Succubi Chapter 122. I Work Smarter, Not Harder
I saw the cuts.
Small. But real. Slices across his arms. A graze across his thigh. One shoulder scorched by a mana deflection gone wrong. He was holding it together, but barely.
He cast fast. Sharp incantations, no wasted breath. Lightning bolts. Disruption fields. He was throwing everything at his opponent just to keep distance.
But the Hexblade?
He kept closing in.
Relentless.
The sweat on Adrian's forehead shimmered under the lights. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His barrier cracked, flickered, then rebuilt.
I swallowed.
My pulse thudded harder.
"Adrian…" I whispered.
Beside me, the necromancer looked up. "He's good."
I nodded, eyes locked on the screen. "He is."
"But my team is stronger."
"Yeah."
The crowd noise blurred around me again, muffled under the tension in my jaw, the grip I didn't realize I had on the railing. My fingers were white through my gloves.
That Hexblade guy?
He wasn't fighting like this was a friendly tournament.
He was fighting like he had something to prove.
And Adrian?
Adrian was proving he wouldn't break.
Even if he bled.
Even if he was outmatched in weight and range.
He was still fighting.
The Hexblade raised his sword overhead.
Adrian didn't run.
He stepped forward.
Launched a flashburst spell in his face.
The camera shook.
Mana exploded.
They vanished in the smoke.
I stepped closer to the edge.
Come on, Adrian.
Please tell me you're still standing.
A flicker of movement in the haze…
A figure…
A hand, rising from the cracked floor.
Then another.
And then Adrian stood.
Breathing hard.
Clothes scorched.
Hair a mess.
But still there.
Still up.
Still smiling like a smug, cocky bastard with too many secrets and not enough sense to back down.
I exhaled sharply. "Hell yeah."
Callahan exhaled too, far above, finally unclenching a little. I saw his hand move. A subtle motion over his heart. Relief.
Then I felt something I didn't expect.
Pride.
Not demon Pride.
Not the formal kind.
The real kind.
I looked at the screen again.
At Kyra holding her line.
At Felix still fighting despite his terrible decisions.
At Adrian bleeding and still smiling.
And I smiled too.
We were a mess.
But damn it… we were still standing.
I exhaled and dropped down to sit on the edge of the platform with a soft thud, resting my arms on my knees. My shadow armor flickered and started fading, the lingering wisps of mana slowly cooling off my limbs. The metal beneath me was warm from the lights, the fight, the residual energy we'd all been burning through like idiots with no budget.
The necromancer sat beside me, also winded, but way too chill for someone who just got cracked in the chest with a shadow-forged greatsword. He stretched his shoulders with a tired grunt and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a spell.
And then…
Two skeletons materialized behind him.
One carried a tiny towel and patted his face.
The other… started giving his shoulders a massage.
I stared.
He groaned contentedly. "Ahh. Finally."
I blinked. "Are you serious?"
He leaned back against the undead masseuse like this was some spa session in the middle of a battlefield. "What? You get fancy mobility spells, I get self-care."
"That's cheating."
"That's necromancy."
I cringed and pointed a half-hearted glare at him. "That's unfair."
He smirked with his eyes closed. "And this, my alphabet-masked friend, is exactly why I became a necromancer. Undead? Portable. Loyal. And they give great shoulder work."
One of the skeletons cracked its knuckles like a pro.
I tched. "Damn it."
Yeah, okay. I envied him. Not the aesthetic, his whole undead-vibe wasn't really my thing, but the utility? The convenience? That was peak.
"We are in an underground duel," I muttered, "and here you are getting a field massage in the middle of combat."
"I work smarter, not harder."
We both turned back to the screens.
Kyra.
She looked sharp. Focused. Hair flowing behind her like some battle anime heroine as she launched another spiral of lunar-etched sigils across the field. The Spirit Channeler dodged, barely, his shoes skidding across a cracked panel. His coat was scorched. His smug was gone. Now he was sweating.
"I'm not worried about her," I said casually.
The necromancer made a noncommittal sound. "She's surgical."
"She's terrifying."
"She's hot."
I didn't answer that one. I wasn't about to comment on Kyra's boobs mid-duel again.
Still… watching her now? She really was winning. Her mana flared with each incantation, but it wasn't desperate. It was controlled. Her mouth barely moved as she cast, fingers flicking like a conductor leading a violent orchestra.
The Spirit Channeler launched a counter. Some kind of mana tethers reaching toward her chest, but she spun on her heel, redirected the spell midair, and sent it exploding against the far wall.
The audience screamed.
The necromancer let out a low whistle. "Damn."
I grinned. "That's our Minion K ."
Then I turned to the next screen.
Felix.
Yeah.
That guy?
He was a goner.
A panicked, overextended, "why did I put my rune there" kind of goner.
The banshee? Oh, she was having fun. Way too much fun. She kept blasting sonic screams across the arena, each one cracking the floor around Felix's feet. He was running. A lot. Slipping between mirrored illusions, hurling panic spells, throwing down reflective shields like his life depended on it.
Which, yeah. It kinda did.
One blast hit close. Too close.
Felix let out a yelp and clutched his barrier spell tighter, stumbling behind a column that was already half-gone.
I winced.
Another shriek hit the side of the arena and sent a wave of concussive force right across his front.
I cringed. "Save your future, F. Save your future…"
The necromancer howled laughing. He nearly fell off his seat.
Felix, in his defense, was still fighting. Still trying. His magic wasn't bad. Not amazing. But not hopeless. The problem was that every time he launched a counter, the banshee just sang at it and it shattered.
He clicked his tongue on screen and summoned another shield, moving slower now. Tired.
But he wasn't quitting.
And I respected that.
We watched him duck another explosion, mutter what was probably a long chain of profanity, and keep moving.
"At least he's got guts," I muttered.
"Or nothing left to lose," the necromancer said, adjusting his towel like a guy watching TV on a Sunday.
Then I looked at the last screen.
Adrian.
My smile disappeared.
The necromancer's undead quieted behind him too.
Adrian was bleeding.
Like visibly.
A cut above his eyebrow. A slash along his arm. His barrier was cracked like shattered glass, flickering with every movement.
The Hexblade wasn't holding back.
Every swing of that blade was aimed like a man trying to finish a war. His mana wasn't flashy, it was tight. Focused. Precision violence. He didn't waste time with unnecessary flourishes. He moved like he knew what pain felt like.
And Adrian?
He was trying to keep up.
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