The number of thoughts flashing in Atticus's head at this moment was staggering. It was so numerous that many wouldn't even try to count them.

And yet, despite the staggering number of scenarios playing in his head, at the end of the day, only a single one remained.

As soon as it popped up, Atticus held on to it as though it were his last hope. The thought was immediately brought forward, scrutinized thoroughly, bit by bit and inch by inch until what was once a small thought at the far back of his mind blossomed into something remarkable.

Atticus had absolutely no idea what the boy in front of him was. Magnus had made it a point to ensure he had no knowledge about his opponent. He didn't even know the boy's race!

He did not know their behavior, their culture, how they lived, how they reacted to things. Nor did he know their structure of government and how they were led. Most importantly, Atticus had no idea about their abilities.

'Always expect the unexpected' Magnus's words couldn't help but pop into his head despite the dire situation.

What did Magnus mean? The meaning of those words was incredibly simple, so simple that Atticus had long since known.

He shouldn't rely on pre-made information despite their truths. He should take everything with a grain of salt, and whenever he was in battle, he should only act based on information that he had seen, felt, and confirmed.

Atticus had analyzed, analyzed, and analyzed: why were his attacks phasing through the boy's body as though it were an illusion? Why were some of his attacks hitting his hard fist? Was his body made of mist? Why were none of his elements working, not even space?

There were many possibilities, and Atticus could say with certainty that he had gone through most, if not all, of them.

Atticus had tuned in completely to his sense of feel and tried to sense every single nuance when his hand phased through. He had focused his every attention on the boy as his attack phased through him.

It took him a minutea time that sounded short but, considering the current situation, was truly incredibly long.

Atticus had felt it.

The insanely subtle way the boy's mana signature changed each time his hand phased through.

This small discovery immediately made him think about the entrance of the shadow Seraphon's cave back at his division camp.

In order to enter the cave, Atticus had to mimic the mana signature of the barrier to phase through.

Atticus hadn't dared, not even for a second, to think about trying it out on a normal human being.

Signatures were changing at every moment, and despite this, Atticus's flesh, blood, and bones weren't so in tune with mana that it would make it possible to ignore them and phase through another. Humans in general would definitely have this problem.

But what if what if there was another race of people without this limitation? A race with control over mana so mind-boggling that they could effortlessly mimic the signature of another person in an instant?

The fact that he was using elements didn't matter. They were fundamentally made from mana and each carried Atticus's mana signature.

It had taken him a minute, but he had drawn up the most probable conclusion: the boy was mimicking his mana signature every second and phasing through his attacks as though he wasn't there.

The clashes of their fists echoed across the area in dull booms, both figures moving from one location to another, hard fist meeting hard fist.

Atticus didn't smile, nor did he feel any sense of accomplishment at his findings. He had never been the type to misuse opportunities. As soon as he came to this conclusion, his actions were instant and without hesitation.

With the raining fists showing no signs of stopping, Atticus's gaze flashed, his eyes taking on a hint of crimson in his irises. A vivid crimson aura exploded from his figure, his speed peaking.

The nature of his movement shifted, a foot-sized crimson shield appearing beneath his feet, his stance firming.

Akin to swirling waves, Atticus flowed smoothly, swirling through the bombardment of devastating punches like a river carving its way through rocky terrain.

Each movement was fluid yet precise, his body undulating with the grace of a dancer and the power of a storm surge.

Ae'ark's attacks met nothing but unfeeling air, their fury crashing harmlessly around Atticus as he weaved and twirled, an embodiment of water's fluidity.

Atticus's eyes, focused and calm, became icy as he closed the distance, appearing inches away from Ae'ark with finesse.

The crimson aura enveloping his right arm exploded, his fist rocketing forward with intense momentum.

For the first time since the battle began, Ae'ark's face showed slight emotion, his gaze narrowing in slight shock. His arm shot upward to block the blow, but it was too late.

The punch connected with Ae'ark's left cheek like a meteor crashing into the earth, the impact thunderous and cataclysmic.

A shockwave rippled outward, shattering the air around them as Ae'ark's head snapped violently to the side. The sheer force sent him hurtling backward with blinding speed, his body becoming a blur as it smashed onto the hard platform for many meters.

The ground quaked beneath the might of the blow, dust and rubble exploding into the air in his wake.

Blood sprayed from Ae'ark's mouth, his expression turning firm as he performed a mid-air spin, skidding to an abrupt stop, all fours on the hard ground.

The whole area went silent, but that was the last thing every single one of the humans watching the battle wanted to do.

They each wanted nothing more than to shout and cheer at the top of their lungs.

The apexes of the other races were untouchable.

This small fact had been ingrained in every single one of the humans who had encountered the people of the other races before.

They were so overwhelmingly powerful compared to their peers that even dreaming of touching a strand of hair on their body was impossible.