Anomaly of Fate
Chapter 90: Deadlock

Chapter 90: Deadlock

Every eye in the crowd was locked onto the arena, breaths held in anticipation. Even Alistair himself seemed convinced—it was over.

Mikhail lay motionless, face-down on the battlefield. His battered form was still, his gun resting uselessly at his side. And standing above him, victorious, was Alistair Rhaegis.

The red aura that had once bled from his body had long since faded, dissipating into the air like embers swallowed by the wind. His grip on his claymore loosened slightly as the weight of battle finally lifted from his shoulders.

The match had been decided.

But just as the moment settled, something shifted.

A low tremor pulsed through the ground, faint at first but unmistakable. It was subtle, yet Alistair’s brows furrowed ever so slightly as he took a step back. Before he could react further, the ground beneath him lurched.

Then—

BOOM!

A sudden burst of light from directly below.

A projectile tore out of the earth, aimed directly at him.

Alistair’s eyes widened, his instincts screaming at him to move. But it was too late. His body was at ease, his Ka completely deactivated, and there was no time to react. The moment the shot struck, the entire arena was swallowed by another violent explosion.

The detonation sent a shockwave rippling through the air, throwing dust and debris skyward. A deafening silence followed—one of disbelief, of sheer incomprehension. The crowd, moments ago caught in celebration, was now in a state of pure shock.

Then, chaos.

Gasps. Screams. A mixture of voices clashing all at once. Some in awe, others in terror. Had Alistair actually been struck down? Had the fight not been over?

Velren, like everyone else, was frozen for a brief second before his mind raced to piece together what had just happened. His eyes narrowed, flickering through the battlefield as the smoke began to clear.

And there he was.

Alistair lay on the ground, motionless. His claymore was a few feet away from him, the once-imposing weapon now nothing more than a fallen relic on the shattered arena floor.

"What... the fuck just happened?" Velren muttered, his voice barely audible amidst the crowd’s stunned silence.

His expression, no doubt, mirrored the same disbelief plastered across the faces of the spectators. That had been one of Mikhail’s explosive projectiles—there was no mistaking it. The lingering traces of Ka, the way it had detonated upon impact, all of it pointed to his distinct form of spell-infused rounds. But the question was, when did he fire it?

Velren’s sharp gaze flickered toward the unconscious noble. Mikhail hadn’t moved an inch since hitting the ground. He was still out cold, his face buried against the cracked stone. It wasn’t possible that he had fired off another shot in that state. Yet, the evidence was undeniable.

His eyes shifted toward the battlefield, locking onto the gaping hole left by the attack. It wasn’t just a shallow impact crater—it had emerged from underground. And that was when something clicked. His focus darted to another part of the arena, back to where Mikhail had first come into view after the dust had settled. Another hole. A perfect mirror to this one.

"I see..." Velren exhaled, realization sinking in.

Back then, when the entire field had been swallowed by smoke, two distinct gunshots had rung out. One had been obvious—it was probably meant to thicken the cover, ensuring that no one could track Mikhail’s movements. But the second shot... that had been different. It wasn’t meant for concealment. It had been planted.

A delayed strike. A homing projectile, sent burrowing beneath the battlefield, unseen by all.

Velren could already picture it, the way the magic-infused round must have slithered through the broken earth, weaving its way toward its designated target with patient precision. And the moment Alistair had let his guard down, the moment his Ka had fully receded—that was when it struck. A perfectly timed execution. A contingency hidden within the chaos of battle.

’Damn...’

Velren clicked his tongue, half in amusement, half in disbelief. Did Mikhail actually plan that far ahead? Or was it simply a gambler’s instinct, taken to its absolute extreme? Either way, the outcome spoke for itself. Against all odds, Alistair had been taken down in the final moment, his overwhelming presence shattered by a single, unseen strike.

Before Velren could dwell on it further, the arena’s intercom buzzed to life, crackling through the stadium before a composed voice echoed across the coliseum.

"The match has concluded. The result—draw."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mixture of astonishment, debate, and even frustration at the unexpected outcome. Some spectators cheered, thrilled by the battle’s spectacle, while others voiced their discontent. A tie? After all that? For many, it felt inconclusive, as though they had been denied the decisive victory they craved.

In accordance with the arena’s regulations, a tie was declared when neither combatant could continue, whether due to unconsciousness, incapacitation, or mutual agreement. Typically, in such cases, the duel would be reviewed, and if necessary, external officials could intervene to determine the validity of the match’s conclusion. However, in this instance, the ruling was clear—both fighters were down, and neither had the strength to claim victory.

Velren exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Now... what the hell should I do?"

His mind drifted, unable to shake the thought of what might have happened had Mikhail’s final attack not landed. If Alistair had remained standing, if he had reached Mikhail in that moment with his claymore still gripped tightly in his hands... Was he truly about to kill him?

’Surely he’s not that stupid...’

Noble duels were common enough, but killing another noble—especially in a public match—was something else entirely. That would’ve been more than just a scandal. It could’ve set off a cascade of political consequences, a grudge that might escalate into something far more dangerous.

From the very beginning, Velren hadn’t been able to hear the conversation between the two fighters before the battle began, but it wasn’t hard to guess. Mikhail must have asked about the material, the same thing that Velren was curious about. But Alistair’s reaction... what was it? Velren hadn’t been able to catch a good look at his expression back then from afar.

’Too many questions, not enough answers...’

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of officials in dark uniforms. Without delay, stretchers were brought in, and both combatants were carefully lifted onto them. Alistair lay motionless, his crimson hair a stark contrast against the white fabric, while Mikhail, equally unconscious, bore the signs of his own struggle.

With practiced efficiency, the officials carried them off the arena floor, leaving behind only the remnants of the battle.

"Guess I’ll head back too..."

Search the lightnovelworld.cc website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.