Reincarnated With a SSS-Rank Hypnosis Skill in Another World-Chapter 48 - Final Moments

Elena hesitated, eyes searching mine as if trying to read something beneath the surface—fear, doubt, hesitation. But there was nothing for her to find. I’d burned those feelings out long ago. Finally, she gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, and stepped back.

"Don’t die," she murmured, voice barely audible.

I smirked. "Wouldn’t want to ruin the show."

With that, she slipped out, the door closing softly behind her. The waiting room fell silent again, save for the faint echo of the crowd outside. The second semi-final must have been reaching its climax—one more storm before mine began.

I drew in a slow breath, feeling the air burn cold in my lungs. My heart beat steady, controlled. The dagger hummed faintly in my grip as I ran my thumb along its flat, grounding myself in the weight of it, in the promise of what came next.

Focus.

I replayed Thomas’s previous fights in my mind—how he opened with that low stance, spear tip dancing just out of reach, drawing his opponent in. The way he used feints, quick thrusts to test reactions before sweeping in with that brutal horizontal strike. His rhythm. His breath. His flow.

Good. I wanted that flow. I wanted him at his best.

The bell tolled twice—low, reverberating through the stone walls like the heartbeat of the arena itself.

My turn.

I rose, rolling my shoulders, letting the tension slip from my body like a discarded cloak. The door to the arena opened before me, blinding light spilling into the room. The roar of the crowd hit me like a wave.

And I stepped forward into it.

The arena floor stretched out beneath the noon sun, a wide expanse of pale stone scarred from a hundred battles. Across from me, Thomas was already waiting, spear resting at his side, his expression calm as a winter lake. His dark hair stirred slightly in the breeze.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the din. "SEMI-FINAL MATCH: JAKE VARELL VERSUS THOMAS VALEN! BEGIN!"

No waiting. No bowing. No wasted movements.

Thomas lunged.

His spear blurred as it shot forward, a silver streak aiming straight for my throat.

I pivoted to the side, the tip passing so close I felt the wind of it against my skin. He flowed with the momentum, twisting the shaft in his hands, and brought it around in a sweeping arc meant to catch me off balance.

I dropped low, sliding beneath it, dirt scraping at my palms.

He didn’t give me time to recover. The spear reversed direction mid-swing, jabbing downward toward where I crouched. But I was already moving, kicking off the ground and twisting past it, dagger flashing toward his side.

Clang!

Wood met steel as he deflected the strike with the reinforced butt of his weapon, spinning away to regain distance. His eyes narrowed slightly—approving, maybe. Or calculating.

I grinned despite myself. This was going to be good.

He came again, faster now, spear lashing out in a flurry—thrust, sweep, jab, feint. Each movement precise, practiced. But I was watching the rhythm, the pattern beneath the storm. Every third strike, he overcommitted just a hair on the sweep. A flaw so small most wouldn’t see it. But I did.

I waited.

And waited.

And when the third came—I stepped inside it.

Thomas’s eyes widened the barest fraction as I broke the pattern, dagger flashing up toward his chest.

But he was fast—faster than I’d given him credit for. He twisted, the shaft of his spear snapping up between us like a wall, blocking the blade with inches to spare. His knee came up, driving toward my ribs.

I took the hit, gritting my teeth as pain bloomed across my side—but I didn’t let go. I caught his spear arm with my free hand, locking us together.

His breath hitched.

And then I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, "Got you."

Before he could react, I activated [Bloodbind].

My blade grazed his forearm, the smallest cut, but enough. The link flared to life, his heartbeat pounding in my ears.

His next move telegraphed itself in my mind before his body followed through—a twist, a shove, a disengage.

I moved first.

I wrenched his arm off balance, drove my knee toward his gut, and shoved him back. He stumbled, just a step—but enough.

The crowd roared.

Thomas’s gaze met mine now, no longer calm. Focused. Sharpened like the point of his spear.

Good.

Now the real fight began.

Thomas exhaled slowly, centering himself, and adjusted his grip on the spear. The easy rhythm he’d been relying on—the flow that made him so dangerous—was gone now. I’d forced him off-script, and he knew it.

But that didn’t make him weaker. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

It made him furious.

