One Strike to End It All
The arena was a pressure cooker of anticipation. The preliminary duels were over. The semi-finals had been decided. The obsidian floor had been cleared, leaving only the single, grand central platform for the final match. The fifty thousand spectators leaned forward in their seats, their voices a low, humming thunder. This was the moment they had all been waiting for.
Prince Valerius of the Draconian Empire strode onto the platform from one side. He had shed his slightly singed silken robes and now wore a suit of magnificent, form-fitting armor crafted from what looked like real dragon scales. Each scale shimmered with an amethyst light, and the entire suit pulsed with an ancient, immense power. In his hand, he held a longsword with a hilt shaped like a roaring dragon's head and a blade that seemed to be forged from a single, massive diamond. His aura, no longer suppressed, blazed with imperial arrogance and draconic might. He looked every bit the part of a final boss.
From the other side, Amrit walked onto the platform. He was still in his simple, dark robes, unadorned and unassuming. He had left the common longsword at the rack. Now, his hand rested on the hilt of the plain, black scabbard at his hip. He was a shadow facing a sun, a quiet enigma against a roaring legend.
The contrast between the two finalists could not have been more stark.
The runic screen above them flared to life, displaying their names for the final time.
TOURNAMENT FINAL: Prince Valerius vs. Amrit
"So, the backwoods mystery has made it to the final stage," Valerius's voice boomed, magically amplified. His confidence had returned, bolstered by his victory over Fenghua and the sheer, overwhelming power of his draconic artifacts. "You have impressed the common folk with your little tricks and psychological games. But this is the end of the line. Here, you face true, noble power. The power of a dragon's bloodline."
Amrit remained silent, his hand still resting on the hilt of Soul-Sunder.
"Our wager stands," Valerius declared, pointing his diamond blade at Amrit. "When I defeat you, your fortune, your freedom, and your very will shall be mine for a year. I will enjoy teaching you your proper place."
He took his stance, a classic imperial dragonslayer form. The air around him began to warp and shimmer with heat. The amethyst scales of his armor glowed brighter, and the faint, spectral image of a colossal dragon began to form behind him, its ghostly eyes filled with ancient fury. He was calling upon the full power of his bloodline.
The Academy official, looking nervous, raised his hand. "The final match of the Entrance Tournament… for the title of Champion! Begin!"
Valerius did not waste a single moment. He knew from Amrit's previous duels that a prolonged fight or a battle of pure skill was a losing game. He intended to end this instantly with a single, overwhelming blow that no trick or parry could possibly counter.
"BEHOLD THE FURY OF THE DRACONIAN EMPIRE!" he roared.
He poured every ounce of his massive Spirit Sea, every drop of his potent dragon's blood, and every iota of his imperial pride into his diamond sword. The blade blazed with a light so brilliant it outshone the sun. It was no longer just a sword; it was a condensed beam of pure, annihilating energy.
He unleashed his ultimate, bloodline-defining technique: [Draco-Nova Decimation].
He did not lunge or slash. He thrust his sword forward, and from its tip, a massive, searing beam of amethyst-colored energy erupted. It was a dragon's breath attack, refined and focused through a divine weapon. It screamed across the platform, its power so immense that the arena's defensive shields groaned and flickered, struggling to contain the blast. It was an attack designed to vaporize a fortress, to turn an army to ash. It was an attack that no single cultivator should be able to withstand.
The crowd cried out in terror and awe. This was power on a completely different scale from anything seen before.
Amrit stood in the direct path of the apocalyptic beam.
He watched the wave of annihilation come. He could feel its immense heat, its terrifying power that sought to unmake reality itself.
In that frozen moment, his mind was a sea of absolute calm. The roar of the dragon, the screams of the crowd, the groaning of the shields—it all faded away.
He knew what he had to do. He had demonstrated physical defense. He had demonstrated pure skill. Now, he had to demonstrate his true nature. He had to demonstrate a power that was absolute.
