This was payback for Lana, Shirakh's first seed.
"Michel. Sorry, but I'm going to head out early."
"Aris hasn't even had her match yet, though?"
"My blood sugar feels a bit low. I think I need to grab something sweet outside."
Retribution or not, Erika didn't care. All she wanted was for Junon to crash down in miserable ruin so he would finally vanish from her sight.
She had even gathered people to fan the flames of rumor, secretly reaching out to the Mirpark Lord School just for this occasion! And now, every bit of it had come to nothing.
She had hoped Aris's appearance would quietly overshadow Junon's presence, but the outcome had turned completely upside down. To an uneducated spectator, the arena looked like a fiercely contested battle, whipping the stands into a fever pitch of excitement. In reality, Junon was simply toying with Demian like a cat with a mouse.
It was a sight that made Erika's stomach churn.
Hah. Fine. You definitely won this one.
Because of the prior incident, the officials wouldn't stop the duel prematurely. Junon intended to drag this out, bleeding Demian dry at a torturously slow pace until absolute powerlessness crushed his spirit. Once he put on a display like that, monopolizing the spotlight was inevitable.
Just you wait. Your true colors will show eventually.
With that bitter thought, Erika rose from her seat and left the viewing stands.
"Hah, hah... You crazy bastard."
Before long, it was Demian whose mana reserves hit rock bottom.
"To think you couldn't even last five minutes. And after all that talk, calling Lana dead weight?"
"Shut your mouth, you son of a—!"
Crack!
"Guh-ack!"
As the distinct, heavy impact suggested, this strike was fundamentally different from the ones before. A haze bloomed across Demian's vision as a sharp, ringing numbness seized his skull, utterly wrecking his sense of balance.
The vast mana he had freely squandered was entirely depleted, and his body poured cold sweat, heaving for breath in ragged gasps.
He's... only using this kind of power now...?
It felt like slamming headfirst into an insurmountable wall. He had been pushing Demian around this entire time without even tapping into this level of strength—relying solely on basic reinforcement, without a single trace of an innate spell.
Demian had assumed Junon would be no different from back then, but the reality was an entirely different beast.
He had broken the armament.
Even if a Mirage-type Magic Armament was just a solid mass of mana, how could anyone shatter it with bare hands? Junon, who freely scattered the mana Demian used for reinforcement, loomed before him like an unscalable mountain.
And with a single remark, Junon completely severed the thread of pride Demian had been desperately clinging to at the edge of the cliff.
"Unlike you, Lana held out for more than twenty minutes. Doesn't that mean the girl you called dead weight is at least four times stronger than you, you pathetic weakling?"
"Y-You bastard...!"
"What? By your own logic, the strong devour the weak. If someone weaker than me folded that fast, it only proves Lana is stronger than you."
Demian gnashed his teeth so hard they nearly splintered, but he couldn't voice his rage. The one meeting an unsightly, humiliating defeat wasn't Junon—it was himself.
"And besides. We're not finished yet."
"What...?"
What else could possibly be left? Horrified, Demian realized what was coming and frantically tried to raise his hand to yield.
"F-Fuck... Let go! Let me go!"
It was completely futile. A transparent barrier of Mana Shield snapped into place, locking his arms rigidly at his sides and extinguishing his final sliver of hope to signal a surrender.
"Guh, ack!"
"With the way you thrash around, you might try a desperate counterattack if I give you room. So my hands are tied here, you see?"
"You son of a... Urgh... Gah...!"
And so, Demian took a relentless beating until consciousness deserted him, reaping the exact karmic debt he had sowed upon others.
It was a one-sided execution.
Yet to the vast majority of the audience, the intricacies of the beatdown remained entirely opaque. To their eyes, it simply looked as though Demian had chosen to cling stubbornly to a hopeless fight before succumbing to defeat.
Watching intently from below, Muniherr made no move to intervene.
He brought this upon himself. It seems Demian was the only one letting his emotions blind him.
The senior professor nodded slightly to himself, grasping the motive behind the prolonged duel. But more than that, his eyes were glued to Junon's terrifying rate of growth.
Now he's simply breaking everything in his path.
It wasn't enough that he wielded Anti-Cast—a technique superior to the research Muniherr was currently conducting—now he was actively destabilizing his opponent's mana to seal off their spellcasting entirely. Without anyone noticing, Junon had advanced another step forward in a completely unprecedented direction.
Before the Faction War began, the Shell Type Magic Armor Muniherr had demonstrated had been a deliberate smokescreen. Though the task had weighed heavily on every student's mind, it was an impossible benchmark by design, meant to push them toward forging their own unconventional paths rather than treading a predetermined road.
For that reason, giving Junon a mountain of bonus marks rather than deductions was entirely justified.
Heh. A monster will always be a monster, it seems.
Just as the corner of Muniherr's lips curved into a smirk, the duel was called.
"Winner: Shirakh's second seed, Junon!"