All Jobs and Classes! I Just Wanted One Skill, Not Them All!

Chapter 443

A hush rolled through the crowd, followed by a rising hum of disbelief as the truth clicked into place, he intended to fight through every challenger in the guild gauntlet. Back-to-back. No rest. No pause. No step down until someone forced him out.

A dozen Ashbound Compact members surged to their feet in the middle rows, shouting down at him.

“Enough, boy!”

“You’ve won your match, don’t get arrogant!”

“This ends here, stand down!”

A few louder voices cut through the rest:

“Don’t get carried away!”

“Leave the arena!”

“You’ll disgrace the guild if you fall!”

But Ludger didn’t move. Arms still crossed. Posture calm. Eyes forward. Unflinching.

The referee hesitated, words caught in his throat, uncertain whether to call the next names or wait for official instruction. The crowd held its breath. Opposing guilds leaned forward in shock.

And Ludger stood alone on the sand, expression serene, stance unbreakable, as if the duel had never ended, only shifted into its next phase.

Elle tugged at Elaine’s sleeve first, little brow furrowed as she stared down at the arena. Arash followed a heartbeat later, voice soft but puzzled.

“Mama… why are people mad at Ludger?”

Elaine wrapped an arm around each of them, drawing them close against her sides. The twins leaned into her without hesitation, heads tilted up, waiting for the world to make sense.

She smiled, warm, controlled, the kind of smile she used when chaos needed soft edges.

“Because,” she said, tone playful but edged with truth, “despite my best efforts, your brother has grown into a show-off just like your father.”

Arslan froze mid-sip of his drink. Forced out a thin, embarrassed smile. Scratched the back of his head like a man questioning every life choice that led him to this exact moment.

“…I don’t show off,” he muttered under his breath, knowing it was a lie and knowing Elaine knew he knew.

Elle giggled. Arash blinked solemnly.

Elaine brushed a hand through their hair, eyes returning to the sand below.

“The truth is, people are upset because they picked a fight with Ludger… and now they don’t like how he’s responding.”

She lifted her chin toward the arena, where Ludger still stood, arms crossed, unbothered by the shouts aimed his way.

“Some people want to win, but they want to win on their terms. They don’t expect the world to push back.”

The twins followed her gaze, eyes wide.

Elaine lowered her voice, shaping the lesson with care:

“But listen well: you don’t pick fights just because you’re strong. You don’t bully people, and you don’t treat others like prey. Your brother fights to protect our home and the people who can’t stand alone. That’s what strength is for.”

Elle nodded, clutching the folds of her mother’s cloak. Arash leaned closer, whispering:

“Ludger’s protecting everyone?”

Elaine’s smile softened further, proud, sad, and unshakably certain.

“Yes, probably… most likely, in some part of his head…” she said. “One day, I hope the world understands that and him as well.”

Below them, Ludger didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

A new ripple of movement stirred the far gate as the next challenger stepped into view. The crowd’s roar dimmed into a low, curious hum, anticipation replacing shock. An older man approached the arena floor, boots leaving steady impressions in the sand. Gray threaded through his beard, and fine creases lined the corners of his eyes, the kind that came from long study rather than age alone.

He was in his fifties, maybe older.

Ludger narrowed his gaze, posture shifting ever so slightly as he took the man in. Something felt wrong, not dangerous, not hostile, just off. The air around him tugged strangely at Ludger’s senses. Mana streamed from the man’s body in thick, twisting currents, dense enough to distort the faint dust still lingering near the arena floor.

Most of all, Ludger noticed the rings. A dozen at least, glinting from each finger, iron bands, gemstone inlays, reinforced alloys etched with runes. It didn’t take a genius to understand what that meant. He was standing in front of a mage who hadn’t abandoned his craft in favor of speed or subtlety. No, this one had doubled down.

And duels like this? Wide open space, metal weapons, high mobility grounds? Terrible terrain for mages. Especially older ones. So what the hell was he doing here?

The crowd answered before Ludger could. A booming voice rolled across the arena from the announcer’s box, words thick with theatrical weight:

“Entering the duel—Master Horvan the Ringus Magus!”

A portion of the audience cheered wildly, clearly familiar with him. Another portion booed, apparently familiar with him as well, but for different reasons. Several younger mages stood and waved staves in support. Someone shouted that Horvan once fought a wyvern with nothing but rings. Someone else yelled that the rings did all the fighting for him.

Ludger exhaled slowly. Ringus Magus.

Where was his nickname?

Everyone else got something grand, dramatic, dangerous, or at least ridiculous.

Meanwhile, he was stuck with Luds. Or Ludgie.

He grimaced. Unacceptable.

Horvan raised a hand in greeting, whether polite or patronizing, it was hard to tell, rings chiming together like wind chimes struck by a storm breeze. The referee, still rattled by the previous match, sucked in a quick breath and thrust his hand downward:

“Begin!”

Mana surged. Sand shifted. And Ludger, nickname frustrations unresolved, fell into motion. He didn’t waste a heartbeat.

