Final Life Online

Rhys exhaled slowly, a grin tugging at his lips.

This is better than I thought. Not just a mage set—this was built for someone like me.

Sliding his hand along the hilt of the Scholar's Blade, he could feel the set's resonance coursing through his mana and muscles alike, a perfect fusion of scholar and swordsman.

The system text faded, but Rhys lingered on the gleaming lines that confirmed his ownership of the Scholar's Set. He knew this name well.

The Ardent Academy Ruins—one of the most infamous dungeons in the old tomes he had read back in Moonmist. Once, it had been the crown of magical civilization, an academy so advanced that its scholars rivaled magus in knowledge. When it collapsed under its own ambition, its treasures were scattered, sealed behind wards and trials few could endure.

The Scholar's Set was one of those treasures. And right now, that dungeon was being occupied by the Silver Dragons—the guild of the MC. Of course, that regressor would seize the dungeon that gave the maximum profit in the initial days. His guild members raided it, and once or twice they get the sets, then sold the whole set through the Auction. That's why Rhys had been able to acquire it so easily.

A faint ripple spread through the resting hall as whispers passed between the waiting mages.

"Is that… the Ardent Scholar's Set?"

"Tch, rich bastard came here to show off."

"Humph, don't let him meet me. I'll destroy him."

Rhys ignored them, but inwardly he smirked. Exactly. Thanks to the Auction system and my knowledge, I've got the best one. This isn't just rare gear—it's the best possible foundation for a Magic Swordsman at Rank 1.

He flexed his hand, feeling the way spell formulae snapped into place with less resistance, how the Scholar's Blade hummed in harmony with his aura. The synergy was absolute—knowledge and steel, spell and strike.

When the system pinged again, announcing his upcoming fight, Rhys rose with quiet confidence. His robes shimmered faintly in violet light, the unmistakable mark of a true Scholar.

"Time to show them," he murmured, "why I came here."

The call echoed through the crystal-lined hall, and the great iron doors of the arena swung open.

Rhys stepped forward, each stride measured, Scholar's robes trailing faint violet light behind him. The token on his chest shimmered once, verifying his entry, before vanishing into the arena's system log.

[ Arena Match #42 – Begin Preparations ]

The crowd stirred. Some were idly sipping conjured drinks, others half-dozing, but the moment they saw who walked out, voices began to overlap.

"Wait—he's the new registrant, right? The one in the Scholar's Set?"

"No way. Already flaunting that gear? Hah, watch him get humbled."

On the opposite side, another gate slid open. A tall man in steel-grey robes emerged, the staff in his hand glowing with jagged blue light. His presence was like a storm bottled into human shape—sharp, volatile, impatient.

[ Opponent: Ryen Spera – Elementalist (Lightning) ]

The announcer's voice boomed from nowhere, amplified by layered runes.

"On the east platform—our new contender, the Scholar's Blade, a Magic Swordsman!"

A mixture of cheers and mocking laughter rose.

"And on the west—Rank 1 veteran, lightning-scorched and unbeaten in his last four matches… Ryen Spera!"

Thunder crackled from Ryen's staff as he raised it high, arcs snapping against the arena barrier. The spectators leaned forward, their eyes brightening with anticipation.

"What a delightful match we have—two melee-style mages! The Scholar's Blade versus the Storm Fang!"

Even among the sneers, curiosity glimmered. Most mages fought from a distance, drowning the battlefield in spells. Two who closed the gap and fought with steel and storm? That was rare.

Rhys tightened his grip on the Scholar's Blade. The hum of mana around him sharpened into a clear edge. His eyes met Ryen's, and in that charged silence, the arena thrummed with possibility.

[ Match Start in 3… 2… 1… ]

The arena floor flared, runes blazing to life.

Ryen wasted no time—his staff slammed against the ground, and lightning coiled upward like a striking serpent.

"Storm Fang!"

The bolt ripped across the arena, snapping toward Rhys with lethal speed.

Rhys didn't flinch. His left hand lifted, mana pulsing into shape.

"Mana Shield."

The translucent barrier shimmered into being, Scholar's Set amplifying its stability. The lightning struck—and shattered into sparks against the defense.

Gasps echoed through the stands. Blocking a Rank 1 mage's direct strike that easily was no small feat.

Rhys's blade was already moving. He layered his aura into steel, the runes of the Scholar's blade resonating with his will.

"Water Blade."

A surge of liquid mana coated the sword, its edge lengthening with a rippling blue gleam. He dashed forward, movements sharp, refined—like a swordsman in his own domain.

