Chapter 389

Chapter 389: Prove

The roaming gunslinger was stunned by Zaknavan’s relentless attack pressure. He hastily activated his trump card to counterattack, but Zaknavan had already deciphered every detail of his fighting style.

After a few exchanges, Zaknavan seized the upper hand, staying glued to his long-range opponent.

Unlike Midi’s storm-like assaults, Zaknavan advanced methodically, tightening his control until he forced the enemy into a corner and delivered the finishing strike.

Was this his way of proving himself? Proving he deserved second place?

Midi pondered silently.

With the second match over, the final rankings took shape.

The fourth and fifth places were initially meant to duel, but since Midi had slain Blood Hand, the roaming gunslinger automatically claimed fourth. Fifth place went to the highest-scoring slave warrior among the rest.

The top three would now be decided between Midi, Zaknavan, and Mason.

The next round of draws commenced swiftly.

“Zaknavan?” Midi’s brow twitched slightly.

To his surprise, Mason received another bye, remaining an observer, while Midi was pitted against Zaknavan.

This felt like internal strife—they were supposed to become partners, after all.

Midi cared little about rankings but wondered what Zaknavan thought.

Their partnership was just an agreement; without shared battles, true understanding was absent.

Zaknavan wasted no time clarifying his stance. “Let’s spar properly, Midi. Your power is undeniable, but I must earn your acknowledgment of mine.”

The elite warrior from the City of Fierce Wind spoke gravely.

Initially, Zaknavan had proposed their cooperation, viewing Midi as a mere aide despite his respect for him.

But after witnessing Midi’s Overlord-like display of strength, Zaknavan realized he might not defeat him at all.

The tables had turned.

Now, it wasn’t Zaknavan choosing Midi—it was Midi who’d choose Zaknavan.

Though Midi hadn’t considered this shift, Zaknavan’s pride and honor refused to let him coast on Midi’s success.

He needed to prove his worth directly.

A genuine spar was his answer.

“A fine idea,” Midi agreed. “Let’s begin.”

Without ceremony, Zaknavan struck first.

His speed dazzled, his strength rivaling even Blood Hand enhanced by the Blood Dust potion. Remarkably, despite his need to prove himself, Zaknavan fought with calm precision.

Yet this wasn’t enough to sway Midi.

As founder of the Hawk Brigade, Midi had his own standards for judging warriors.

Compared to letting his opponent demonstrate their abilities, Midi preferred testing them through direct assaults.

In a split second, Midi dissolved into drifting smoke.

Activating the Ghost Cry skill’s Demon Shadow Flash, he vanished.

Zaknavan instantly focused, wary of a rear ambush, shifting unpredictably across the battlefield.

Yet he’d guessed wrong – Midi sought not to strike from behind, but to retreat.

“Trouble!” Zaknavan muttered under his breath.

Thirty meters now separated them, frost glinting along both edges of Midi’s dual swords.

The Asura skill’s Ice Blade Wave Sword hummed to life.

Holding back for their spar, Midi avoided full bombardment, opting for rapid-fire attacks that consumed far less energy.

Rhythmic ice blades launched from his swords, streaking toward the dark elf.

Though Zaknavan dodged and parried relentlessly, creeping cold transformed the arena floor into glassy ice.

Numbness crept through the warrior’s limbs as bitter cold infiltrated his veins, threatening to crystallize his blood.

Persisting like this would bring frostbite within minutes, sapping his speed and power.

Midi was waging a battle of attrition.

Defeat… blossoms from such roots…

Zaknavan grimaced inwardly.

This human expert had crushed him with brute strength, overwhelmed him with magic, shattered Blood Hand’s longsword with peerless technique – now patiently bleeding him dry.

The revelation stung – Midi possessed entire arsenals for every combat style!

The dark elf’s pride cracked.

He’d believed his meticulous, defense-oriented style would counter Midi’s aggression.

Even against this Monster’s overwhelming power, he’d expected to control their spar’s tempo.

Now staggering through Midi’s frozen hellscape, such delusions evaporated.

Survival became his sole focus.

When frost claimed three-quarters of the arena, Midi ceased long-range attacks. Smoke swirled as he closed the gap.

The true assault began.

Clashing steel birthed constellations of sparks, the combatants’ faces flickering in the strobing light.

Though half-frozen, Zaknavan met the melee with grim precision.

Stiffening limbs moved shorter, sharper – decades of Experience compensating through tightened defenses.

Blade met blade in controlled impacts, both warriors restraining their full power for sparring’s sake.

To Midi’s surprise, his guaranteed hit became a grinding stalemate.

As their duel intensified, ice melted from Zaknavan’s armor.

The cycle would need repeating.

Thinking this, Midi transformed into a wisp of smoke again and drifted away, while ice began to form once more on his dual swords…

“Stop, stop, stop! Stop right now!” Zaknavan shouted, abandoning all notions of warrior honor. If there was another round, he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Being trapped in this icy hell was unbearable, especially with the one who created it casually watching from the sidelines, making him grit his teeth in frustration.

If this continued, Zaknavan thought he might actually cough up blood.

“One round of sparring was enough!” Zaknavan continued, “What do you think?”

Though Midi wanted to push further, he couldn’t argue now that Zaknavan had spoken up.

“No problem,” Midi replied with a bright smile, “You’re strong. We’ll make the best team and crush the Wolfspider tribe together!”

“Fine. Even if I doubt you’re being sincere, I’d rather let our enemies suffer this misery,” Zaknavan said, hurling his sword out of the arena.

This marked his surrender.

“That roaming gunslinger named Mason’s tough. I can’t beat him. Hope you win,” Zaknavan patted Midi’s shoulder before leaving the arena.

In the championship’s second round, Midi advanced, Mason got a bye, and Zaknavan was eliminated.

The final match began.

“Championship final—Midi versus Mason!” the judge announced, sparking cheers as the lanky dark elf stepped forward. His silver dual pistols gleamed at his waist, and the long spear beneath his cloak could strike from a kilometer away. The sight instantly reminded Midi of their clash years ago.

Mason clearly remembered it too.

“Midi Asreks…” Mason enunciated each syllable coldly.

Unlike dark elves who’d never seen the surface, Mason had roamed human kingdoms as part of the Blood Blade Thieves Guild.

He’d aimed to forge a dark elf legend aboveground—until Midi shattered that dream.

Now stood the human who’d severed both his arms.

“So it was you at the Elven Kingdom,” Midi stated.

“Correct,” Mason replied flatly. “Never expected a human like you to crawl into the Shaded Realm.”

“Long story. But don’t flatter yourself—I didn’t come here chasing you,” Midi said wryly.

“Who’d chase a defeated mutt running with its tail between its legs?” Mason sneered, unamused.

Their exchange felt almost cordial for former enemies.

But the stands erupted anew.

Mason had lost to Midi before?

The day’s shocking rumors piled so high that dark elves sat numb.

Though labeled slaves, Mason and Zaknavan were elites from Cities, indebted to the Wolfspider tribe for saving their lives.

None saw them as true slaves. With their skills, they’d have earned Tribe Warrior status within months.

Yet now?

One got overwhelmed by Midi until begging to stop. The stronger one had already been bested by him!

Wolfspider members reeled, half-convinced humans ruled the world.