Sophia screamed,

"THAT WAS A FINAL-BOSS FIGHT!!"

Caria threw her notebook so high it curved into the stratosphere.

Lyra clapped with quiet pride.

Puddle burst into tears on Rhys's shoulder.

"MASTER ALIVE!! MASTER DID NOT TURN INTO DUST!!! YAAAY!!!"

Rhys, exhausted beyond words, lowered his head.

His vision blurred.

But he stayed standing.

Vera pushed herself up on shaking elbows. Her hair was a mess, her armor cracked, her blade broken in half, but her expression…

was pure satisfaction.

She looked at Rhys with a tired, brilliant smile.

"…Rhys," she whispered.

"You are terrifying."

Rhys finally found enough breath to answer.

"You're… not bad either."

Vera laughed again—quiet, tired, thrilled.

Then she pointed the broken half of her sword at him.

"Next time,I'm not losing."

Rhys smirked.

"Next time…don't hold back from the start."

Vera dropped the broken blade and fell onto her back again, too tired to sit.

"Shut up… I'm trying to breathe…"

The referee, who had been hiding behind a boulder the entire time, crawled out and shakily raised his arm.

"W-Winner…Rhys!!!"

The arena exploded with cheers.

Rhys finally let himself collapse backward into a sitting position.

Puddle hugged his face.

"MASTER BEST!! MASTER STRONGEST!! MASTER KING OF PUNCH-STABBING!!"

Rhys exhaled.

The fight was over.

The arena finally quieted as the roar of the crowd faded into scattered cheers and dizzy applause. Dust drifted down like ash. The broken tiles still smoked. Rhys, half-collapsed on the ruined floor, wiped sweat from his eyes as his heartbeat finally began to slow.

Footsteps approached.

Soft.

Careful.

Tired.

Vera limped toward him, armor half-destroyed, hair a chaotic mess, but still wearing that same battle-hungry smile.

She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips.

"…Well," she said, still catching her breath. "That was one hell of a qualifier match."

Rhys let out a shaky laugh.

"Yeah. Qualifier. Totally normal."

Puddle, clinging to his shoulder, nodded rapidly.

"YES MASTER, TOTALLY NORMAL FIGHT! ONLY BLEW UP HALF ARENA!"

Vera chuckled and shook her head.

"Top twenty, Rhys. And here I thought you'd crumble halfway."

Rhys groaned.

"I'm already crumbling."

She offered him a tired grin and leaned on a cracked pillar.

"You look like someone ran you through three mountains."

Rhys shot her a flat look.

"You nearly did."

Puddle raised his hand.

"AND MASTER NEARLY TURNED ELF LADY INTO GLITTER!"

Vera eyed Puddle with a raised brow.

"…Your familiar is interesting."

Rhys sighed.

"That's one word."

Vera rolled her shoulders, winced, then leaned closer with a mock-serious whisper.

"By the way… I have a small problem for you."

Rhys frowned.

"What now?"

She poked his chest with a cracked gauntlet.

"I'm going to be your bride."

Rhys froze.

"…My—what?"

She flicked his forehead.

"Kidding."

Rhys let out a long breath of relief—

But Vera spoke again, casually:

"…Mostly kidding."

Rhys stared.

"Why is that worse?"

She smirked and straightened her posture, stretching her sore arms.

"I'm not here to steal you, Rhys. Don't worry."

Puddle whispered,

"MASTER… ARE YOU SURE…?"

Vera ignored him and pointed her broken sword at Rhys with a grin.

"But I will be chasing you."

Rhys blinked.

"…Chasing me how?"

Her grin widened—sharp and bright.

"In power. In rankings. In titles. You beat me… so now you're the mountain I'm climbing."

She tapped his cheek with her gauntlet.

"Get used to it. You're my benchmark now."

Puddle gasped.

"MASTER GOT RIVAL WIFE NUMBER ONE!!!"

"Puddle. Stop," Rhys muttered.

Vera turned around, limping toward the exit of the smashed arena.

"Oh, and heal up fast."

She waved over her shoulder.

"Top twenty matches start after lunch."

Rhys's face went pale.

"…We're fighting AGAIN TODAY?!"

Vera flashed him a peace sign.

"Three hours. Good luck not collapsing!"

The moment she disappeared from view, Rhys fell backward onto the ground again.

"I'm absolutely going to die," he groaned.

Puddle patted his forehead reassuringly.

"NO MASTER. WE JUST TAKE VERY LONG PLAY-DEAD NAP!"

Rhys exhaled slowly.

Qualifiers were over.

Rhys lay flat on the shattered arena floor, staring at the sky as if it might kindly swallow him whole.

He didn't move.

He couldn't.

"…I need a new body," he muttered. "This one's broken."

Puddle, sitting proudly on his chest like a victory flag, nodded with absolute seriousness.

"MASTER NEEDS FULL BODY REPLACEMENT! PUDDLE APPROVES!"

Rhys weakly pushed her aside.

"No replacing anything. I just need… ten hours of unconsciousness."

A shadow fell over him.

Sophia stood there with both hands on her hips, hair frizzed from stress, glasses slightly crooked.

"Rhys," she said, voice trembling with outrage, "I came to watch a qualifier. A QUALIFIER. Not a battle between two walking natural disasters."

Caria arrived next, stumbling down the ruined stairs. She finally caught the notebook she had thrown earlier, only for it to hit her face.

She pointed at Rhys with shaking hands.

"I—I need a bigger notebook. A MUCH bigger one. Also, I hate you. Also, that was AMAZING."

Lyra approached more quietly, hands folded behind her back. She simply nodded.

"You fought well."

Rhys blinked.

"…Thanks."

She nodded again, satisfied.

"Please don't die before lunch."

Then she calmly walked away.

Sophia grabbed Rhys's arm and tried pulling him up—unsuccessfully.

"Come on. We need to get you healed."

Rhys didn't budge.

"I'm not moving. My soul left my body somewhere around the third explosion."

Puddle picked up his limp arm and waved it like a flag.

"MASTER OFFLINE. REBOOT LATER."

Caria dropped beside him, legs shaking.

"Rhys… how do you have this much power already? You were supposed to be normal!"

Rhys stared at the ceiling in dead silence.

"…I don't know. I'm also scared."

Sophia sighed and rubbed her temples.

"Of course you don't know. You're Rhys."

A group of healers finally rushed into the arena, looking horrified at the destruction.

One of them asked,

"Is he alive?"

Puddle puffed out his chest proudly.

"MASTER VERY ALIVE. JUST OVERCOOKED."

The healers nodded as if that explained everything.

They lifted Rhys onto a stretcher, started pouring healing spells over him, and dragged him toward the infirmary.

As he was carried away, Rhys groaned:

"Three hours… Three hours until the next match… Why…"

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