Anomaly of Fate
Chapter 89: Victory In Sight

Chapter 89: Victory In Sight

The moment the shot connected, the entire arena erupted. A wave of stunned silence rippled through the crowd for a split second before an explosion of noise followed—gasps of disbelief, roars of exhilaration, and cries of outrage all blending into a deafening storm of voices. The air buzzed with raw energy, the audience teetering on the edge of their seats, eyes locked onto the battlefield with renewed intensity.

The smoke from the impact curled outward, but before it could clear completely, a sudden burst of light flickered within the dense fog.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Multiple magical projectiles shot forth from the heart of the smoke screen, streaking through the air like vengeful phantoms. Their glow left burning trails in their wake as they hurtled straight toward Alistair, who had already leapt away the moment he regained his footing.

Yet, the moment he moved, the projectiles twisted mid-air, their paths bending unnaturally.

They were homing in on him.

Alistair’s eyes narrowed. He landed against the stone floor, instantly springing into another evasive maneuver. His movements were sharp, precise—each step, each pivot were executed with flawless efficiency as he dodged the incoming attacks. But the projectiles did not relent. They adjusted to every shift, every sudden change in direction. He twisted, vaulted, and weaved between the glowing streaks of death, narrowly avoiding each one. The barrage was unrelenting, a relentless tide of destruction.

With no other choice, he shifted his stance mid-dodge, twisting his claymore up to intercept the closest projectile. The moment steel met magic—

BOOM!

The projectile detonated on impact, unleashing a concussive blast that sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield. Alistair staggered back, his grip tightening around his weapon. The force of the explosion had pushed him, but he remained standing. However, he had no time to recover.

There were still more of them.

Another shot hurtled toward him, followed by another, and another. Each glowing missile curved unnaturally through the air, locking onto him with unwavering precision. Alistair gritted his teeth. If he kept dodging, the onslaught would only continue. He needed to break the cycle.

As the next set of projectiles closed in, Alistair suddenly drove his claymore into the ground, rising his free hand in a sharp motion. The air around him crackled with a deep crimson light.

A pulse of energy erupted outward.

In an instant, a red barrier expanded from his position, forming a translucent dome of shimmering energy. The moment the first projectile struck, the entire arena was blinded by the ensuing explosion.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

One after another, the projectiles detonated upon contact with the barrier, their impact causing ripples to dance across its surface. Smoke and dust surged outward from the force of the blasts, momentarily obscuring the battlefield once more. The audience held their breath, their anticipation palpable, waiting to see the aftermath of the devastating exchange.

As the smoke slowly began to clear, the red barrier still stood, unwavering and absolute. Its surface shimmered ominously, pulsing with raw magical energy.

Alistair remained within, unscathed, alongside his claymore that was still embedded in the ground, his expression unreadable. His crimson eyes flickered through the thinning smoke, searching, calculating.

Then, at last, the smoke fully dissipated.

Mikhail stood in the open, his figure now fully visible on the battlefield. A large, gaping hole marred the ground beside him, a deep scar in the arena floor—probably the aftermath of the shot he had fired to thicken the smokescreen. He let out a low whistle, shoulders relaxed despite the tension still hanging thick between them.

"So that’s your Vital Crest, huh?" Mikhail mused, rolling his shoulders.

Alistair said nothing at first. His gaze remained locked onto Mikhail, scrutinizing him, measuring him. And then, finally, he spoke.

"As of right now, you should already understand the gap in our skill."

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his claymore, though he made no move to lift it.

"So I suggest you give up and answer the question I asked you earlier."

Mikhail raised a brow. Then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he tilted his head.

"Question? What question was that again?"

His tone was mocking, deliberately flippant, as if he had already dismissed the possibility of ever taking Alistair’s words seriously.

Alistair remained silent.

Then—red.

A deep, seething energy bled from his body, tendrils of crimson aura leaking into the air like embers rising from a dying fire.

Mikhail twitched—a near-imperceptible reaction, but a reaction nonetheless. With a cocky smirk, he lifted the firearm and aimed straight at Alistair.

"Eat lead."

BOOM!

Another magic-infused projectile tore through the air, streaking toward its target with lethal intent.

Alistair moved—but not to dodge.

Instead, he charged forward.

The projectile met him head-on, detonating in a brilliant explosion of light and force. Smoke and fire engulfed his form, obscuring him from view. For a brief second, Mikhail almost believed he had landed a clean shot.

Then—through the flames, through the smoke—he emerged.

Unscathed. Unstopped. Still coming.

Mikhail’s smirk twitched, a nervous edge creeping into his voice.

"Tch... Would you look at that?"

His fingers tensed, ready to fire another round—

Too late.

A burst of speed—Alistair was already in front of him.

Mikhail barely had time to register the glint of steel before the claymore smashed into him.

The impact was brutal. A raw, overwhelming force that tore through his defenses. A choked gasp left Mikhail’s lips as pain exploded across his ribs, his body launched backward like a ragdoll. Blood spurted from his mouth mid-air before he crashed onto the arena floor, skidding several meters before finally coming to a stop.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—the crowd erupted.

***

Among the eruption of the crowd, Velren remained still. His gaze locked onto the battlefield below, awe-struck by the raw exchange he had just witnessed.

He was right. Every single credit spent on this ticket was worth it.

But—by the looks of it—the fight had already reached its conclusion. With the red-haired noble stood victorious.

From above, Velren watched as Alistair took slow, measured steps toward Mikhail’s unmoving form. The once-arrogant marksman now lay face-down on the ground, utterly unconscious. His gun, previously gripped with confidence, lay just a few feet away, forgotten in the heat of battle.

The crimson aura that had bled from Alistair’s body began to dissipate, flickering away like embers in the wind. But not before Velren took note of it.

"That must’ve been his Vital Crest..."

Which meant—before he had invoked it—he fought Mikhail using only his raw Ka essence.

’That’s just ridiculous...’

Then, his eyes narrowed.

Alistair stood before Mikhail’s unconscious body, his claymore still in hand—gripped tightly.

Velren shifted forward, his brows furrowing.

’Hey, hey... Don’t tell me he’s going to—’

If Alistair was about to strike down another noble, here, in front of thousands—

Wouldn’t that be catastrophic?

Nobles dueling among themselves was one thing. But killing another noble? That wasn’t just a scandal. It could be a declaration. An offense that could spiral into a full-fledged blood feud between houses.

Suddenly—

Rumble.

The ground beneath the two fighters shook.

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