REINCARNATION OF THE STRONGEST WAR HERO
Chapter 40: HE IS MORE DANGEROUS

Chapter 40: HE IS MORE DANGEROUS

"Wait... did he actually win?"

"He won?! After all that? After getting hit like that?"

"I thought he was done for. No way anyone survives that!"

"He took a spell that looked like Tier 3 or even higher—head-on—and still stood back up. That’s insane!"

"Not just stood up... he fought back. Ended the match. That’s not just talent—that’s sheer willpower."

"But wasn’t Lira Wynn only a Tier 2 mage? How did she even cast spells like that?"

"You think she used an artifact?"

"That’s illegal, isn’t it?"

"Of course it is."

"Then someone needs to check. This year’s tournament is getting wilder by the hour."

The commoner stands crackled with energy. Voices clashed and overlapped as theories, doubts, and awe collided in the air. Everyone had seen the match—no one fully understood it.

"Most would’ve passed out cold from a wound like that."

"He didn’t even cast anything at the end. I swear—it looked like pure physical movement."

"But that’s too fast for raw physical movement, right? No magic boost at all? Come on, you’re seeing ghosts."

"Still—he took a hit like that and walked it off. Who is this kid really? Why have we never heard of him before?"

Up in the noble balconies, the reactions were quieter—but no less intense.

Kael Thorne leaned toward Mirena, voice low. "That boy... isn’t just talented. It felt like he really didn’t use any magic at all in that final moment. That was something else entirely."

Mirena said nothing. Her face was pale, unreadable. But her hands were clenched around the edge of her seat. She knew what Logan could do without magic. She had already seen it before—when Darius lost to Logan even while his mana core was still sealed.

A few seats over, Alek Albrecht didn’t even glance at his son.

"Zephyr," he said calmly. "I have full confidence in your ability. But if you face that boy... be cautious. Both times, it looked like he’d lose. And both times, he flipped the board."

Zephyr nodded once. Calm. Collected.

He didn’t come to win trophies or chase glory. If Logan was strong, he welcomed it. He was here for a real challenge—and nothing else.

On the opposite end, Marquess Yale leaned toward his son.

"Rovan," he muttered. "Your next match may very well be against that boy. Don’t lose. If you do, our entire family will look like fools beside a minor noble house."

Rovan didn’t reply. His eyes were locked on the cracked battlefield below. The usual smugness in his expression had faded—replaced by something tighter. Wariness.

In another section of the balcony, Noah Starwind observed quietly. His wife, Emily, sat beside him, arms folded, brow tight.

"Emily?" he asked softly. "You’ve been quiet since the time you checked Logan’s condition. Something bothering you?"

She didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze lingered on the corridor where Logan had been carried away. There was concern in her eyes... and something else. Uncertainty.

She finally spoke. "That boy... there’s more to him than just strength. But I still can’t be sure of it. I need to talk with him first. Before I speak of what I think."

Noah didn’t press further. He knew his wife well enough to trust her instincts.

A few seats away, Lilith leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. Her gaze was locked on the fighting stage.

"Nothing’s interesting anymore," she muttered.

"What do you mean?" someone nearby asked.

She didn’t even turn her head. "After that match, everything else feels... tame. That boy—Logan—he’s different. Maybe he’s the only one worth fighting here. The only one who might make me enjoy the battle."

For the first time, Lilith felt truly stirred. Logan had impressed her—but her confidence in her own power remained unshaken.

She wasn’t alone in that sentiment.

The entire arena buzzed with the same realization—something had shifted. The tournament had changed. A name that wasn’t on anyone’s lips before... now lingered in everyone’s mind:

Logan Smith.

Even Morgan Benedict, silent and still as stone, lingered near the balcony rail longer than usual. His eyes remained locked on the field.

His expression didn’t change. But his thoughts were sharper than ever.

"To come back from the edge like that... that’s not just power. That’s purpose."

"I don’t know who he is. But he’s earned my respect."

Meanwhile, on the stage below, the next match had already begun.

Vaylen Mord, a Tier 2 water mage, moved with fluid grace. Each strike and barrier flowed like a stream—elegant, reactive, unbroken.

Opposite him stood Renald Keir, a Tier 2 lightning mage with a rare dual-wand technique. Crackling arcs of electricity burst from both hands, jagged and fast.

The clash was sharp, fast, and well-executed.

But the crowd barely watched.

Not because it lacked excitement—but because Logan’s match had eclipsed everything.

Inside the healer’s chamber...

Logan lay still on a cot, his chest tightly wrapped in bandages. His breaths were shallow but steady.

Alice sat at his side, her hand wrapped around his. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks.

A healer worked quietly, channeling gentle recovery spells across his ribs and shoulder.

"You stubborn boy..." she whispered.

Across from her, Rudeous stood, arms crossed, his jaw tight. He was worried—but beneath that was something stronger.

Pride.

Logan had turned the entire arena on its head. He hadn’t just proven himself—he had uplifted the Smith family in front of all of Arcadia.

He rested a hand on Alice’s shoulder.

"He’ll be alright, Alice. Don’t worry. You know what he’s capable of. He saved you alone from those kidnappers. He’ll come back from this too."

Alice sobbed softly, unable to reply. She knew he was strong—but a mother’s heart never stopped fearing.

The healer, still casting recovery spells, finally spoke. " Mr. and Mrs. Smith. No need to worry at all. Your son will be walking on his hands by sunrise tomorrow." He said with a polite smile on his face.

And that statement calmed Alice’s condition a bit.

Elsewhere at that same moment.....

Just two chambers distant...

Lira Wynn lay unconscious, her breathing ragged but stable. Her pale face twitched now and then, and faint glimmers of broken mana flow pulsed along her veins.

The healer who had been tending to her checked her vitals one last time before sighing in relief.

"She’s out of danger," he said. "It’s amazing she survived at all."

"But it’s still hard to to believe that a kid did this..."

"Yeah. Let’s go. She’ll be fine with rest."

The healers exited the room.

The moment the door shut—shadows shifted.

From the dim corners, two cloaked figures emerged.

One bore a jagged scar running across his cheek.

The other stepped forward, checking door. Then he spoke in a hushed tone.

"Her mana flow is deteriorating. The disguise won’t hold much longer."

The scarred man’s voice was colder than steel.

"We need to inform King Malrik immediately. That boy... he’s more dangerous than Prince Rowan. If we let him grow unchecked..."

He looked down at Lira’s unconscious form.

"She can’t stay here. The face spell is unstable. If anyone checks her now, the illusion will collapse."

"What about the real Lira Wynn?"

"Send word. Kill her. We can’t afford any trace."

The subordinate nodded grimly.

"I’ll carry her. Let’s disappear before anyone notices."

He bent down and lifted Lira into his arms.

But just as he turned toward the door—

A voice cut through the silence. Cold. Commanding.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

To be continued...

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