Final Life Online

Match 117.

A windcaller with tempest wings rode a cyclone, striking from every angle. Rhys answered with a Moonlit Slash that carved through the gale itself. One silver arc, and silence.

Match 130.

Twin sisters—illusionists—who fought as one, warping the arena with mirror doubles. The crowd gasped as dozens of Rhyses stood against dozens of phantoms. Only one held the real sword. He struck both illusions true in a heartbeat, and the spell shattered like glass.

Match 149.

A necromancer clad in bone, hissing prayers as a tide of skeletons rose. The audience held their breath as the arena filled with rattling claws and shrieking skulls. But Rhys walked through them like mist, each step measured, each swing a clean execution. At the end, only the necromancer remained—staring at the glowing edge of Rhys' blade before collapsing.

Match 173.

A prodigy of fire, his flames painting the air crimson, scorching the very stone. Lava burst, meteors fell. The arena looked like the end of the world. Yet when the smoke cleared, Rhys stood untouched, his sword glowing with moonlight, the fire mage flat on the ground.

Match 199.

A lightning storm mage, crackling with golden arcs, leaping faster than the eye could follow. Sparks danced like serpents as each strike seemed unavoidable. Until Rhys stepped forward once—just once—and the mage's storm collapsed around him.

And then came—

Match 200.

The coliseum shook beneath the roar of tens of thousands, anticipation fever-high as the gates creaked open.

A slender figure stepped forth in emerald robes stitched with silver clovers, a staff tipped with a prism that glimmered in four hues—crimson, azure, brown, violet. Her stride was composed, regal, yet her youthful eyes carried the sharp gleam of ambition.

"My name is Nyx Valentine," she said clearly, her voice carrying across the sea of noise. "Mage-in-training of Avaernus Academy. I've heard whispers of your streak, Lunar Blade."

Rhys lifted his silver-edged sword into guard, face calm as ever.

"Rhys Mercer," he answered. "An honor."

Nyx smiled faintly, resting her staff across her shoulder. "Then let's make this worth remembering."

A serpent of flame lashed out before the final word left her lips. The fire hissed like a living beast, lunging across the field. Rhys dashed into it, silver steel glowing as he split the serpent apart—only for a crashing wave to surge in from the opposite flank, slamming toward him.

Steam swallowed the arena in a heartbeat. Shadows twisted inside the mist. Jagged stone pillars speared upward, aiming for his chest. Rhys vaulted high, blade trailing light as it carved through the rock, shattering it to rubble.

But the ground beneath him warped black. Tendrils of shadow snapped up, coiling around his limbs. Gasps erupted through the coliseum.

Silver mana burst outward with his swing, scattering darkness like ash. He landed in a crouch, eyes narrowing on the mage across from him.

"Four elements at once… Clover Mage, indeed."

The air around her shimmered as all four elements danced in harmony—flame coiling, water circling, shards of earth orbiting, shadows weaving like smoke.

"And you," Nyx replied, her smirk unshaken, "really are as calm as they say."

Her staff slammed into the ground. A cyclone of fire and wind spiraled forth, howling toward him. Rhys planted his foot, blade flashing blue.

"Water Blade."

A crescent arc of liquid steel cleaved into the storm, scattering it in a hiss of vapor and sparks. The crowd howled in awe.

Stone spears erupted from the floor, driven by gusting wind. Rhys spun, his Whirlwind Slash transforming his blade into a storm of its own, tearing each projectile to fragments midair.

Nyx countered instantly. Shadows bent, multiplying her form into a dozen phantom selves, all chanting in unison.

Rhys' eyes sharpened. His sword flashed, a sweep of silver moonlight erasing the illusions in a single stroke. The true Nyx stood firm, her staff blazing as the four elements converged into a single unstable orb, colors writhing in chaos.

"Clover Convergence!"

The orb detonated, a cataclysm of fire, water, stone, and shadow surging like the wrath of the world itself.

Rhys exhaled, his blade lifting as silver threads gathered, weaving into the shape of a crescent moon.

"Moonlit Edge."

He cut.

