Josh slowly lowered his kingly staff, his expression calm but his eyes sharp as blades. Then, before the stunned eyes of everyone present, the staff simply vanished.
To the onlookers, it was as if the staff had dissolved into the air, swallowed by nothingness. Whispers rippled through the remaining palace warriors and servants, fear creeping into their eyes.
But in truth, the staff had not disappeared. It had returned to the kingly system interphase within Josh's body — a divine, glowing space that only he had access to. The instant it entered, the energy inside him pulsed, like the beating of a colossal heart, sending golden ripples through his veins.
Then, with a mere thought, Josh summoned a different weapon. A gold-grade high level sword materialized in his right hand, appearing with a flash of brilliance that illuminated the entire throne room for a split second. Its edge hummed softly, resonating with the will of its master, exuding a killing intent so pure that the temperature in the hall seemed to drop.
Josh's stance shifted. His grip on the sword was loose but ready, and his shoulders squared with quiet authority. He lifted his gaze and locked eyes with his father.
The look he gave Groa was chilling.
It was the look of a predator that had found its prey — the way a lion's golden eyes bore into a gazelle before the pounce. Unblinking. Unyielding.
The weight of that stare pressed down on everyone present like a mountain. Some of the servants instinctively took a step back, their knees weak, as if that gaze alone had the power to cut them down.
Groa Aratat felt his heart pound harder, but he refused to look away. Pride kept him standing tall, but inside, a spark of unease flickered. This was no longer just his son standing before him — this was a king.
Josh's aura flared, golden light weaving around him like threads of sunlight, each strand vibrating with terrifying power. The gold-grade sword tilted slightly, catching the light and throwing a sharp glint across Groa's face.
When Josh finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost soft — but it carried the weight of judgment.
"Now, Father," he said, taking one deliberate step forward, "let us end this."
Suddenly, both Josh Aratat and Groa Aratat shot toward each other, their swords colliding in a deafening clash that rang out like thunder inside the palace hall. The father and son met head-on, neither holding back in the intensity of their strikes, and the resulting shockwave rippled through the chamber, rattling the chandeliers and sending dust cascading from the ceiling.
Josh had deliberately suppressed his cultivation to match his father's, just as he had promised, but the difference in quality was impossible to hide. Where Groa's strength was rugged and unrefined, Josh's power felt like a sharpened blade, perfectly controlled and devastatingly precise.
That first clash said it all.
Josh stood rooted to the marble floor, not so much as a ripple in his stance, while Groa was forced backward, his boots scraping against the ground, taking six stumbling steps before he finally regained balance. Even then, his breath came out uneven, and his sword arm trembled slightly — a detail that did not escape the eyes of the palace servants.
The remaining warriors exchanged terrified glances. If Groa, their emperor, could not withstand a single direct clash, then there was no chance for them. All hope of protection seemed to dissolve, leaving only the cold question of whether Josh would choose to spare them or end them.
Groa's face twisted with humiliation. The air around him seemed to tremble with his rage as he let out a beastly roar, surging forward with renewed fury. His blade arced toward Josh's neck with the intention to kill, but Josh's sword intercepted the strike effortlessly, barely making a sound. In the same motion, Josh pivoted and delivered a light kick to Groa's chest.
It was almost casual — a tap compared to the strength Josh could truly unleash — but the impact still sent Groa sliding back several meters.
Groa's teeth ground together in fury. He had seen it. He knew his son was holding back. The realization was like a slap to the face. His pride, already bleeding, now turned to white-hot anger.
He roared again, this time swinging his sword wildly, so fast that the blade seemed to split into afterimages, leaving streaks of silver and black flashing across the room. Josh moved through the storm of attacks with ease, his expression calm, his body weaving around each strike like he had already foreseen them.
Their duel became a dance of destruction, clashing through different parts of the throne room. Every strike Groa made carved deep gouges into pillars and walls, the once-pristine hall now scarred with the marks of their battle. Sparks flew with every collision, and the scent of hot metal filled the air.
Groa's attacks became increasingly reckless, his swings wild, almost desperate. He searched frantically for an opening — any flaw in Josh's stance — but there was nothing to exploit. Josh's swordsmanship was too refined, his footwork too perfect.
Josh, on the other hand, moved with unnerving grace. He parried each blow with minimal effort, never once overextending, his breathing calm and measured as if this were a simple exercise. He wasn't even concentrating fully, and that infuriated Groa all the more.
Every time their swords met, Groa felt the difference more keenly — not just in power, but in presence. Josh's strikes carried a weight that seemed to press down on him, a reminder that this was no longer the same boy he once looked down upon.
Groa's rage turned to frustration, his frustration to something dangerously close to despair. And yet, he kept swinging.
Suddenly...
""This is for all the pain you caused the people of this Empire!"
Josh's voice thundered through the throne room, reverberating like a war drum. His roar was so fierce that it made the crystal chandeliers tremble and sent an involuntary shiver down the spines of every soul present.
Before Groa could even process the words, Josh's figure blurred — a blinding flash that closed the distance in an instant.
Groa, driven by pride and desperation, swung his sword wildly in a frenzy, arcs of silver flashing through the air like lightning. But Josh's movements were too fast, too precise. He slipped through the storm of strikes, his gold-grade sword gleaming with deadly intent.
Then it happened.
A sharp whoosh cut through the air, followed by a metallic clang, and then the sickening sound of steel biting through flesh and bone.
Groa's world exploded in pain. His right arm — the very arm that held his sword — was severed cleanly from the shoulder. The blade had sliced through not just flesh, but through the very symbol of his power.
"AAARRRGHHH!"
Groa's scream tore through the hall like a wounded beast's death cry. He stumbled backward, nearly falling as he clutched at the spurting wound where his arm had been. Blood gushed from the stump in thick, hot streams, splattering across the once-pristine marble floor and painting it crimson.
The sound of his blood hitting the ground was loud in the stunned silence that followed. Drip. Drip. Drip. Each drop echoed like a death knell.
The servants gasped in horror. Some covered their mouths; others could not even look. The remaining palace warriors, those who had once sworn loyalty to Groa, now took an involuntary step back.
Groa's sword hand — once feared across the entire empire — now lay twitching on the floor, still gripping the hilt of his weapon. The sight of it made even Groa's face pale.
Josh stood unmoving, his golden sword still humming faintly with energy, not a single drop of blood marring its edge. His expression was cold, merciless, like a god passing judgment.