Chapter 67 – Tactical vs. Flair (Part 1)

  The bell rune blared.

  Arne moved first.

  In a blur, he snapped his shotgun sideways and pulled the trigger—not at Seven, but at the floor. The recoil kicked like a mule, launching his wiry frame into a sliding sprint across the battlefield. Sand and debris were scattered under the blast, and smoke flared in his wake.

  Seven’s eyes widened. He used the recoil to move?

  Before the human could adjust, Arne pivoted mid-slide, his rifle already materializing from a glyph along his hip. He twisted upside-down as if gravity were optional, lining a bead on Seven’s chest.

  “Smile for me, rookie!” Arne laughed.

  The crowd roared at the flashy stunt. Fluffy slapped her thighs, cackling. “That’s so Arne! Look at him show off!”

  Raven’s gaze narrowed, unimpressed. “Flair without discipline gets you killed.”

  Seven had no time for commentary. He forced mana into his body, muscles tightening, breath shortening. Enchanted Combat—low surge. His frame blurred just enough to slip the incoming volley, the shots crackling against the rune barriers behind him. It was his first time using this technique in months; it felt slightly different from before, with better control, but the strain was still there.

  He rolled hard into cover, lungs burning, body buzzing from the brief mana flare. He couldn’t hold that state long without draining himself. Use it, don’t lean on it.

  “Not bad, soldier boy!” Arne called, his boots already ricocheting off a conjured mana platform mid-air. He fired downwards in a spiral, bullets carving a ring of sparks where Seven crouched. “But you’re playing checkers in a gunman’s game.”

  Seven exhaled, steady hands drawing the magic-tech handgun. The weight sat wrong in his palm—too big for his grip—but familiar enough. Breathe. Align. Squeeze.

  His return shot cracked out, not showy, not elegant—just aimed center-mass.

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  Arne twisted in the air, the round grazing past his shoulder in a flash of violet light. He grinned wider. “Oooh, he’s got teeth! This might be fun after all.”

  Miss Hopps leaned forward, elbows on knees. Her eyes tracked every move of Seven’s one-armed stance. “He’s using soldier discipline. No wasted motion.”

  Ripper folded his arms, a grin tugging at his mouth. “And Arne’s making it a circus. Good. Let’s see which breaks first: control or chaos.”

  Seven chambered another shot into the handgun, forcing his mana to trickle into the weapon—slow, deliberate. Any more, and Brinley’s warnings would come true. The barrel hummed hot under his grip.

  Arne landed lightly atop a jagged stone mound, raising his rifle high. “Alright, rookie! Round two: let’s dance!”

  The crowd buzzed louder, sensing the fight had only just begun.

  The dust had barely settled before Arne snapped a fresh mana cell into his rifle with a dramatic twirl, the weapon humming to life. He grinned wolfishly across the field.

  “Don’t blink, rookie—you’ll miss the fireworks.”

  "Do you always chatter in a firefight?!"

  Seven steadied his breathing behind the shattered stone mound, training handgun warm in his palm. He couldn’t let himself overcharge it, not with Brinley’s furious glare drilling into the back of his head from the stands. If I slip, I don’t just lose the fight—I blow the damn gun apart.

  He flicked mana into his veins, Enchanted Combat—low surge. The world sharpened, time slowing just enough to slip between incoming rounds. He sprinted cover to cover, rolling into a crouch, firing once, twice.

  Arne’s ears twitched. “Good! That’s soldier discipline!” he called, vaulting onto a broken tile. “But you’re not fighting soldiers—you’re fighting artists!”

  He leapt high, blasting his shotgun downward, the recoil kicking him higher still. A conjured mana platform shimmered into being midair—he landed, flipped upside down, and sprayed rounds in a perfect spiral around Seven’s cover.

  The crowd erupted. Fluffy was on her feet, clapping wildly.

  Seven ducked low, lips tightening. He didn’t chase spectacle—he chased efficiency. He broke from cover, handgun braced in his one good hand, and fired three controlled shots.

  Arne twisted through the air, recoil bursts snapping him sideways, one round grazing his sleeve. “Close, soldier boy! Close enough to sting!” he laughed, ears flattened from the near-hit.

  From the upper row, Miss Hopps leaned forward, her sharp red eyes narrowing. “He’s compensating. Every trigger pull, he cuts the surge, disengages the boost before he fires.”

  Fluffy blinked. “Wait—he’s… turning his spell off between shots? Why?”

  Raven’s voice was flat, cutting through the noise. “Because if he didn’t, those weapons would have melted by now. He’s holding himself back.”

  Brinley crossed her arms, scowling. “And even then, he’s one slip away from frying my guns. I swear if he breaks the shotgun—”

  On the floor, Seven surged from cover, this time meeting Arne head-on. The human’s body blurred with mana, juking past incoming fire, closing the gap. He slid low, handgun barking once at point-blank range.

  Arne blocked with the barrel of his rifle, the clash sparking like flint. He kicked back, laughter booming. “Yes! That’s it! That’s the fire I wanted!”

  The two separated, circling. Arne reloaded in a showy spin, shells snapping into the chamber with casual precision. Seven holstered his handgun and pulled the lever-action shotgun from across his back, one arm bracing it against his side.

  The watchers leaned in as one.

  Seven racked the action, aimed steadily, and fired—one booming volley ripping across the arena.

  Arne juked aside with a kinetic pulse, but even he couldn’t dodge the scatter completely; pellets skimmed his thigh, tearing fabric and drawing a hiss through his teeth.

  The crowd gasped.

  Seven lowered the barrel slightly, his breathing heavy but steady. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t showboating. He was just… fighting.

  Arne’s grin only widened. “Not bad, Lucky Seven. Not bad at all. Let’s see how long you can keep that rhythm before your toys break.”

  The arena vibrated with anticipation, every eye glued to the clash—flair versus grit, style versus discipline—and the fight was only heating up.