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Dark clouds loomed over Zhongjing City, stretching endlessly across the sky. June had already brought the scorching summer sun, but today, it remained hidden behind the dense overcast. Unfortunately, this wasn't some grand omen foretelling a world-shaking event—it was just an ordinary cloudy day.
Even those who wielded extraordinary powers as spellcasters had to abide by the laws of nature. Just because Tiangong City basked under the sun 365 days a year didn't mean Zhongjing City below couldn't have a break from the heat and enjoy some shade. Thick clouds covered the skies below, yet the tournament above proceeded as usual.
The Young Spellcaster Duel Tournament—often called the "Little World Cup"—served as the appetizer to the grand World Duel Tournament. The final day of the youth competition was the most anticipated. The morning featured the battle for the top three, deciding the champion, runner-up, and third-place winner. The afternoon brought the chaotic 96-man battle royale, where competitors unleashed techniques too grand for the dueling stage. Many of the most earth-shattering moments in tournament history had come from this very free-for-all.
As the saying goes, showing off is one of humanity's greatest driving forces for progress. This tournament, the magical equivalent of the Quidditch World Cup, was a battleground where every self-proclaimed king of style came to make their mark. If you had the guts, you stepped onto this stage.
Compared to the previous days, the audience today had more than doubled in size. Even before Harry entered the arena, the deafening roar from the crowd made him instinctively glance outside.
"Wait until you compete in the World Tournament—then you'll really be shocked," said Professor Flitwick with a knowing smile. "That's an event watched by at least a hundred thousand people. For now, just focus on today's match. Your stage will only grow from here."
"Nervous?" Harry withdrew his gaze, looking innocently at Professor Flitwick. "My hands feel a bit stiff, but that's all."
"Nervous? Shouldn't that be…" Flitwick mumbled in confusion. "Shouldn't it be shaky legs instead?"
At precisely 9:00 AM, a lone figure stepped onto the main stage. Unlike other announcers, who hyped up the crowd with infectious energy, his voice was cold and rigid—completely at odds with the arena's fiery atmosphere.
But no one found it odd. After all, today's announcer was only filling in as a guest. And as a seven-time consecutive World Duel Tournament champion, still holding the record for the longest winning streak in history—
"I am Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov."
"I will be today's host, commentator, and one of the chief referees for the Young Spellcaster Duel Tournament finals. However, as you all know, I'm only an amateur at this, so—"
Big Ivan raised his hand and pointed forward.
"Let's get today's stars onto the stage!"
His thunderous voice boomed through the entire coliseum.
"First contender—representing Taishi Celestial Dynasty: Li Jiannan! Age 18. The fastest duelist of this tournament, averaging only 0.31 seconds per match. So far, not a single opponent has survived even one of his strikes."
The moment his name was called, Li Jiannan emerged from the waiting area, his expression as cold as ever. A sword case rested on his back. Without a word, he gave a small nod to the audience before calmly stepping onto the stage.
"Second contender—representing the Kingdom of Chimu Mochica: Tupac Yupanqui! Age 23. The youngest full professor in Castrobusch in nearly a century. His overwhelming victories have been nothing short of dominant. Can he maintain his perfect record today?"
A young man in a deep green dueling robe strode forward with elegance. Perched on his shoulder was a tiny plant-like creature that waved at the audience. Yet in the blink of an eye, the little creature vanished, as if it had never existed.
"Third contender—representing the magical community of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland: Harry Potter! The youngest competitor in this tournament at just 13 years old. But in a world of miracles and endless possibilities, age is never a measure of strength. Will he once again deliver a spectacle beyond our imagination?"
Unfazed by the attention, Harry strolled onto the stage, waving casually to the crowd. He fought back the urge to let loose and run wild. Some people got anxious in high-stakes situations. Some thrived under pressure, growing steadier the bigger the stage.
Harry, however, was different. The bigger the crowd, the more excited he got. He was like a husky left home alone, his mind repeating the same thought over and over— "Cause chaos! Stir up trouble! Make a scene!"
"Remember, Harry, you're no longer just some P-strategy game player. You need morals, dignity, and restraint. No matter how tempting it is, you can't just yank down someone's pants in the middle of the match. Sure, it'd be hilarious, exhilarating, and mentally devastating for your opponent, but this isn't a game where you can reload a save. Mischief is fun, but there's a limit. Stay classy."
With that self-imposed pep talk, Harry straightened his face as he stepped onto the platform. No one noticed anything unusual in his demeanor. Once all three contenders had taken their places, the draw for match order began.
Red, red, white!
Sealed wooden sticks determined the sequence of matches. Regardless of the outcome, all three competitors had to fight each other once. While the match order itself wasn't crucial, the first duel's winner would be at a slight disadvantage.
