Reborn as the Archmage's Rival
Chapter 37: Echoes of Impact

Chapter 37: Echoes of Impact

The silence that followed the duel was heavier than any spell.

Arin Valis lay motionless near the heart of the ring, her limbs slack but breath steady, the last sparks of her lightning spell fading into the air like dying stars. Across from her, Lucien Ashford knelt on one knee, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. He wasn’t unconscious—yet—but the toll of what he’d just done clung to him like weight in his bones.

Then came movement.

A shimmer of green light appeared at the edge of the ring, slow and spiraling, like leaves carried on a gentle breeze. A soft, soothing scent followed—spring rain and lavender. It seemed to hush the residual tension in the arena before her figure even came into view.

Professor Saelira.

The Chief Healer of Virellia stepped lightly onto the dueling field, her emerald robes trailing behind her like flowing riverwater. Gold thread gleamed along her sleeves and collar, and a slow halo of radiant sigils circled her wrists, rotating in calm, deliberate motion.

Her expression was serene—unbothered by the lingering charge in the air or the deep cracks scarring the ring’s stone. Her presence alone seemed to quiet the magic around her.

She walked first to Arin.

Kneeling beside the girl, Saelira extended a hand just above her chest. The sigils at her wrist flared slightly, casting pale green light that spread across Arin’s body like dew forming on a leaf. The bruises vanished. The tremors stilled. Her shallow breaths deepened, easing into rhythm. Her body relaxed, as though tension had been gently combed from her bones.

Without a word, Saelira shifted her focus to Lucien.

He hadn’t moved since her arrival, but his eyes were open, unfocused, his lips parted just slightly. When Saelira’s shadow fell across him, he blinked once.

"Is she...?" His voice was hoarse. Broken.

"She will recover," Saelira replied, voice calm and ringing with a soft, melodic cadence. "And so will you."

She touched two fingers to his temple, and light flowed outward, wrapping around his form. His shoulders slackened, the tightness around his jaw eased. His bruises lightened. The faint blood along his lip was washed away by the spell’s warmth.

Satisfied, she stood, turned her palms outward, and whispered a single word.

A wave of windless magic expanded from her fingertips—cool and luminous.

Both students lifted gently from the ground, suspended by graceful, swirling patterns of green light. The crowd stirred, but no one spoke. The moment was too sacred. Too final.

The dueling circle—burned and fractured—seemed to hold its breath.

As Saelira guided the two floating bodies off the field, the referee stepped forward. He raised one hand to the sky, channeling a command spell known only to tournament officiators. With a slow turn of his palm, golden light erupted from the very edge of the circle, running along its perimeter before striking inward in a web of gleaming threads.

Where the threads touched, the stone knit itself back together.

Cracks sealed. Scorch marks faded. Displaced dust vanished in ripples of clean energy.

By the time the referee lowered his hand, the arena floor was pristine again, untouched by chaos.

And high above, the air shimmered.

A tongue of fire coiled through the upper sky like a beckoning ribbon. The arena’s crowd looked up, murmuring in recognition. A figure appeared at the center of the flame, descending slowly on a wide, circular platform of burning glass.

The Headmaster of Virellia returned to the stage.

He stepped into view with his hands clasped behind his back. Flames trailed along the hem of his robes, wrapping his shoulders in a loose cloak of firelight that shimmered with every movement. His boots struck the conjured platform with soundless grace. The firelight around him dimmed just enough to frame his silhouette against the overcast sky of dusk.

When he spoke, his voice did not rise.

It didn’t need to.

"You have just witnessed," he said slowly, "the kind of battle that defines an era."

The words echoed, perfectly pitched to reach every seat in the arena, carried on enchantments built into the coliseum’s walls.

"Technique. Instinct. Power. And something more. Something divine."

He paused to let the silence breathe. The crowd leaned forward in waves.

"Lucien Ashford has proven his command over the battlefield. His grasp over spellwork and adaptation, his composure under pressure—all mark him as someone not only of great talent, but of rare presence."

A few students clapped, hesitantly. Others simply watched. Processing.

The Headmaster nodded once.

"But I would be remiss," he said, turning slightly, "if I did not speak to the brilliance of Arin Valis. A prodigy in every sense. Her technique, clarity of casting, battlefield awareness—she has raised the standard of what it means to fight with control. Her defeat today is not a failing. It is a fact of tournament structure."

