OMNITRIX IN FANTASY WORLD

The minutes crawled by, each one a lifetime. A heavy, palpable silence descended upon the municipal arena as the low hum of thousands of spectators faded into a single, collective held breath. All eyes were locked on the twenty fighting rings spread across the floor, the air itself seeming to crackle with anticipation.

A single, resonant chime echoed through the venue. On the massive scoreboards hanging above each ring, the silent countdowns flashed to 00:00.

The opening competition had officially begun.

A roar erupted from the crowd, but for the competitors, the world narrowed to the rings below. This was more than a school tournament; it was a preview of the future. The champions who emerged from these rings today would be their rivals at university and beyond.

For Ethan, it was a profound eye-opener, a vivid reminder of the sheer, breathtaking diversity of psionic power—a feeling he hadn't experienced so intensely since his time in the brutal, anything-goes rings of The Gauntlet. Some contestants commanded gouts of fire, while others manipulated torrents of water. One psionicist stomped his foot and sent jagged spears of rock erupting from the ground, while another summoned crackling bolts of lightning from his fingertips.

Marcus, meanwhile, was in his element. His eyes were glued to the duels between pure strength-types, his head tilted as he analyzed their form, their power, their every devastating blow. Seraphina, by contrast, was the consummate professional. She wasn't just watching; she was studying. From time to time, she would pick up a datapad and jot down observations, her focus as sharp as a model student cramming for a final exam.

Ethan also noted the school's clever arrangements for non-combatants. When a healing-type psionicist entered a ring, the staff provided her with a special psionic shield. By channeling her healing energy into it, the shield would constantly repair itself. If she could withstand her opponent's assault for a full ten minutes, she would win. It was an ingenious system that showcased the school's respect for every psionic discipline.

Marcus, having drawn lot number 34, was up early. "My turn," he said with a confident grin, cracking his knuckles. His opponent was a light-type psionicist, a Rank One, Level Seven who could unleash a dazzling, scorching flash to disorient his enemies. It was a potent skill, but Marcus, at Level Ten, simply powered through it. Shielding his eyes with one arm, he endured the heat and with sheer, brute force, unceremoniously shoved his opponent right off the stage.

Not long after, it was Seraphina's turn. She entered the ring and immediately cast her double buff of Defensive Aura and Bedrock Armor. According to the rules, she only had to survive for ten minutes. Instead, before the third minute was up, she used the exquisite, close-quarters combat skills Mr. Gordon had drilled into them to deftly outmaneuver her opponent, sweeping his legs out from under him and sending him tumbling from the ring, drawing a collective gasp of surprise from the spectators.

Ethan's eyes were starting to glaze over from the sheer number of matches when his number was finally called. He walked onto the stage, took one look at his opponent, and froze.

Iris Thorne.

What? he thought, bewildered. This has to be a mistake. According to every novel I've ever read, the top rival is supposed to show up at the very end for a climactic showdown. The protagonist is supposed to be at a disadvantage, only to have a sudden burst of power and claim a shocking, last-minute victory. Why am I fighting her in the first round?

He sighed internally. Right. This is reality. No plot armor.

As she stepped onto the stage, the two stood opposite each other. Ethan couldn't deny it—she was every bit the school belle, breathtakingly beautiful. Pity that good looks don't win battles, he thought with comical seriousness. Women will only affect the speed of my training!

Iris spoke first, her voice as calm and clear as ice water. "Honestly, I'm surprised, Ethan. I'll admit, I never would have remembered you from our class, but your 'no-rank' result was… unprecedented. I had assumed your path as a psionicist had ended before it began. I didn't expect such a reversal."

"This world is full of unexpected reversals," Ethan replied coolly.

Her eyes, sharp and analytical, swept over him. "Your ability. It manifests as a watch, but it's a fire-attribute beastification, isn't it?"

"Yes," Ethan confirmed without hesitation. There was no point hiding it. His parents knew he used Heatblast, and with their personalities, they had likely already boasted about it to their friends and neighbors. The information was already out there for anyone who cared to look.

"Fire and ice are incompatible by nature," Iris stated, a sliver of confidence warming her tone. "And my rank is higher than yours. Relax, Ethan. I won't strike too heavily. We can just spar."

"I'm sorry," Ethan said suddenly.

Iris blinked, her composure momentarily disturbed. "Sorry? Why are you apologizing?"

Ethan's tone was a perfect blend of embarrassment and utter seriousness. "Because I hear that people from powerful families can be… unreasonable. With your rank, you were a shoo-in for a top prize. It's just your bad luck that you ran into me in the very first round. Your competition ends here." He looked her right in the eye. "So… after I win, could you please tell your family not to take revenge on me? I'm a little scared."

The audacious, pre-emptive strike hung in the air. He had called her out publicly, putting her family's reputation on the line before a single blow was struck.

Iris's cool, detached expression twitched. It was the first crack in her placid facade. Then, just as quickly, she composed herself, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. "Relax, Ethan. If I lose, it's because my skills are lacking. No one will seek revenge. Besides," her eyes now gleamed with a powerful, unshakeable confidence, "my family doesn't lack for the resources this competition offers."

Hearing that, the knot of worry in Ethan's chest finally loosened. "That's good to hear," he replied with a genuine smile. It was just one match; provoking a top-tier family over it wasn't worth the trouble.

At that moment, the arena's broadcast system, which had been picking up their conversation, played it for the entire audience. A ripple of murmuring and chuckling went through the crowd.

"Well now," someone chuckled. "The kid's a clever one, isn't he?"

In the distant VIP box, Alden Vance turned to the man sitting beside him. "Brother Thorne," he said with a broad, booming smile. "You wouldn't really take revenge on that little Atherton brat, would you?"

Victor Thorne, head of the Thorne family, smiled magnanimously. "Would I, the head of a great family, stoop to squabbling with a child? My daughter has already given her word. If I were to go back on it, I would become a laughingstock in this city." His words were a masterclass in diplomacy—tolerant, immensely confident, and projecting the precise demeanor expected of a man of his station.

Alden Vance laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Haha, then I'm relieved!" He knew Victor Thorne was a man of his word. The boy was safe.

As the two patriarchs concluded their exchange, the referee on the stage below raised his hand. The time for talk was over.

"Let the match… begin!"