Sir, Times Have Changed

Dazzling, brilliant lightning erupted from the replica's hands like a Mad Dragon, surging toward the mage trapped within the cage of the Wall of Force.

Ryan held a delicate card between his fingers, staring at the replica's mocking gaze and the playful smirk on its lips, his inner lake of calm returning to a state of unruffled stillness.

Out of concern for his own meager strength, Ryan truly did not want to resort to his Planeswalker abilities unless absolutely necessary.

Yet, facing such a desperate situation, Ryan knew that if he continued to hide his Planeswalker cards, he would undoubtedly be eliminated.

For Ryan, this trial was the closest he had ever come to that blue planet from his past life; it felt as if one more step would allow the kite drifting in the sky to reconnect with its severed string.

The legacy of a legendary Arcane Master with unfathomable power was enough to drive any ambitious mage on the continent of Faerûn mad; had it not been for this stroke of serendipitous fate, Ryan estimated he wouldn't even have been able to cross the threshold.

Within the legacy of this predecessor—who was likely another transmigrator—there had to be something Ryan craved.

This was a heaven-sent opportunity of destiny. To Ryan, it was like a traveler stranded in the mountains encountering a caravan returning home across a vast snowfield, or a wanderer receiving a letter from home while drifting at the ends of the earth.

Ryan was unwilling to give up here; if he missed this chance, who knew if he would ever find another clue regarding his past life.

To pin his hopes on good luck and stumble upon such a miracle again in the vastness of Faerûn was as hopeless as waiting for a ship in the middle of a desert.

As for the possibility of his Planeswalker abilities being exposed, Ryan calculated that, shrouded by the Mythals and deep within the underground ruins of the mountain range, no one could witness his power.

The high status of the Spark also allowed Ryan to completely break free from the locks of divination spells, causing him to vanish into the mists of fate, where even the gods could not track him through prophecy.

After weighing the matter for a moment, Ryan concluded: Damn it, it's doable. Time to draw!

As a Planeswalker apprentice, the energy of Ryan's Spark could currently only maintain a hand of six cards, and he could only draw three cards from his library into his hand each day.

Moreover, due to a lack of Land Cards, Ryan only had 12 points of white mana provided by Westfall and 5 points of green mana provided by the Maribo Forest, totaling only 17 mana points.

Although the raw mana provided by the Spark meant Ryan didn't need to provide extra mana to maintain his own existence (his ten points of mana were already sustained by the Spark upon awakening, and further growth would require him to provide the excess mana to sustain immortality), the mana from only two Land Cards was still far too scarce.

Therefore, the clever Ryan, preferring quality over quantity, had prepared only six Planeswalker cards in his hand—one weapon card and five spell cards—to ensure he could draw and use exactly what he needed at any moment.

Ryan's current hand was as follows:

[Weapon Card—Ryan's Signature Staff: 3 white mana + 1 other mana]

[Spell Card—Lesser Fireball: 3 mana of any color]

[Spell Card—Dimension Door: 5 mana of any color]

[Spell Card—Fly: 3 mana of any color]

[Spell Card—Dispel Magic: 3 mana of any color]

[Spell Card—Hold Person: 3 mana of any color]

Hold Person to control the opponent, Dispel Magic to break spells, Lesser Fireball for tactical clearing, Dimension Door for strategic repositioning, and Fly for running away—each was a choice Ryan had deliberated over repeatedly. Best of all, each could be cast instantly at the mage's will.

As the Dimension Door spell card in his hand dissolved into stardust, the mage's figure vanished amidst the blinding, brilliant lightning.

A nimble figure appeared 10 feet outside the barrier, away from the replica. The blonde youth stepped forward, wielding his adamantine staff, and swung the weapon toward the replica's head. The staff whistled through the air like a piercing, mournful cry.

The phantom felt the lethal killing intent from behind, yet its expression remained as calm as an ancient well. In the blink of an eye, it completed its casting gesture, and a silver-white mist enveloped the replica. The whistling staff passed through the mist, stirring up a swirling, dissipating haze.

The replica's figure appeared directly outside the barrier. Its cold, grim face was indifferent, its eyes staring at the mage within the barrier with the chilling intensity of a specter from an eternal frozen hell.

"Whew~" Ryan let out a long sigh of relief. Although it was absurd that the replica could use Misty Step to dodge such a sudden, unexpected sneak attack, successfully swapping positions meant he hadn't lost out.