He let that settle.

"By our law, she will not continue in the program’s official first-year track."

Murmurs rippled through the audience—disbelief, a few sighs, mostly quiet.

"But law does not limit legacy."

The Headmaster’s gaze lifted to the upper tiers of the coliseum, where observers from distant provinces, retired Visionaries, and unnamed sponsors watched behind enchanted veils.

"She will be offered a formal recommendation for placement in the Virellian Advanced Circuit," he said. "Where spellcasters of her caliber may pursue excellence beyond institutional restraint."

A moment passed.

Then he added, voice firmer now:

"Mages of this caliber remind us all—rank is temporary."

The flames around him intensified.

"Greatness is inevitable."

The applause came in full then—not thunderous, but powerful, carried on a wave of awe and respect. It was not for entertainment. It was for reverence.

Lucien Ashford. Arin Valis.

One had stood. One had fallen.

But both had risen.

As the cheers continued, the Headmaster turned and stepped off his conjured dais. The platform disintegrated behind him in a ring of glowing embers that slowly faded into the sky.

Below, the arena’s center remained still, clean, waiting.

For the next name.

For the next story.

The great crystal above the ring shimmered once, then pulsed with a low, resonant chime. Its surface, once dimmed, flared alive with light as a pair of names carved themselves across its face—etched in golden flame.

The next match was called.

There was no pause, no return to idle chatter. The crowd remained fixated as the two selected stepped down into the ring, casting long shadows beneath the arena’s conjured spotlights. No one cheered yet. The silence that Lucien and Arin had left behind lingered, like an invisible pressure clinging to the air.

Then the duel began.

Fast.

Clean.

Not one-sided—but decisive. The kind of clash that made students shift in their seats, murmuring things like "Did you see that one?" or "That counter was insane." The kind of fight that reminded everyone that the tournament wasn’t over. That the brilliance they’d just witnessed hadn’t been the only one on display today.

The crystal pulsed again.

Another match. Another pair.

More students stepping forward—some faces familiar, others not. All of them carrying that same fire in their eyes. A hunger to prove something. To themselves. To the world. To someone who may or may not even be watching.

A few of the duels were quick. Too quick. Mismatches, maybe. Or nerves.

Others stretched longer, with sharp flurries of movement and tense, breathless pauses. In one, a student nearly collapsed from exhaustion before they landed the final blow. In another, the victor barely managed to stay on their feet after the last exchange.

Each match left its own shape in the air, a different flavor of awe and admiration, or, in some cases, quiet pity.

Time moved strangely.

For Darius, it passed like fog—moments slipping in and out of clarity, his focus drifting between the ring, the names, and his thoughts.

Another pulse of golden light swept across the air, and this time, Darius sat up straight.

The crowd leaned forward.

And there it was.

Kai vs. Nerys.

The names hung in the air like a held breath.

Kai, seated just two rows down from Darius, let out a low whistle, stretching his neck left and right with two audible pops. He rose with an easy roll of his shoulders, his usual grin in place.

"Guess I’m up."

Aiden gave him a small nod. "You’ve trained enough."

Kai smirked, then looked up toward the glowing text above the arena.

His voice dropped quieter—just enough for Darius to catch it.

"I’ve waited for this."

No arrogance in it.

Just resolve.

Darius watched him go, silent.

Across the ring, Nerys was already walking down the opposite stairwell. Her posture was straight, deliberate. The moment her boots touched the stone, the air near the arena took on a subtle stillness. Not obvious. But it was there. Controlled. Ready.

Kai arrived second.

He jumped the last step, landing hard enough to send a faint rumble through the freshly repaired floor.

The crowd buzzed again—less awe, more curiosity.

No one was quite sure what to expect next.

Darius remained still.

In his mind, a memory played. One written long ago, before any of this had started. Before he had stepped into the world he had built.

Back then, he’d needed Kai to lose this match. It had served the story. The defeat was meant to humble him, test the strength of his resolve, show him the cost of overconfidence.

But now?

Now, the threads were loosening.

Not everything was following the script.

The world had already changed so much.

And maybe this could too.

The ring pulsed to life beneath their feet.

The duel was about to begin.

And Darius watched with quiet hope, wondering what would happen next.