Ryen snarled, thrusting his staff forward.

"Thunder Lance!"

A jagged spear of lightning erupted, faster than an arrow.

Rhys's lips curved faintly.

"Magic Missile."

Five radiant bolts burst forth, spiraling into the lance midair. The explosion rocked the arena, smoke scattering. Through it, Rhys advanced unhurried, unbothered.

And then—he raised his hand.

A ripple of mana surged outward, three distinct hues blending into one: pale light, shadowy dark, and flowing water.

To the audience, it was simply overwhelming, a strange mix of elements few had seen at once.

Whispers spread in awe.

"What kind of magic is that?"

"I've never seen a Rank 1 with such control…"

Ryen hesitated, grip tightening on his staff. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "…Monster."

Rhys's gaze stayed calm, blade glowing with layered mana.

"Vertical Slash."

The strike carved through the arena air, a blinding arc of light-blue force. It split Ryen's barrier clean in half, tore past his defenses, and slammed into his chest with devastating weight.

The impact blasted him backward, staff flying from his hand as his body skidded across the arena floor.

[ Victory! Winner: Rhys. ]

Silence reigned for a heartbeat—before the arena erupted in cheers, disbelief, and roars.

"Who the hell is this guy?!"

"He didn't even break a sweat!"

Rhys lowered his sword with ease, eyes steady.

The arena floor dimmed as Ryen was carried off, still coughing from the strike that had put him down.

The announcer's voice rang loud and clear across the stadium.

"Ladies and gentlemen—what a clash!" His tone brimmed with excitement. "And yet… clash may be the wrong word. Because what we just saw was nothing short of a demonstration."

The crowd roared again, the sound shaking the seats.

The announcer raised his hand toward the young man still standing calm in the center.

"Remember this name—Rhys! A new master has risen in the rookie ranks!"

Rhys did not stop.

The badge pinned to his chest was barely cooled from its first shine when he stepped back into the arena for his next opponent. Then the next. And the next.

The announcers began losing their voices trying to keep up with the streak.

"—and that's forty-six!"

"—seventy-two! Ladies and gentlemen, seventy-two straight!"

"Ninety-nine! Can you believe this?! Ninety-nine victories without a single loss!"

And each match was different.

A lightning mage who tried to overwhelm him with sheer speed—bolts flashing like a storm—only to have his channels disrupted by Rhys's precise Mana Shield and counter-fireball.

An earth mage who raised walls and stone armor around himself, praised as the immovable bulwark of the rookie league—split apart by a Water Blade that carved through granite like flesh.

Flame duelists who tried to scorch him.

Illusionists who filled the arena with false doubles.

Even a summoner who called forth a flame salamander.

They all came with spells, strategies, and confidence… but against Rhys, they looked as though they were practicing against an unshakable wall. His sword never wavered, his spells never faltered.

He did not boast. He did not celebrate. He simply fought, won, and walked off the floor.

And with each effortless victory, the whispers in the crowd grew.

He's never cornered.

Not once has he looked like he's struggling.

Is he even fighting at full strength?

It was on his 100th match that the air in the coliseum shifted.

The stands overflowed, packed shoulder to shoulder with duelists, merchants, nobles, and even ranked veterans who had come only to see for themselves—

the boy with a hundred wins, the swordsman-mage who could not be stopped.

Rhys stepped into the arena as calm as ever, the roar of the coliseum washing over him like a distant tide.

Across the floor, his hundredth opponent waited—broad, heavyset, and already radiating waves of oppressive heat.

The announcer's voice rang clear:

"Ladies and gentlemen—this is the moment! The one-hundredth match of the rookie circuit! And facing our rising prodigy, Rhys the Magic Swordsman—standing tall as one of the most feared elementalists of this rank—Red-Silver Fighter, Lava Hound Morgan!"

The ground beneath Morgan's feet blackened as molten sparks licked up from the cracks. His reputation had long preceded him—his lava constructs and relentless firestorms had broken more than a dozen promising rookies. He was whispered about as a wall that only a true golden-ranked fighter could hope to surpass.

The announcer drew in a sharp breath as Morgan raised his weapon—a massive staff gleaming silver and lined with crimson channels, its head crowned by a shard pulsing like molten rock. "Behold the Blue Shore Staff! An Epic-ranked weapon of the first order—capable of channeling and amplifying torrents of elemental mana!"

The crowd surged in awe at the sight.

Morgan sneered, his thick voice rolling like smoke over the arena.

"You've had your fun cutting down apprentices, boy. But here's where the streak ends."