Both sides had come to an agreement—the duel would mark the beginning of war.
The day arrived beneath a crimson dawn. A suffocating stillness blanketed the land, as if the very air held its breath in anticipation of bloodshed. While the enemy was distracted by the promised spectacle, Isla slipped through the shadows with a select force, circling the country undetected. Their mission was simple, ruthless: burn the supply lines, sever the enemy's lifeline from within.
At the same time, August led his knights through the infamous Forest of Death. Their target—the dam. One crack in that wall, and thousands of horses would drown in a sudden flood. It was a pincer unseen. A war fought in silence while the enemy cheered for a show.
By midday, thousands had gathered—Valte's soldiers, mercenaries, and opportunists alike. They lined the hills and makeshift wooden stands, laughing, drinking, jeering. To them, this duel was mere entertainment, not the prelude to an invasion.
On the Empire's side stood Lucas, armored in polished steel, flanked by the Countess and her loyal thousands knights. He stood calm, unreadable, his hand resting lightly on Balmung's hilt.
But the King of Valte was nowhere to be seen.
Then, with a roar that split the sky, a great wind surged through the valley. Shadows blanketed the battlefield as a colossal dragon descended, its wings beating like thunder. On its back, cloaked in majestic robe, stood Roderick—King of Valte,
A twisted grin curled his lips as he bellowed, "Where is your old knight, August?Or are you planning to face me yourself?"
The Countess stood tall, unmoved by his mockery. "He fights in my stead," she said, her voice calm as steel. She gestured beside her.
Lucas stepped forward, casting off his cloak.
His white hair shimmered in the sunlight, eyes cold as winter frost. For a moment, even the raucous Valte crowd fell silent.
Roderick's smile faltered. "A royal?" he muttered. "Well, well... this might be amusing after all."
Then his grin returned—twisted, cruel. "But since we never agreed on the details... I've chosen my champion too." He patted the dragon's neck. "He'll be fighting for me. No one said dragons weren't allowed, did they?"
Gasps echoed across the valley.
But Lucas didn't flinch. He removed his cloak completely, revealing the full gleam of Balmung, its blade reflecting the sun like a divine beacon. He took one step forward, sword raised, and chuckled.
"Then you'd better say goodbye to your pet."
Behind him, the knights of the Empire laughed—short, sharp, and full of bloodlust.
And thus, the duel began.
The earth trembled as the dragon roared—a deafening, bone-shaking bellow that shattered the silence. Dust and wind spiraled in the wake of its wings as it took flight, circling above like a storm given flesh. Its black scales shimmered with ancient power, eyes glowing with a deep crimson light that spoke of centuries of rage.
Lucas stood alone, unmoving.
To the soldiers watching, it was madness—one man facing a beast that could crush fortresses and incinerate armies. But Lucas… was not merely a man.
He raised Balmung.
The ancient sword glowed faintly, pulsing with silver-blue light. The crowd felt it, even from afar—a shift in the air, like the atmosphere itself was tightening around him. His aura began to bloom, invisible to the ordinary, but to those attuned to power, it was like a sun had ignited in human form.
The dragon dove.
With a shriek like tearing metal, it unleashed a torrent of flame toward the ground, the very heat of it causing men to stumble back and shields to glow red.
Lucas moved.
Not with panic, not with hesitation—but with purpose.
He stepped into the flame.
Gasps rang from both sides—but the fire did not consume him. Around his body, wind twisted like a living shield, dispersing the dragonfire in a brilliant spiral of heat and storm. His cloak burned away, revealing his gleaming armor beneath, and his hair danced like white fire in the wind.
He leapt—higher than any knight
Balmung shone like a falling star as he met the dragon midair. Steel met scale with a deafening clash, and the beast roared in pain as a gash was carved along its side. The impact sent both hurtling to the ground—Lucas landed in a crouch, while the dragon crashed with a quake that split the earth.
Before it could rise, Lucas surged forward.
One strike. Two. Three. Balmung became a blur, carving through magic-forged flesh, deflecting claws, severing tendons.
But the dragon retaliated—its tail whipped like a battering ram, catching Lucas mid-charge and hurling him across the field. He crashed into stone, the force cracking his armor and drawing blood.
