Grand Gathering (4)

In his previous match against a high-level magic apprentice, both sides had kept their distance. Even if magic was fast, there was still time to react.

But facing a formal knight this time, the pressure on Donald was far greater.

If his attack magic couldn't suppress the opponent, a mage who was closed in on would be as helpless as a lamb before a knight. And in Quezal's large, half-orc-like head, there seemed to be no concept of holding back.

Facing Quezal up close was completely different from watching him from the stands.

He still stood a full head taller than Donald, who was slender. His bulging eyes were bloodshot, and under his wide nostrils, the slightly upturned nose holes opened and closed noticeably with his irregular breathing.

It felt like facing a wild beast—Donald secretly decided that if he saw any sign of trouble, he would have to shoot him before he got close, without hesitation.

As he thought this, Donald's eyes roamed over Quezal's body, considering where to hit—enough to incapacitate him, but preferably not too severe.

Quezal suddenly spoke in a muffled voice: "What are you looking for?"

Remembering Wesley's earlier joke about half-orcs, Donald smiled and replied, "Where did you hide your tail?"

"I'm not a half-orc. The academy checked me." Quezal actually showed a hint of sadness. He understood Donald's implication, likely because he was often mocked like this.

Donald suddenly felt he had gone too far. He quickly stopped smiling and said seriously, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made that joke."

"It's fine. I'll give it my all no matter what." Quezal stretched his wide mouth, and Donald guessed it was probably a smile. He suddenly felt this opponent wasn't as cruel as he had imagined. He might just be serious—as serious as Pas. Only their seriousness showed differently on the field.

They fell silent. Under the referee's direction, Quezal obediently retreated to a sufficient distance.

The match began, and neither side hesitated.

Quezal charged straight at Donald, his momentum like a herd of wild oxen running at full speed.

Donald struck with the most complex attack magic he currently knew: the thirty-eight-element fire magic, Blazing Meteor.

The nine six-element fireball models, arranged like a honeycomb, produced nine fireballs when cast. Each one was far more powerful than a single six-element fireball.

When these nine fireballs appeared before Donald's palm, they were tightly clustered. Once they flew out, they gradually separated into front, back, left, and right, truly like meteors burning fiercely from atmospheric friction. The only difference was that these meteors emitted a strange blue light.

Before the audience could react, the magic apprentices and professors in the contestant area had already burst into exclamations of amazement—almost everyone immediately recognized Donald's magic as the intermediate apprentice spell Blazing Meteor, but no one could understand why these nine fireballs were nearly the size of intermediate fireballs.

Weren't the nine fireballs from this spell supposed to be only slightly larger than ordinary six-element fireballs?

Even harder to understand was why those fireballs were blue.

This was Donald's first time using a fire attack magic at the tournament. His earlier fire defense spell, Wall of Fire, had been bright red like everyone else's.

These thoughts lasted only a moment, because the next instant, all nine fireballs slammed directly into Quezal. The battle qi swelling on his chest flickered dimly from the impact, yet he still maintained his sprinting speed.

With one strike failing to suppress him, not even slowing his charge, Donald couldn't help feeling a surge of tension.

He raised his hand again, unleashing another Blazing Meteor.

Quezal slightly shifted his charging direction, as if trying to dodge, but with only a dozen meters between them, the fireballs flew over in an instant, leaving him almost no time to react. They struck his chest again.

To everyone's surprise, Quezal's speed didn't slow this time—it actually increased slightly.

Donald dared not pause to observe. He immediately cast Blazing Meteor again at his fastest speed.

Before this round of fireballs hit Quezal, Donald had already lifted his magic staff in his left hand, and with his right, he inserted an ice bolt into the handle's empty slot, pulled back, and aimed. Only when he felt the aligned holes between his palms did he finally gain a sense of security.

This was the first time Donald raised his magic staff at the Martial Magic Tournament. The audience was both puzzled and expectant about this strange move.

The model for Explosive Ice Pearl was ready, capable of delivering a fatal blow at any moment. But just then, Quezal's forward-charging body suddenly lost balance and crashed to the ground. The flames still burning on his chest were finally smothered beneath him.

The audience fell silent for a moment, then erupted into earth-shaking cheers and applause.

At this grand tournament, the contestant widely recognized as the top contender—a full-fledged knight—finally failed to withstand three consecutive powerful attack spells from Donna.