At this moment, Ryan had successfully entered the Globe of Invulnerability, and the replica had been forced out of the barrier. The tide of battle had turned!

Ryan could already see the dawn of victory. So what if it was a level 12 mage? Limited by spell slots, the replica had essentially exhausted its high-level spells and was now relying on a few first or second-level spells. The outcome was decided.

However, Ryan no longer had any spare spell slots either and could only rely on his spell cards to attack. After some consideration, he ultimately abandoned this tempting idea, just to be safe.

Everything one does leaves a trace.

The best way to hide something is to make it seem as if it never existed; the best way to avoid exposure is to minimize one's presence. At the very least, before his claws were sharp enough, Ryan should not be so flamboyant.

The replica stood on a platform 30 feet above Ryan. A string of numbers flashed rapidly across those bone-chilling eyes. Faced with Ryan's "cheating," even the Tower Spirit was caught off guard, its processing power pushed to the limit as it incorporated the variables into its model and re-ran the simulation.

But then, something that shocked Ryan occurred.

"Mage, you are quite good. It is time to enter the second round."

The replica suddenly spoke, its cold, mechanical tone unable to hide a hint of mockery.

The phantom extended its long, slender, bony fingers and snapped them with elegant composure.

The mage was astonished to find that within the Virtual Martial Arena, the Weave had been directly blocked off. All magical effects and barriers on the platform dissipated, and even the elemental particles dispersed in the air were wiped clean.

In other words, spellcasting was prohibited here.

The mage frowned, his tone filled with doubt and confusion: "Who are you? The mind replicated by the Tower Spirit cannot be this vivid. Who exactly are you?"

This battle was full of things that didn't add up. The blonde youth had long been suspicious of this so-called replica.

The mechanized mind bestowed by the Tower Spirit could not be this lively. The mockery and playfulness that occasionally appeared during the battle clearly showed that the phantom was being operated by someone else; these small actions revealed the presence of a sentient being capable of sorrow and joy behind the facade.

This discovery made the blonde youth's heart sink into an icy abyss. What kind of monster was he actually fighting?

The replica drew a blood-red, ancient longsword from behind its back. On that face, identical to Ryan's, a playful, joyful smile appeared. The innocent, pure look on its face was like that of a child who had finally received the toy they had been longing for. It laughed and said:

"I'll tell you if you win.

The Tower of Babel analyzed your physique, muscle distribution, and walking habits, concluding that you possess a certain foundation in martial arts, which is why I added this battle on a whim."

"The physical stats of this spirit projection are only half of yours. It's been several hundred years since I last stretched my legs; I wonder if my skills have grown rusty."

The copy spoke to himself, a wild and arrogant grin spreading across his face.

Gently wiping the crimson blade in his hand, the copy raised the sword toward the frowning Ryan, his calm tone unable to mask his unbridled haughtiness:

"The sword is named Han Guang. A famous blade of cold iron, it can sever a hair at a touch. Three feet and three inches in length, weighing six pounds and four ounces."

Ryan's pupils trembled violently, and in his heart, a hundred little question marks seemed to be singing and dancing in a chorus of confusion.

What kind of ancient, melodramatic dialogue is this?

What on earth is even happening right now?

Can someone please tell me if I've transmigrated again?

However, feeling the scorching, expectant gaze of the old ghost (as Ryan silently dubbed him) who claimed to have lived for hundreds of years, Ryan sighed, raised his staff, and recited his lines with a lack of enthusiasm:

"Nameless Staff, made of adamantine. The staff is four feet and two inches long, weighing twenty pounds and eight ounces."

"Good! Today, you and I shall decide not only the victor but who lives and who dies."

The copy was fully immersed in the role, his feigned indifference unable to hide his excitement and joy.

On the moon-white platform, two handsome, golden-haired youths stared at each other from thirty feet apart, the intense battle intent in their eyes striking sparks in the air.

Ryan grinned, stomped hard on the platform, and charged forward, while the copy, not falling behind in the slightest, sprinted toward Ryan.

As the two figures, swift as leopards, darted and weaved, the distance between them closed rapidly. Just as they were about to collide, Ryan's figure came to an abrupt halt, and a massive hand cannon shimmering with metallic cold light appeared in his grip.

Ryan aimed it at the copy and pulled the trigger, the deafening roar echoing across the empty platform accompanied by a flash of fire.

The copy's pupils constricted. In the blink of an eye, he shifted his body, yet he still couldn't escape the blast radius of the projectile, only managing to let out one heartfelt exclamation:

"F***!!!"