Ron stepped through the heavy wooden door, and the moment it closed behind him, his breath caught.

The sight before him didn't belong in any dungeon he knew. The ceiling was gone—no, it wasn't a ceiling at all. Above stretched a crimson sun glowing dimly through an orange-red sky that churned like slow fire. The air shimmered faintly with heat. Black, leafless trees rose from cracked, ashen soil, their twisted roots pulsing faintly as if alive.

Ron took a step forward, wary. "What the hell is this place…? This doesn't feel like a dungeon chamber at all."

The faint hum of mana in the air made his skin prickle. It was heavy—too heavy. Instinct told him to be cautious, to grab whatever treasure was hidden here and leave as fast as possible.

He moved quietly through the warped grove until something caught his eye—a massive, headless serpent corpse sprawled across the ground. The body was easily the size of a small house, its scales cracked and blackened, its severed head lying a few meters away.

Ron's brows furrowed. "Was this… the hidden boss? But it's already dead…"

He scanned the ground, seeing no sign of battle except the corpse. "Someone's been here before me. So much for treasure."

With a resigned sigh, he turned to leave.

But then—

"Ah… what luck. You're alone."

The voice was smooth, young, and dripping with mockery.

Ron froze, his instincts flaring too late. He hadn't sensed anyone. Slowly, he turned around.

A familiar figure stepped from behind the fallen serpent—Arin, holding his spear loosely, a faint grin tugging at his lips. His tawny-brown hair hung messily over dull, leaf-green eyes that once held brightness but now looked… wrong. Empty.

Ron's expression darkened. "You?"

Arin's smile widened slightly.

Ron exhaled through his nose, irritation replacing surprise. "You reached here first, huh? Fine. Enjoy your 'treasure.' I'm leaving."

He turned his back and started walking—

—but the whisper of wind behind him made him twist just in time. Steel flashed.

Clang!

Ron barely dodged the thrust of Arin's spear, the tip slicing a shallow line across his sleeve. He slid back, eyes narrowing.

"What the hell is your problem?" Ron snapped. "Why are you attacking me?"

Arin tilted his head, smiling like someone amused by a private joke. "Because you're going to fight me to the death… right here, right now."

Ron blinked once, then exhaled slowly, annoyance flickering over his face.

"Look, I don't have time for your crap," he said flatly. "I've got places to go—"

But Arin only gripped his spear tighter, his aura flaring faintly yellow as his grin deepened.

"The only place you're going," he hissed, "is the land of the dead!"

With that, Arin lunged—his spear erupting in a burst of yellow lightning.

The duel beneath the red sky had begun.

Ron's eyes narrowed as Arin lunged again, the spear cutting through the air with far more aggression than usual. He twisted his body just in time, the tip grazing his arm. A faint line of blood appeared.

Ron stepped back, spear raised defensively, eyes locked on the brown-haired boy before him.

"Arin..." he said, his tone low, careful. " What's wrong with you?"

Arin answers with smile

Nothing is wrong with me ron...! I just want to eliminate you

his leafy green eyes were slightly dull, lifeless even, and a crooked smile stayed frozen on his face. His movements were sharp, but lacked rhythm — like a puppet moved by invisible strings.

Ron's grip tightened on his weapon.

His eyes... they're not focused. His aura feels… off.

Ron gritted his teeth. "I don't understand…! what's going on !"

Arin didn't respond. He simply spun his spear and attacked again, faster and stronger than before — no hesitation, no restraint, just pure killing intent.

Flames burst around Ron's body as he parried the blow, his black spear blazing orange. "Fine," he muttered under his breath. "If you want to fight, I'll knock you down first—then figure out what the hell's going on."

Their weapons collided, sparks and embers scattering beneath the red sun above them.

The two clashed again and again, metal against metal, sparks flying across the hidden chamber. Ron's every move was calm yet sharp, his black spear spinning, deflecting every wild strike Arin threw at him.

He gritted his teeth, eyes locked on Arin's face, searching for a chance—just one clean opening to knock him out.

But there was none.

Arin's movements were relentless, faster, sharper, and filled with a killing intent Ron had never felt before.

Then suddenly—crackling arcs of yellow lightning began dancing around Arin's spear.

The air trembled.

Arin's dull eyes glimmered for a moment as he thrust forward.

"Arclance Tempestra: Boltpiercer Drive!"

A swift, electrically charged strike tore through the air toward Ron, the ground sizzling beneath its path.

Ron's eyes widened. "Shit—!"

In an instant, his own aura flared. The orange-red flames coiled around his weapon like a serpent ready to strike.

"Inferno Spear—Second Technique: Scorching Coil! Defensive Mode!"

He spun his spear in tight, blazing circles. The air shimmered, heat erupting into a fiery vortex that wrapped around him.

Clang! The lightning spear smashed into the fiery coil, light and flame exploding outward.

Ron was pushed back several meters, his shoes skidding across the ground as he steadied himself.