He shot forward like a released arrow, sand exploding behind him, air splitting around his shoulders. Horvan barely had time to widen his eyes before Ludger’s fist was already in motion, arm drawn back, mana compressed so tightly around his knuckles it vibrated.

The punch drove forward… aimed straight at the mage’s sternum… but it stopped an inch short, smashing instead into a sudden wall of shimmering mana.

The impact boomed through the arena, a deep, concussive thud that rolled under the stands like thunder.

A spiderweb of cracks flashed across the barrier, fractures racing outward, edges splintering, pieces trembling as Ludger leaned in, muscles stacked and braced, pushing for the kill. The wall was solid, dense, reinforced, a perfect defense spell deployed at the exact heartbeat needed.

For anyone else, it might have been impressive. For Ludger, it was in the way. As the barrier trembled, one of Horvan’s rings pulsed with violet light. The fractures immediately sealed, the shimmering surface smoothing back into flawless mana glass.

Ludger’s eyes narrowed. Good. A challenge.

He ripped into motion again, fists flashing like twin meteors hammering against the magical surface, each strike sending a shockwave of sound across the sand. The wall cracked, repaired, cracked again, ring after ring glowing to mend the structure, turning the duel into a contest of raw endurance versus controlled mana engineering.

The crowd leaned forward, drawn into the rhythm:

smash—crack—mend

smash—crack—mend

smash—crack—mend

Pressure built in the air. Mana thickened. Sand trembled underfoot. Ludger felt the shift a second before it happened, ground softening, grains loosening, swirling. Then the floor came alive.

The sand under his boots surged upward, coiling like hands grabbing his calves, pulling down with sudden, brutal force. The movement was precise, practiced, Horvan wasn’t just a ring mage; he could manipulate earth through the substrate beneath them.

Ludger blinked once. Interesting. He wondered, in the smallest flash of amusement, what would happen if they fought over control, if he pushed the sand one way while Horvan pulled the other. The thought might have been worth exploring in a sparring ring. But not here.

He curled his fist and slammed it downward, punching into the sand binding his legs. Mana pulsed from his knuckles, dispersing the spell like dust in wind, the grip around his calves collapsing instantly.

Before the sand even hit the ground again, Ludger moved.

He kicked off hard, body twisting upward from the disintegrating trap. The air spun around him as he flipped back, scarf and dust spiraling in his wake, landing light on his feet several strides away, breathing steady, eyes sharp, guard raised.

Horvan’s rings chimed, mana walls waiting, and Ludger smiled.

Horvan’s expression sharpened. He extended a single finger toward Ludger now, not a dramatic gesture, not a sweeping flourish, just a precise point, as if selecting a target with absolute certainty. One of the rings on that hand flared to life, runes pulsing with hard blue mana.

The attack came a heartbeat later.

A lightning bolt ripped into the arena, snapping through the air with a deafening whip-crack that rattled teeth and shook the front rows. Lightning wasn’t clean, it wasn’t tidy, it came jagged, wild, arcing off itself in frantic branches that illuminated the sand in stark white light.

Ludger reacted on instinct.

He threw up his arms, froststeel bracers catching the bolt square-on. The sound was brutal, like stone shattering and metal screaming. Electricity slammed into him, numbing shock racing up his arms, heat prickling over his skin in violent tingles. The bolt scattered around him, grounding itself in the dirt in sizzling threads, burning flesh-warm trenches through the sand.

The crowd roared. Some in awe. Some in panic.

Horvan studied the result with a keen, hungry stare, looking for damage. For hesitation. For faltering. Ludger responded by calmly rolling his neck until it cracked.

Then he lowered into a forward stance, weight balanced, mana beginning to gather like storm pressure behind bone.

Horvan’s eyes widened just slightly, an experienced mage recognizing that his lightning hadn’t stalled anything. Ludger moved.

Not with grace. Not with finesse. But with terrifying, direct acceleration. His boots tore across the sand, each stride long and deliberate, building momentum so fast the air whistled around him. He didn’t weave or dodge, he ran straight at the mage, radiating enough confidence to be insulting.

Horvan struck again, ring flaring brighter, a second bolt lancing out. Stronger. Hotter. Closer-range and desperate. But Ludger was ready.

Wind Overdrive roared down his arms, twisting the air into violent spirals around his forearms. The mana was dense, pressurized, wind sharpened into a physical deflection field.

The lightning hit. And bounced.

The bolt smacked the barrier and ricocheted wildly downward, slamming into the sand and exploding it into a shower of scorched fragments. The arena floor smoked, molten grains hissing under heat.

Gasps rippled across the stands. Even Horvan froze, eyes wide, mind clearly racing to reassess the boy who just reflected lightning while sprinting through open terrain. But Ludger barely noticed the reaction. He didn’t slow. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t show strain. He just kept closing the gap, wind swirling, lightning scars fading off his bracers, his stride pounding through the sand like a countdown.

And the message in his eyes was unmistakable:

Your tricks aren’t enough.

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