Josh leaned closer to the governor, his voice calm but carrying that weight of command that always made men stand straighter in his presence.
"What is the name of the boy…?" he asked, eyes still fixed on the blond youth in the black gown.
Governor Raphael MacNelly eagerly leaned in to respond, almost tripping over his own words in his enthusiasm. "Your Majesty, his name is Albert Ziloman!"
Josh's brows rose slightly, memory tugging at him. "Wait… is he related to the nobleman, Withlo Ziloman?"
The governor's face lit up with admiration. "Oh yes, Your Majesty, you know Noble Ziloman? That is his son!"
Josh gave a small nod, but the effect was anything but small. Raphael MacNelly felt his chest swell. Noble Withlo Ziloman was not a noble of the royal court, merely a regional noble, a man known only in the circles of Region Four. That the emperor remembered his name—let alone his family—spoke volumes. It was not grand decrees alone that bound the empire to their ruler, it was gestures like this, the emperor's ability to recall even the humblest details, that made him beloved.
"Your Majesty truly carries the hearts of his people," Raphael thought, unable to restrain the admiration flickering in his eyes.
Josh's voice stirred again, pulling him from his thoughts. "And what of the little girl I named Daughter of the Empire? What is her name?"
The governor bowed slightly. "Ah, yes, her name is Eva Crosswell!"
"Eva Crosswell…" Josh repeated softly, rolling the name on his tongue as if weighing it against memory. His gaze grew thoughtful. "Is she not the daughter of the merchant Crosswell Tyra, the one who runs Crosswell Trading Services?"
This time, Governor Raphael was left momentarily speechless, his jaw slack. Even Suleiman Eize, standing quietly nearby, could not hide the spark of admiration that flashed across his features.
The emperor's knowledge went beyond titles and faces in the court—he even remembered merchants and traders, people most rulers would dismiss as common. Here was a sovereign who carried his empire not as a crown upon his head, but as a map inscribed into his heart.
"No wonder," Raphael thought, his eyes moistening with reverence, "no wonder the people love him so fiercely."
Josh gave a final nod, his gaze shifting back toward the arena floor. The atmosphere was electric; the crowd leaned forward in anticipation.
The structure of the contest had already been announced: the children of the martial arts school would first compete amongst themselves to determine their best five. Likewise, the Oradonian Order's mages would select their five champions. Those ten would then clash, five against five. Whichever school secured three victories first would be declared the winner.
The rules were simple, yet the stakes immense—glory for the schools, honour for the children, and the pride of entire disciplines hanging in balance.
The herald's voice rang out, sharp and clear:
"First match—Natasha Mills of the Martial Arts School!"
A young girl strode forward, bronze whip coiled in her hand, her expression sharp with determination. The weapon gleamed faintly in the sun, its surface marked with faint etchings of cultivation runes. Weapons were ranked into six grades—Bronze, Silver, Human, Earth, Gold, and Spirit—each further divided into low, middle, and high tiers. Natasha's whip was of the bronze grade, middle rank. For her age, it was a weapon that spoke of both talent and investment from her family.
Whispers rippled through the crowd as her name was called. Natasha was the daughter of Liam Mills, a rice trader of respectable means. Her family was averagely wealthy, and their reputation was solid. She carried both her father's hopes and the pride of the common folk into the ring.
"Her opponent—Blaise Dean!"
The herald didn't even bother to call the name aloud. Instead, he simply pointed a lazy finger at the black-haired boy in the line and waved him forward, as though summoning a servant rather than a competitor.
"Go on," the man muttered, his tone flat, dismissive. "Up to the stage with you."
From the shadow of the waiting line, a black-haired boy stepped forward. His stride was careful, measured, as though every step carried both burden and resolve. Unlike Natasha Mills, no murmur of recognition followed him. His was not a name sung in the noble courts, nor whispered in the markets as a child of promise. He was a blank slate, an unknown.
The organizers had chosen him deliberately for this opening round. An obscure figure meant to fall quickly, a stepping stone for a brighter star. Few expected him to last beyond the first exchange.
But when he lifted his head and his dark eyes locked with Natasha's, the crowd stirred. For in them, they saw no resignation. Only fire. Quiet, restrained, but unmistakable—the fire of a boy who had something to prove.
The air tightened, the hum of voices thinning into silence as the children raised their weapons, ready to begin.
Yet beneath Blaise Dean's steady face lay a history far heavier than his years. Like Albert Ziloman, he was a boy who adored Emperor Josh Aratat. But unlike Albert, his admiration was not born merely from awe—it was born from salvation.
The year before, when the Scorpion Empire waged its bloody incursion, Blaise had lost both his parents. Orphaned overnight, he was left adrift, clinging to life with nothing but despair. Under the reign of the late Emperor Groa Aratat, orphans like him had been condemned to a life of suffering, cast aside, neglected, forgotten. Blaise had steeled himself for the same fate.
But fate shifted. The new emperor, Josh Aratat, was unlike the man before him. Funds were set aside for the orphaned. They were clothed, fed, and protected. More than that, some—like Blaise—were granted the privilege of entering the martial arts school, given a chance to forge a new destiny.
That kindness had lit a fire in the boy's heart.
"I will not waste this life my emperor gave me," Blaise swore in silence. "I will rise, and one day he will know my name."
He had no noble family to speak for him, no powerful patron to lift him into the light. If the world was blind to his existence, then he would carve his own path until they could no longer ignore him. And here, today, in this arena filled with nobles, governors, generals, and the emperor himself, was his chance.
The herald raised his voice again, preparing to repeat Natasha's name as if the boy were merely her backdrop. Blaise's lips tightened. Even here, he was unseen.
And then a deep, commanding voice rang out—halting the flow of the ceremony.
"Call his name."
The words of Emperor Josh Aratat struck like a gong in the silence. The herald froze, his mouth half open. All heads turned toward the throne. The emperor sat with calm authority, his gaze locked firmly upon the boy in black.
"Call his name," Josh repeated, his voice leaving no room for refusal.
The herald swallowed, his face pale. "B—Blaise Dean!"
The name echoed across the arena, bouncing off stone and steel, carried by the weight of imperial recognition. Gasps rippled through the stands, nobles whispering in surprise. Even Natasha turned, startled, to glance at the boy now suddenly elevated by the emperor's will.
Blaise himself stood frozen for a heartbeat, his chest tightening, eyes widening as his name thundered in the air. Then slowly, his gaze rose to the imperial dais.
There sat the man who had saved him without ever knowing his face. The man whose kindness had rewritten the destiny of thousands.
For the first time, Blaise Dean's name had been spoken before the empire—not as a forgotten orphan, but as a contender. And it was because the emperor himself demanded it.
Emotion surged in his chest, so fierce it nearly buckled his knees. His heart pounded like war drums as he clenched his fists around his weapon.
I will not fail you, my emperor… he vowed silently, his eyes blazing brighter than ever. This day, I will carve my name into history. For you. For the empire. For myself.
The crowd held its breath. The match was about to begin—but already, Blaise Dean had seized the heart of the moment.