His hand, which had been resting on the hilt, finally moved.
He drew Soul-Sunder.
He did not perform a fancy technique. He did not use a Ghost-Flash Step. He simply brought the blade up in a clean, simple, upward arc to meet the descending beam of draconic fury.
He held the obsidian blade in one hand, its dark, unassuming surface ready to meet the sun-like cataclysm.
And as he swung, he invoked the ultimate property of his soulbound weapon, a power born from a [10,000x Crit] and fueled by a boundless Divine Ocean. He called upon the blade's conceptual truth.
He did not try to block the energy.
He did not try to deflect it.
He did not try to endure it.
He simply… cut it.
His intent was pure and absolute: Spatial Severance.
The dark edge of Soul-Sunder met the colossal beam of amethyst light.
There was no explosion. No thunderous impact.
There was only silence.
A single, thin, black line appeared in the very center of Valerius's Draco-Nova Decimation beam. It was a line of pure, perfect nothingness. A line where space itself had been temporarily, surgically excised.
The beam of annihilating energy, its medium of travel severed, struck this line of nothingness and split cleanly in two.
Two identical, colossal beams of amethyst light, each one containing half the original power, diverged around Amrit, passing harmlessly by him on either side. They screamed past him and slammed into the arena's energy shield with two deafening, cataclysmic explosions that shook the entire mountain. The shield flared violently, holding just barely, but cracks appeared across its surface.
Amrit stood in the middle of the raging aftermath, in a cocoon of perfect calm, completely untouched. His simple, upward swing had cleaved a god-like attack in half.
Across the platform, Valerius stared, his face a canvas of utter, soul-shattered disbelief. His ultimate attack, the pride of his empire, the manifestation of his dragon's blood, had been defeated. It hadn't been blocked or overpowered. It had been… dismissed. Rendered irrelevant by a law of physics he couldn't comprehend. The spectral dragon behind him whimpered and dissolved, its spirit broken.
His spirit broke with it. The backlash from having his ultimate technique so utterly nullified sent a shockwave through his soul. The diamond sword felt impossibly heavy in his hand. His energy reserves were spent. His will was gone.
Amrit lowered Soul-Sunder, its dark blade having already absorbed the chaotic energies of the aftermath. The platform was silent once more.
He looked at the broken, trembling figure of Prince Valerius. The duel was over.
"It seems," Amrit said, his voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the silent arena, "that the dragon's fury is not enough."
He did not need to press the attack. He had not just defeated Valerius's technique; he had defeated his spirit, his pride, his entire conception of power.
Valerius's knees buckled. The diamond sword, a priceless imperial artifact, slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the obsidian floor. He fell to his knees, his head bowed, his magnificent armor seeming to lose its luster.
He had been defeated. Utterly. Absolutely. In a single strike.
The official, his face as pale as a ghost, finally found his voice. "The winner… and the Champion of the Entrance Tournament… is Amrit of Kshirapura!"
For a long moment, the crowd was silent, their minds unable to catch up with the sheer, reality-bending spectacle they had just witnessed. Then, a single person began to clap. It was Zian. Then Rohan joined in. Then the applause grew, not into a roar of excitement, but into a thunderous, rolling ovation of pure, unadulterated awe. They were applauding not just a victory, but the arrival of a new age.
Amrit stood in the center of the arena, the champion. He had faced down every challenger, overcome every obstacle, and shattered every expectation. He had done it all without taking a single scratch.
He sheathed Soul-Sunder with a final, soft click. His gaze swept over the arena, over the cheering crowd, the stunned Elders, the somber Son of Destiny, and finally rested on the kneeling, broken form of the Dragon Prince.
The wager had been won. The titles were his. But this was just the beginning. He had conquered the Academy's entrance. Now, he had to conquer the Academy itself. And then, the world beyond.
One strike had ended the tournament. But it was also the first strike in a much larger, and far more dangerous, war.