He hissed under his breath, feeling the numbness creep into his arm from the impact.

That attack... it's much heavier than during our entrance exam.

Ron looked up again, sweat sliding down his temple as Arin lowered his spear for another assault, lightning still flickering around him.

Just what the hell happened to you, Arin...?

Ron's grip tightened on his spear as his jaw clenched.

"That's it… going all out."

He stomped forward, flames bursting from his body.

"Raaaaargh!!!"

The air ignited. Orange-red flames roared outward before shifting—turning a deep, vivid blue.

The temperature surged. The air hissed, sizzling with heat. His aura swelled like a living inferno, and his hair rose, flowing in a wild, flame-like motion.

Across from him, Arin smirked, his spear trembling with violent energy.

"Finally…" he hissed. "I'll kill you and claim my right as the protagonist!"

Sparks danced wildly around his body, lightning crackling through the crimson sky of the hidden chamber. His golden lightning twisted—shifting into a bluish-green arc, electricity snaking across his arms and weapon. His aura spiked, heavy enough to crush the air around him. His hair stood up sharply, molded by raw current, eyes glowing with stormlight madness.

Ron stared at him, disbelief flashing across his face.

"I don't understand… why are you doing this?"

Arin's expression twisted.

"You're an anomaly, Ron."

He pointed his spear at Ron, his voice trembling with rage.

"I was supposed to have everything! You were meant to be nothing more than a stepping stone!"

He took a step forward, the lightning around him flaring violently.

"But somehow… you changed that! You influence everyone around you, take what was supposed to be mine!"

He screamed, voice cracking into insanity.

"That weapon you hold—it's mine!

Mine! Mine! MINE ALONE!!!"

His sparking aura flared, distorting with each outburst. The lightning grew unstable—its bluish-green tone darkening into an unnatural, super-dark green.

Arin's sclera turned black, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin.

Then came the roar—

"RAAAAAAARRRGHHHHHHH!!!!"

The explosion of dark aura ripped through the chamber, shaking the ground.

Ron's eyes narrowed, his face darkening as he steadied himself against the surge of power.

"His… aura pressure—it's above 4-Star, almost at 5-Star level…" he muttered.

The last time me and Lia fought together against that assassin… we barely touched that level with our combined strike.

Arin lifted his spear again, his twisted smile spreading unnaturally.

"Let's begin."

Ron drove forward like a spear launched from a forge. Flames roared along the shaft of his weapon, blue fire licking the air as he focused every ounce of will into the point.

Inferno Spear — Third Technique: Cinder Lance.

The tip of his black spear burned brilliant blue, leaving a trail of glowing embers in its wake. He aimed for Arin's heart and moved with brutal, honed speed.

But Arin only smiled — that wrong, crooked smile that no longer belonged to the boy Ron had known.

He whispered something like a prayer to the storm and vanished.

Arclance Tempestra: Stormbound Step.

Dark-green thunder cracked at Arin's feet; a bolt of living stormwrath forked and coalesced into the place where he stood, and in the flash he repositioned instantly, reappearing where Ron least expected.

The Cinder Lance passed through empty air.

Before Ron could recover, another flare of green thunder strobed the ground. Arin materialized behind him and drove forward with terrifying speed.

Arclance Tempestra: Boltpiercer Drive.

A jagged lance of electrically charged force slammed into Ron's right side, a paralyzing, bone-deep shock that burned down to the marrow.

"Arrgh!" Ron yelped, the breath knocked from him as the impact shoved him forward. He twisted, found his footing, and staggered back only to stare at the dark line of blood spreading along his ribs.

He wasn't like this before. The thought hit like a cold stone. Not this strong. Not so precise.

Arin's eyes gleamed black-green with the storm's corruption; the smile on his face widened into hunger. He flowed into another assault before Ron could truly set his stance—blows coming faster, angles changing, lightning-footwork folding the space around him.

Ron parried, spun, and defended. His Inferno Spear answered with arcs of scorching flame that repelled and seared—yet every exchange left new marks. Cuts blossomed across his forearms. A gash split the skin above his brow. Pain flared in his side where the Boltpiercer had struck.

He fought like a cornered titan, but Arin's strikes compounded; the attacks that once would have been merely sharp were now heavier, imbued with that sickly storm-force. Ron found openings and struck, but Arin's reflexes bent and folded each attempt aside—never missing the chance to counter.

For a moment, Ron managed to force him back; Arin bore minor wounds that flashed green with each cut. The respite was brief.

Breathing hard, blood slick at his mouth, Ron leapt back and put distance between them. His chest heaved. Every movement tasted of iron and smoke. He looked at Arin—at the broken grin and the way the dark storm lanterned around him—and Ron's face hardened into a shadow.

"Finally," Arin hissed, voice ragged with exultation, "you will die."

Ron's fingers closed on the spear haft. Pain throbbed in his right side; sweat ran into his eyes. Still—somewhere under the exhaustion—his will is still burning bright.

This fight was far from over.

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