The Valte soldiers cheered. But the cheers died quickly.
Lucas stood.
Blood ran from his mouth, but his eyes remained unshaken. He spat to the side and lifted Balmung once more.
"I've fought gods," he muttered. "You're just a lizard."
With a cry that pierced the heavens, he gathered his aura. The ground beneath him split, wind howling as his power surged. For a brief second, he was no longer just a prince—but a force of nature.
Then he vanished.
In an instant, he was above the dragon—his blade raised high, engulfed in light.
Heavenly Flame Art,First form Ember's Path.
The strike landed.
A blinding arc of energy split the battlefield—and in one ruthless slash, the dragon's wing was severed. A guttural, pained roar tore through the skies, silencing thousands. The sheer force of it stopped the hearts of men, froze arrows mid-flight, and left the battlefield in breathless awe.
But Lucas… he didn't press the kill.
Not yet.
He danced around the dragon like a phantom, his every step igniting the ground, every clash of his blade causing shockwaves that made even the bravest knights falter. He was toying with it—not out of cruelty, but to buy time. To distract. To dominate.
And he did. Bit by bit, soldier by soldier, Valte's army began to realize they were not watching a duel—they were witnessing a storm given form.
Then, in the distance—two flares of light. The signal. The plan had succeeded.
Lucas's expression changed.
With a swift motion, he raised Balmung—and this time, his grip tightened with intent.
The dragon sensed it too. It screeched, limping backward, trying to take flight with its one remaining wing. But it was far too late.
"Heavenly Flame Art, Fourth Form—Infernal Chain!"
The ground cracked beneath the dragon as massive chains of molten fire burst forth, coiling around its limbs and torso. The beast thrashed and screamed, but the more it struggled, the tighter the chains constricted—until it was bound to the very earth itself.
Lucas launched into the air, his white hair blazing like a comet. And with one final, decisive swing—he beheaded the dragon. Clean. Effortless. Final.
Once again, silence.
No one dared speak. Not from Valte. Not from the Empire.
Then, like a dam breaking—the Empire's side erupted in thunderous cheers. Their morale soared to the heavens, while Valte's army stood paralyzed, their courage draining like blood from a wound.
From the distant hill, King Roderick's grin had vanished. His eyes narrowed. The smug amusement was gone—replaced by a cold, calculating hatred.
But Lucas wasn't finished.
He knew this was the moment. The turning point.
He gestured swiftly to his knights. "Escort the Countess to safety," he ordered. They obeyed immediately, surrounding her with steel and shields.
Then Lucas turned back toward the battlefield.
His grip tightened on Balmung. He drove the sword into the ground and unleashed his power again.
"Heavenly Flame Art, Second Form—Eternal Wall of Blaze!"
From behind the enemy lines, a wall of fire exploded upward like a divine curtain of judgment, sealing off any hope of retreat. The flames roared higher and higher, casting the battlefield in an orange-red glow that reflected off terrified eyes.
Lucas drew Balmung once more. His intent was clear.
Today… he would drown this war in flame.
He charged.
With every step, soldiers fell. One after another—cut, burned, broken. His sword danced a brutal ballet of death, and none who stood before him remained standing. Those who ran were chased. Those who fought were destroyed. Metal melted before reaching him. Flesh ignited from his aura alone.
"Heavenly Flame Art, Third Form—Blazing Tempest!"
From the skies, fire rained down like divine punishment, sweeping across the battlefield and devouring the remnants of Valte's forces in a storm of ash and heat.
The massacre would have continued…
But then—a great surge of water tore through the fire, extinguishing the wall in a hiss of steam and smoke. A tide burst forth, slicing through the inferno like a divine rebuttal.
From the sky, Roderick had finally moved.
"Water Magic: Torrent!"
His magic carved an escape route through the blaze, allowing the battered survivors of Valte's army to flee.
From high above, Roderick glared down at Lucas—his eyes burning with hatred. But he did not descend. Not today. With a single gesture, he aided his remaining troops… and then vanished in a shimmer of magic.
The knights of the Empire surged forward, cutting down any stragglers too slow to escape.
The field of battle was theirs.
And in its center stood Lucas—sword in hand, drenched in ash and blood, flames still crackling around him.