The contestant area wasn't as loud as the audience, but the shock among them was even greater. Some who knew fire magic well had likely guessed that Donald's fireballs emitted blue light due to their extremely high temperature.

Those nine blue fireballs, though not as large as intermediate fireballs, each had power close to high-level fireball spells. Every single one rivaled Pas's Stone Spike. Taking twenty-seven such fireballs in such a short time was the limit for Quezal, who had just advanced to formal knight.

In the VIP seats, Lucia's beautiful face flushed red with excitement. She knew Donald's magic staff was incredibly powerful, but she hadn't expected him to be this strong—even unarmed, he could defeat a formal knight.

King Orston was in an excellent mood. He even shot a cold glance at Clark, who finally fell silent, though his calm expression gave the king a bad feeling.

Pas's face grew even more dejected. He knew that if it were him, he couldn't have defended against Donald's fire magic either.

Donald slowly lowered his magic staff. The palm of his right hand, which had been gripping the handle, was already sweating. Just a little more—if Quezal had charged one more meter, he would have fired.

Shaking off his daze, he walked over to Quezal amid the full-house cheers.

The referee had already turned Quezal over.

The fireballs had all struck Quezal's broad chest. The intense heat had melted through his armor, leaving a large charred patch on his chest.

"He still has a heartbeat! He's breathing!" The referee quickly waved to the sidelines, calling for the waiting medics.

Donald crouched beside Quezal, took a small half-bottle of orange healing potion from his pocket, brought it to Quezal's lips, and carefully fed him a sip.

"What did you feed him?" The referee, busy arranging rescue, turned back to see Quezal had already swallowed the potion Donald gave him and asked urgently.

"Dwarf's Recovery Potion," Donald replied. It was from Edaluya, left over from the rebellion day, and he had kept it with him since.

Seeing the orange liquid in the bottle, the referee exclaimed, "Extreme North Demon Orange Potion?! How do you have that?"

Donald kept his mouth shut. He had never heard of that potion's name, but he guessed it must be extremely precious, or Edaluya wouldn't have given him only such a small bottle.

The medics who had gathered around relaxed slightly when they heard the referee say Quisar had already taken a small sip of the Extreme North Demon Orange, though their gazes toward Donald were tinged with shock. Whether it was because of the astonishing strength Donald had displayed, or because he happened to carry Extreme North Demon Orange on his person, they could not tell.

After timely treatment, Quisar soon escaped danger. Donald, with an indisputable performance, advanced to the Top Four.

Over the two days of the Martial Magic Tournament, after five rounds and nearly a hundred battles, the audience had been thoroughly entertained. Yet the much-anticipated Top Four clashes took a dramatic turn.

Donald and Mino each drew the two Squires who had barely scraped through their Top Eight matches, and both Squires immediately declared their surrender. Clearly, they had made the rational choice to conserve every ounce of strength for the upcoming third-place decider, rather than waste it in a Top Four duel where they had no chance.

Donald advanced without a fight, moving one step further into the tournament's final two.

The third-place match, which kicked off first, was indeed another hard-fought battle. Both competitors were already carrying injuries, and this fight for the top three was exceptionally brutal. Yet the audience was remarkably fair-minded, cheering and encouraging their perseverance and courage from start to finish. The scene was moving, almost making one forget that these same spectators had unleashed a thunderous chorus of boos when the two fighters had surrendered without a fight just moments before.

"Have you decided yet? Where will your territory be?" Wesley suddenly asked out of nowhere.

"What territory?"

"You made it into the top three. The king will grant you a title, have you forgotten?" Wesley seemed more concerned about this than Donald himself.

"Even if I get a title, I can't just pick my own territory, can I?" Donald replied.

Roger, overhearing their conversation, couldn't help but cut in: "Hey! Shouldn't you be thinking about how to deal with your next opponent right now?"

"I've already figured it out." Donald answered with a smile, slowly rising to his feet.

The match on the field had ended. The victor could barely stand, but a satisfied smile spread across his face, smeared with blood and dirt.

Donald glanced toward the VIP platform. Magician Clark happened to be looking back at him, expressionless, though the Second Prince of the Thorn Empire beside him could not hide a flicker of barely restrained excitement.

(Two chapters today. Please recommend, please bookmark!)