God's Tree-Chapter 219: Just a Stick

The arena of the Grand Magic Academy was more than just a battleground—it was a relic of the world's oldest duels.

Circular and vast, built into the floating stone of a skybound coliseum, the dueling arena hovered above the main campus, connected by shimmering gravity bridges. Students lined the tiered balconies. Professors stood at rune-warded observation posts. Even a few elders had gathered in upper boxes, hidden behind illusion veils.

They had all come to see one thing.

Argolaith.

He entered the coliseum floor through the south gate, alone. No entourage. No arcane armor. No enchanted relics.

No crest.

No glowing sigils.

Only a simple black coat and, in his hand…

A wooden sword.

No carvings. No aura. Just smooth, treated wood. Well-balanced. Light.

The murmurs spread like wildfire.

"Is that seriously all he's bringing?"

"He's facing Caelus with a training blade?"

"Does he think this is some kind of exhibition match?"

Caelus stood at the opposite end of the arena, clad in his duelist's uniform—dark red and gold-trimmed, fitted with layered spell-thread padding and elegant blade gauntlets etched with fire logic circles.

His weapon of choice: a long, rune-inscribed saber glowing faintly with containment magic.

He frowned as Argolaith walked forward without haste, the wooden blade resting casually across his shoulder.

Caelus raised his voice for all to hear.

"What's this supposed to be?"

Argolaith stopped five paces from him, his expression unreadable.

"A duel."

"No, I mean that." Caelus pointed with his blade. "You're bringing a stick to a live-sparring match? Am I not good enough to warrant an actual weapon?"

Argolaith met his gaze evenly.

"I've only had magic for a week or two. I'm still learning what it even is."

That earned more murmurs.

Caelus arched an eyebrow. "Then how old are you?"

The question hung in the air.

Argolaith didn't hesitate.

"Nineteen."

The entire coliseum went silent.

No whisper. No reaction. Just collective stillness.

A first-year.

Nineteen.

And facing one of the academy's strongest sixth-years with nothing but a training blade.

Caelus' expression twitched. Just for a second.

Then he laughed.

"You really are arrogant."

Argolaith rolled his shoulders.

"Or maybe I'm just not afraid of you."

The air rippled.

The arena's central sigil flared—marking the start of the match.

And the moment the last rune turned gold—

Argolaith moved.

No chant. No posture. No drawn magic.

He closed the distance in a heartbeat.

Caelus raised his saber to block, but Argolaith's wooden sword snapped toward his ribs with a speed that defied expectation.

Crack.

Caelus staggered back a step.

He hadn't been hit full-on—but the force of the blow had broken through his defensive stance.

Before he could counter, Argolaith pivoted and followed with a second strike—angled upward toward the shoulder, switching to a reverse grip mid-swing.

Caelus barely ducked.

He kicked out, trying to gain distance, but Argolaith didn't give it. He stepped inside, parried with the flat of his wooden blade, then slammed the hilt into Caelus' gauntlet with precision.

Another crack.

Sparks flared from the gauntlet's runes.

Caelus growled and leapt backward, casting a fire step spell to reposition across the arena.

He landed in a crouch, eyes burning now—not just with magic, but with frustration.

"You're faster than you look."

Argolaith didn't respond. He adjusted his grip again.

His footwork was simple. Grounded. But every step had weight. Every movement was exact.

Caelus summoned a flame arc with a snap of his blade, slashing toward Argolaith's midsection.

The fire curled in midair—but Argolaith turned with it, rolling beneath the heat and deflecting the tail end of the flame with his wooden sword like it were steel.

Another gasp from the crowd.

Caelus gritted his teeth and cast a triple-ignition feint—a rare dueling move that fired flame spikes in three short bursts while concealing the fourth behind a blade sweep.

Argolaith read it perfectly.

He stepped through the fire—let it roll past his shoulder—and drove the hilt of his sword into Caelus' chest, sending him sliding several feet across the arena floor.

A wooden blade.

Against a fire-forged saber.

And yet—

Argolaith was leading the fight.

From the stands, murmurs grew louder. Some voices trembled with awe. Others with rising fear.

In the illusion-shrouded box high above, two elders leaned forward, exchanging quiet words.

"That boy…"

"No runes. No enchantments. And yet…"

"His control is terrifying."

Back on the floor, Caelus stood again, panting.

His expression was different now.

Not mocking.

Not amused.

Challenged.

He lifted his saber with both hands and spat blood from his mouth.

"Alright, Argolaith…"

"Let's stop pretending you're just a boy with a stick."

Caelus' stance shifted.

Gone was the polished elegance of a duelist playing to the crowd. His breath slowed. His grip tightened. The fire logic in his gauntlets burned brighter, etched lines of crimson flaring up his arms and vanishing beneath his collar.

No more games.

With a low hiss, the spell etched in his saber activated.

The weapon ignited—not with flame, but with compressed heat. The air shimmered around the blade, rippling like mirage-light in a desert.

"Let's see if your stick can block this."

He launched forward.

Faster than before.

His blade blurred, slashing in a precise six-point arc, each strike layered with magic-enhanced momentum. Trails of heat carved the air. Dust rose from the impact of his boots.

The crowd gasped.

But Argolaith—

He moved like water.

No wasted steps. No flinches. He let the saber pass within inches of his skin, leaning, pivoting, deflecting each blow with the flat of his wooden sword. Not a crack of strain. Not a hitch of breath.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of wood meeting steel—calm, rhythmic, impossibly confident.

Caelus roared and summoned a twin-flame spiral, spinning his blade in a blazing cyclone and leaping upward. He came down like a meteor, blade first, wrapped in his most powerful close-combat technique.

Argolaith didn't dodge.

He stepped into the arc—too close for full blade reach—and raised his wooden sword.

One strike. A short, clean upward block.

The spiral shattered mid-form.

The saber was knocked aside.

And Caelus, for the first time, lost his footing and stumbled back.

Argolaith didn't press the attack.

He just exhaled, softly, and tilted his head.

"You're strong."

Caelus growled, regaining balance.

"Then why aren't you fighting back seriously?"

Argolaith's voice was calm. Too calm.

"Because I don't need to."

Caelus's eyes burned.

"What did you say?"

Argolaith adjusted his grip on the wooden blade.

"It's like I'm sparring a young Saint beast. You're powerful… but unrefined. Relying too much on enchantments. You swing like someone who's always been the strongest in the room."

He stepped forward. His tone didn't rise, didn't mock.

"But you've never had to fight someone like me."

Caelus lunged again, faster, sloppier—more fury than form.

Argolaith deflected the strike with a single twist of his wrist, pivoted, and smacked the flat of his blade against Caelus' ribs. The blow echoed.

Caelus coughed.

Staggered.

Dropped to one knee.

"Damn… you…"

His eyes flared one last time with magic.

But it fizzled at the edges.

Empty.

He'd burned through too much, too fast.

And Argolaith hadn't used a single spell.

Just a wooden sword and unrelenting clarity.

The coliseum was silent.

All eyes were locked on the two figures in the center of the ring—one standing still, calm, untouched.

The other kneeling, panting, broken.

Caelus looked up, breathing hard, blood on his lip.

"Just wait…"

His voice cracked.

"Wait until the prodigies come back from personal training…"

His hand trembled against the arena floor.

"You're not the only monster in this Academy."

Argolaith's expression didn't change.

He simply turned, lowered the sword to his side, and began walking away.

"Then I'll deal with them when they arrive."