Natasha Mills took another look at Blaise Dean and frowned ever so slightly. She wasn't the only one. Around the auditorium, murmurs and half-formed questions drifted through the air like gnats: Is he some secret son of the Emperor? A bastard child hidden in plain sight? The thought struck many at once, for there seemed no other reason for the emperor to insist that the boy's name would have to be called out alongside that of Natasha. I mean, Why else would the Emperor personally speak up for the boy with no lineage, no standing, no name?
Even Natasha, with her reputation and her training, could not resist the thought. Her whip curled loosely at her side, bronze gleaming under the torches, yet her eyes were fixed on Blaise Dean as if he were a puzzle she was unwilling to solve.
Blaise Dean, meanwhile, met her gaze. He saw the judgment there—clear, cold, unmasked. It was the same look he had grown up under, day after day. The same look that told him he was less than everyone else. He had trained mostly in isolation, for even among his peers, no one wanted to spar with a nameless orphan. His very existence was treated like a stain that could not be scrubbed clean.
The Emperor, Josh Aratat, had changed many things over the past year—corruption was punished swiftly, lazy nobles cut down to size, whole provinces disciplined into order. Fear and discipline were easy tools. But reshaping the human heart, rooting out prejudice that had fermented for generations—that was far harder. Changing the skin of a leopard might have been easier.
Now, on the stage, two fighters faced each other. Natasha with her whip—a bronze-rank, middle-tier weapon polished and sleek, a weapon that had likely been passed down or chosen for her with care. And Blaise, holding only a rod.
It seemed almost laughable. The rod was nothing but a crude imitation of the kingly staff carried by Josh Aratat himself. The artisans had warned again and again that this was little more than a child's trinket—an imitation, not a true weapon. Yet countless children still chose it, eager to mimic the man who ruled their empire.
But Blaise's rod was different. No one knew it, not even Blaise himself. The one clutched in his grip was not a common bronze issue, but a low-tier, silver-ranked weapon. Empress Lola herself had quietly ordered that among the heaps of bronze rods, a rare batch of silver should be scattered—meant only for orphans. A quiet decree, known to few, a gesture hidden beneath layers of protocol.
And by chance—or perhaps by fate—Blaise Dean had taken one.
He didn't know its value, but he felt it. The weight in his palm, the strange resonance when he first touched it—it was as if the weapon had been waiting for him. More than that, he felt a connection, an almost reverent pride. The rod wasn't just a weapon; it was a reflection of his devotion to the man he admired most: Emperor Josh Aratat.
And so, though the crowd saw only an orphan with a stick, Blaise stood straighter. For the first time, the whispers, the judgment, even Natasha's cold eyes—they mattered less than the rod in his hand, and the strength stirring quietly in his heart.
"Fight!"
The referee's voice cracked across the arena, sharp and commanding, and the noise of the crowd swelled like a rising tide.
Natasha Mills didn't hesitate. She surged forward with the confidence of a champion-in-the-making, her bronze whip unfurling in the air like a serpent. Her movements were elegant, trained, refined—every flick of her wrist echoing the grace of Empress Lola, whose style she idolized. The whip whistled as it cut through the air, her body leaping into motion with the fluidity of someone who expected her victory to be quick and absolute.
The fight, she thought, would be over in seconds. A simple strike, a push, and Blaise Dean would be toppled off the stage like the nobody he was. Victory would be hers, just as her father's booming voice rang from the stands: "That's my girl!" The crowd roared in agreement. Everyone could already see the outcome—an orphan could never stand against the daughter of Liam Mills.
But Blaise saw differently. He saw the laziness in her attack, the arrogance hidden in her movements. She didn't respect him enough to fight properly. And that single mistake was all he needed.
The whip slashed toward him, bronze gleaming, air splitting under its force. But instead of panic, Blaise turned swiftly, his silver-ranked rod flashing upward. The weapon caught the whip, and with a twist, it coiled tightly around the rod like a snake trapped on a spear.
The crowd gasped. Natasha's eyes widened, but before she could brace herself, Blaise yanked. He pulled with the strength of someone who had endured years of rejection, someone who had carried his training alone. The whip betrayed her, dragging her body forward, unbalanced and unprepared.
And then—
Thud!
Natasha Mills flew off the stage, landing face-first into the dirt. The arena went silent. Not a single cheer followed. Dust hung in the air like disbelief itself, and every gaze turned to the boy still standing on the platform.
Blaise Dean. The orphan. The nobody.
He stood panting, rod trembling slightly in his grip, but his posture unbending. His chest rose and fell, and yet his gaze was steady, even under the weight of the silence pressing down on him.
The referee blinked, almost confused, before finally lifting his hand. "...The winner is—Blaise Dean." His voice lacked conviction, as though saying it aloud made the impossible too real.
For a heartbeat longer, no one moved. Then Blaise turned, rod still clutched firmly, and walked off the stage with calm determination. No boasting, no gestures of triumph—just a quiet departure that carried more weight than any celebration could.
In his respected position, in the stands, Emperor Josh Aratat's eyes followed him. A small nod escaped the Emperor—subtle, deliberate, regal.
If Blaise had seen it, his heart would have soared, his pride would have blazed. For the nod of an Emperor was no small thing.
Even the governor beside the Emperor shifted uncomfortably, side-eyeing the ruler. His thoughts burned with suspicion: Why does His Majesty show such interest in an orphan? For the Emperor, who was expected to be neutral and detached, to favor anyone—even with something as small as a nod—was extraordinary.
And as Blaise left the arena floor, the silence slowly gave way to whispers. Whispers of doubt, of curiosity, of fear.
The name of Blaise Dean would no longer be ignored.