He surged forward with renewed intensity, no longer testing, no longer feinting. His spear became a storm, blindingly fast, every strike meant to end this. A low thrust at my knee—I leapt over it. A horizontal sweep at my chest—I twisted back, feeling the wind of it graze my clothes. A lightning-quick jab at my throat—I ducked under, close enough to see the glint of focus in his eyes.

The edge of the arena blurred as we moved, our footsteps echoing on cracked stone. I felt the link between us pulsing, his heartbeat fast but steady. He was angry—but he wasn’t losing control. He was adapting.

Good.

I wanted him at his peak.

He tried to pin me with a series of rapid thrusts, forcing me toward the edge. I let him think it was working, kept my movements tight, precise, conserving energy. His pattern had changed, but his habits hadn’t. Every time his left foot slid forward just so, he over-relied on reach.

I waited for it. Waited for the overreach.

There.

His spear shot forward—too far. Too committed.

I exploded inside his guard, mana flaring in my legs as I closed the gap in an instant. My dagger arced up toward his shoulder.

His eyes widened. He tried to pivot, but he was too late.

[Veinpiercer]

The dagger grazed him, just enough to break skin.

The link between us deepened—I felt the rhythm of his breath, the tension in his muscles, the split-second of hesitation as his mind raced to recalibrate.

And I pressed the advantage.

My dagger moved in a blur, targeting weak points—elbow, ribs, thigh—not to maim, but to force him on the defensive. His spear, so fluid before, became a shield, desperately parrying, deflecting. For the first time, Thomas Valen was reacting to me.

But then—

He gritted his teeth and did something I didn’t expect.

He abandoned the spear.

With a shout, he let it fall, grabbed my dagger arm with both hands, and drove his forehead toward mine.

Crack!

Stars burst in my vision as bone met bone. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but I didn’t let go. Neither did he.

We stood locked together for a breathless instant, blood mingling from a cut on his brow and the split skin above my eye.

Then he spoke, voice low, ragged.

"You’re good."

I smirked, even through the pain. "You’re stubborn."

Without his spear, Thomas’s style changed completely. He shifted into grappling, trying to overpower me with raw strength. His arms coiled around mine, trying to pin my weapon, trying to drive me to the ground.

But I’d trained for this, too.

I stomped down hard on his instep. He flinched. I twisted my body, using his momentum against him, and we went down together, but I landed atop him, dagger pressed to his throat.

Silence.

The crowd froze, waiting for the call.

The announcer’s voice rang out at last, clear and final.

"Winner—Jake Varell!"

The arena erupted. Cheers, shouts, even stunned silence from some who hadn’t expected it. I stayed there a moment longer, catching my breath, the weight of the match settling over me.

Then I pushed off him, standing, and offered my hand.

Thomas stared up at me, chest heaving, sweat mixing with the blood on his face. And after a beat, he took it.

I pulled him to his feet.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded once—respect, hard-earned and genuine.

As they tended to his injuries, I turned, wiping blood from my brow, and looked to the stands.

Elena was on her feet, hands clasped over her heart, eyes shining.

Phase two: complete.

Only one fight left.

And I would be ready.

It was now time to put to use everything I had prepared.

The medics ushered Thomas off the field, their healing spells already closing the cuts on his face. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The nod we’d shared said enough.

I stood alone in the center of the arena as the cheers washed over me, but I didn’t feel victorious. Not yet. This wasn’t the end. This was just another step.

The announcer’s voice boomed out again, calling for a short intermission before the final match. I exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from my muscles, and walked toward the exit tunnel.

The stone corridors felt cold after the heat of the fight. My heartbeat slowed as I entered the waiting room again—empty now, except for Elena.

She’d dropped the glamour entirely. No one would dare stop her now. She was pacing, for once unable to hide her worry.

"That was reckless," she said, the moment I stepped inside.

I gave a small smile. "But it worked."

She scowled, though her eyes softened. "You didn’t need to take that headbutt."

"I wanted to see if he’d switch tactics. He did." I wiped at the drying blood above my eye. "I can handle it."

Her expression shifted from irritation to something closer to pride. "You’re too good at this."

I shrugged, sitting down and pulling out the stimulant vial. The orange liquid shimmered as I turned it in my hand.

Elena sat beside me. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, quietly: "The last opponent... the black-haired girl. Nerissa. Don’t underestimate her."

"I won’t."