With only 30 minutes of rest between matches, recovering from a grueling fight might not be enough—especially against a tough opponent. Worse, the winner would have already revealed many of their techniques, giving their next opponent an edge. But those who sought the championship trophy and medal knew that overcoming such hardships was part of the test.
Harry, who had drawn a bye for the first round, returned to the waiting area. Yet his eyes never left the dueling stage. This 50 by 5-meter arena would soon witness an unforgettable battle.
The referee raised his right hand—then pulled the trigger.
The starting gun's explosive crack shattered the silence of the stadium.
And at that exact moment—
Slash!
A flash of cold light, faster than the eye could follow.
For the audience, Li Jiannan's fights had always lacked a certain aesthetic beauty. His matches ended far too quickly. Even in slow-motion replays, it was nearly impossible to discern whether the streak of light was a razor-sharp blade or a miniature sword.
In a single, imperceptible instant—
His sword had already torn through his opponent's defenses.
The blade sliced through flesh.
A head flew into the air.
The scarlet protective barrier flared to life.
At this moment, everything on the dueling stage seemed unchanged. After the flash of cold light, a head soared high into the air.
Just as the audience was thinking, "Is it over?" the gaping wound at the cut's edge made them pause.
The fragile, cocoon-like shell—its material unknown—shattered into countless fine dust particles, dispersing with the decoy body of Tupac, along with his real form, vanishing from the stage.
"It's not invisibility! At least not an illusion spell!"
Harry didn't see a second magical form on the stage. The smoke from the shattered decoy made the arena appear as though it were veiled in a thin mist—a deep blue haze that flowed like seawater, continuously moving.
"This isn't magic either!"
Harry's pupils narrowed as he refocused. The dust-filled mist wasn't ordinary debris; it was alive—tiny, vibrant spores with life force.
Wherever these spores covered, the naked eye could see a transparent, delicate "fungal carpet" spreading across the area. Tupac was using some strange method to transform the entire dueling arena into his domain. Compared to using transfiguration to create a controlled "transformed domain," this spore-infiltrated land was far more aggressive and dangerous than it appeared.
While most of the audience remained bewildered, unsure of what had happened, Li Jiannan, who had been unfazed up until now, raised his right hand, forming a sword gesture across his chest.
"Rise!" he commanded softly. At that moment, the sword case on his back glowed, and a delicate, small flying sword leapt out, hovering above the stage like a star. Then came a second, third, and an uncountable number of shining blades, resembling countless stars in the sky.
At this point, Harry truly understood the meaning behind what Xiong De had once told him—that this man carried half of the Southern Heavenly Gate on his back.
And he wasn't wrong.
For a moment, Harry, who had once considered himself a seasoned gamer, felt utterly dwarfed. The thousands of flying swords hanging above the arena, like a sword cloud, shimmered with cold light. They gleamed like stars in the night sky, their sharp, chilling edges so piercing that one couldn't help but squint or even tear up from their intensity.
The four heavenly gates, guarding and uniting the entire Taishi Celestial Dynasty, were truly national treasures. And this sword case, once belonging to the Qinglian Sword Immortal, was perhaps an eighth of that power.
Perhaps, Harry thought, a spectacular final performance was the greatest acknowledgment of an opponent's strength?
In a daze, people seemed to hear a clear voice softly reciting:
"A waterfall of three thousand feet, looks like the Milky Way has fallen from the heavens."
And then, the sword waterfall hanging in the sky descended—thousands of star-like points crashing down in unison.
Underneath the torn crimson carpet, thousands of roots shot upward, like massive plant tendrils capable of strangling giants. But under the overwhelming sword light, they were reduced to dust in an instant. Resistance was futile. On this small stage, there was nothing that could resist the cutting light barrier.
A scarlet glow flickered in the falling sword rain. The previously disappeared Tupac reappeared, only to be pierced by dozens of sword lights. Had it not been for the crimson light barrier, which blocked more attacks, the audience might not have even seen a trace of his remains.
At this moment, Harry understood why the other ancient magical schools had faded from history, while the Sword Cultivation sect had survived for millennia.
Sword cultivators didn't rely on flashy tactics; they prized decisive combat. When the sword was drawn, blood was sure to follow.
Though Harry remained in the waiting room, he could almost feel countless eyes turning toward him. These weren't mocking gazes, but those of sympathy and pity—a pure, untainted look reserved for someone about to face an overwhelming challenge.
It was said that once every few hundred years, a prodigy would emerge, dominating the world.
That prodigy, at this moment, stood on the opposite side of the stage, untouched by the sword light. He calmly turned his head and met Harry's eyes, as if saying, "I'm waiting for you to come face me."
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(End of Chapter)