The crescent split the cataclysm in two, light shearing chaos apart. Dust and flame washed over the arena, leaving only silence. When the haze cleared, Nyx stood frozen, her staff lowered, eyes locked on the blade's tip—hovering an inch from her chest.

The silence broke into a thunderclap of cheers, the coliseum erupting as if the sky itself had shattered.

Nyx panted, sweat tracing her brow. Then, slowly, she smiled and bowed her head.

"You are… terrifying, Rhys Mercer. But someday, I'll surpass you."

He lowered his sword, expression calm, and gave the smallest of nods.

"I'll be waiting."

The badge on his chest pulsed, its golden glow shifting until the number blazed clear: 200.

The coliseum erupted, a storm of voices that seemed to shake the very stone beneath their feet. Cheers, chants, and roars of disbelief all collided into a single deafening cry.

"Two hundred! Two hundred! Two hundred!"

The chant spread like wildfire, nobles and commoners alike caught in the fever of the moment. Even the most stoic veterans in the stands found themselves standing, clapping, or shouting in awe.

Confetti rained from the higher balconies, shimmering flecks of silver and gold catching the sunlight as if the heavens themselves had come to bless the occasion. The ground beneath Rhys seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of thousands.

At the center of it all, Rhys stood with his blade lowered, calm and steady as though nothing extraordinary had just taken place. The golden badge on his chest pulsed, the number 200 blazing brighter than ever before, gleaming for all to see.

Nyx, still catching her breath, gave him a half-smile despite defeat, and even the crowd honored her with cheers for her courage. "Clover Mage! Clover Mage!" echoed between the chants of "Lunar Blade!" until the entire arena felt alive with two names locked into history together.

The announcer's voice cracked through the roar, carried on a tide of disbelief and ecstasy.

"Two hundred straight victories! The Lunar Blade has carved his name into Avaernus Hall of Fame itself! Avaernus City—remember this day! For you have witnessed another Famed one!!!"

The gates opened at last, and as Rhys turned toward them, the chants followed him like thunder, rising higher with every step. Even as he vanished into the tunnel's shadows, the echoes of his name rolled on, unstoppable.

"...Well, that's good," Rhys murmured under his breath, his golden badge glimmering faintly. "But now... time to claim the real prize."

He cast a last glance back at the arena, at the sea of roaring faces. For all their cheers, none of them knew. None of them could imagine that the Lunar Blade was about to walk away—not in defeat, but in pursuit of something greater. When an attendant asked if he would rest before his next match, he gave only a vague smile.

"Maybe."

And then he was gone.

***

Coming back onto the streets of Avaernus, Rhys walked toward the heart of the city where the Statue of Avaernus stood.

It towered above the plaza, its shadow stretching far enough to swallow entire alleys. From the front, it was carved in perfect detail—a warrior who looked like he could step down from the pedestal at any moment. But if one stood behind the statue, tilted their head just so, it gave the illusion that the figure's eyes were watching you. Judging you. Guiding you.

Rhys paused, gazing upward. He let the silence of the crowd around him fade as he followed the statue's pointing hand. Without a word, he walked in the direction it indicated, weaving through streets and alleys until he reached the outer quarter of the city.

There, nestled at the edge of an old district, was a great tree—its roots curling like veins across stone, its branches reaching higher than some towers. Rhys smiled faintly at the sight. Something about it felt alive, not just in the way of trees, but in the way of presence. He approached and leaned against its trunk, settling down beneath its shade.

For the first time in days, he allowed himself to breathe, to rest. His eyelids grew heavier. His thoughts stilled.

And then—

A voice broke the quiet.

"Finally, someone with the aura of the Undefeated has come."

Rhys let out a long breath, the weight of the arena battles still clinging to his body. The great tree before him stood like a silent guardian at the city's edge, its branches whispering against the sky. He lowered himself at its roots, back resting against the bark, and closed his eyes.

For a moment, the noise of Avaernus faded away. His breathing slowed, his thoughts drifted—until a sudden stillness pressed against his senses. It wasn't silence, but presence.

When Rhys opened his eyes, he no longer saw the tree.

Instead, Avaernus himself stood there—an imposing figure, carved from light and shadow, yet alive with an aura that bent reality around him.