Sanctuary: Safe Haven

The battle between Canna and Varya continued to rage on, the crowd unable to look away as the two warriors clashed with incredible intensity. Varya's strikes came harder and faster, her power now fully unleashed. Her swordsmanship was unparalleled, each swing of her blade carrying the weight of her true transcendent rank.

She was relentless, her strikes precise and devastating, forcing Canna onto the defensive.

But as powerful as Varya was, something wasn't adding up. The longer the battle dragged on, the more fatigued she became. Her robes were torn and tattered, and her once-fluid movements began to slow. Canna, on the other hand, seemed to be maintaining his pace with ease. He moved with the grace of a seasoned fighter, his two swords cutting through the air with flawless accuracy.

His water arrows, though simple in appearance, were the real issue. Varya had fought many battles, but she had never faced such a constant barrage of attacks. The arrows flew at her like a hailstorm, each one requiring careful deflection or evasion.

What frustrated Varya the most was the fact that every time she thought she had found an opening in Canna's defense, it turned out to be a feint. His ability to mix in fake movements, paired with the relentless water arrows, kept her from fully committing to any single strike.

And as much as she tried to break his focus, Canna remained in control, directing the arrows and wielding his swords with deadly precision.

In Earth terms, it was a battle between a machine gun and a bazooka on one side, and a small tank on the other. Varya's attacks were powerful, no doubt, but she was being overwhelmed by the sheer multitasking required to fight off Canna's arsenal. His mana pool seemed limitless, as he never missed a beat, his water arrows continuing to bombard her with the same intensity from the start.

The tide of the battle was slowly shifting. Varya found herself being pushed back, each step taking her closer to the edge of the arena. Her breathing became more labored, her mind racing as she tried to figure out how to counter the never-ending barrage. She had fought many great warriors in her time, but this—this was something entirely different.

Then, just as it seemed like Canna was going to finish her off, a loud crash echoed through the arena.

The sound was deafening, and a thick cloud of dust rose up in the middle of the arena, obscuring the view of both fighters. Canna halted his attacks, his eyes narrowing as he waited for the dust to clear. In the stands, the crowd collectively held their breath.

When the dust settled, the entire arena went silent.

Standing in the center of the arena was a figure—tall, imposing, and radiating an aura of raw power. The figure was about 2 meters tall, with grey hair that cascaded down to his shoulders. His face was weathered, lined with the marks of age and experience, yet his body still exuded strength.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the arena with a look of curiosity. The air around him seemed to hum with energy, and even though he wore simple, warrior-like garments, they carried the weight of authority.

Every single member of Clan Varran immediately knelt in respect, their heads bowed to the ground. Even Varya, despite her exhaustion, dropped to one knee.

The only two standing were Canna and Maggi.

Maggi, who had been watching from the stands, glanced around in confusion. He had been with Clan Varran for a while now, but this was the first time he had seen this man. His brow furrowed, trying to make sense of the sudden appearance.

One of the people kneeling next to Maggi whispered urgently, "Oi, bend your knee, idiot! That's the previous leader of the clan, the saint of Clan Varran! If you don't kneel, you'll get punished—he has a stupidly bad temper!"

But Maggi wasn't paying attention. His eyes were fixed on the figure in the arena, who had now turned his gaze toward Canna.

The old man stood tall, more imposing than the adventurer's guildmaster Canna had encountered earlier. His attire, though simple, screamed of warrior prestige, designed for battle but without the need for armor. His presence alone was enough to silence the entire arena. No one dared speak as he surveyed the scene.

His eyes landed on Varya for a minute, then his gaze settled on Canna.

His voice, when he spoke, was cold and menacing, like the sound of grating stone. "Who kicked my niece into the wall?" The question was spoken with such calm menace that the air seemed to freeze around him.

Varya looked up, about to answer, but before she could speak, Canna chimed in, his voice casual, almost amused. "I did. That foul-mouthed ground-hog looking creature is your niece? You should really teach her some manners, old man."

The silence that followed was deafening. Every single member of Clan Varran stared in horror at Canna, their jaws dropping. Some even began to break out in cold sweat, unable to believe what they had just heard.

Varya's eyes widened, her mouth slightly agape as she looked at Canna. The audacity of this man to insult a saint, right to his face!

The previous leader of Clan Varran stared at Canna for a moment, his eyes narrowing into slits as he sized him up.

Without warning, the old man stepped forward and backhanded Canna with such force that the air itself seemed to shudder. The impact sent Canna flying across the arena, his body crashing into the far wall. The force of the blow was so immense that the wall, which had been constructed to withstand strikes from saints, cracked under the impact.

The crowd gasped in unison, several members believing that Canna must surely be dead. No one could survive a blow like that from a saint.

In the stands, Maggi stood frozen for a moment, his brain struggling to catch up with what had just happened. Then, slowly, a deep, burning rage began to build inside him.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

His fists ignited in flames, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. His breathing became ragged, his eyes filled with fury as he glared at the old man.

"You fucker," Maggi growled, his voice trembling with anger. His entire body was trembling, his fire magic flaring to life. His fists blazed with even more intensity, his feet now enveloped in flames as well. "I don't care if you're a saint. I'll tear you apart, shred you from bone to muscle, and throw your remains into the river."

The heat in the stands was growing unbearable, with Maggi's fire flaring hotter and hotter. His rage was so intense that tears began streaming down his face, but they weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of pure, unadulterated wrath.

The previous leader, now fully aware of the boy's anger, glanced toward Maggi with mild curiosity. His saintly senses allowed him to hear Maggi's words as if the boy were right next to him. He frowned slightly and prepared to teleport over to deal with the threat.

But just as the old man moved, a figure materialized behind Maggi, faster than the eye could track. It was Canna—alive and very much unharmed.

Before Maggi could act on his rage, Canna gently chopped him on the neck, causing his body to slump forward. Catching Maggi in his arms, Canna smiled through the blood dripping from his mouth. "Relax, Maggi. I'll take it from here."

As Canna placed Maggi down, the sky above began to darken. Storm clouds gathered once more, and a light drizzle began to fall. The air crackled with the promise of a much larger storm.

Canna teleported back to the arena, his gaze fixed on the saint who had just sent him flying. The drizzle started turning into a steady rain, and Canna wiped the blood from his mouth, standing firm, ready to face the old man.