The chamber would not settle.
Even after the white-haired boy's sharp words, the nobles whispered and shifted in their seats, eyes cutting down at him like hawks over carrion. Disbelief stank in the air, wrapped around fear and the sharper scent of ambition.
Some wanted the boy gone, others chained.
The clever ones already weighed how best to bend him into their own piece on the board.
Baram rose.
The commander of the Radiant Knights didn't bark or threaten; he didn't need to. His armor gleamed even in the low chamber light, his shoulders carried the weight of old campaigns, and the streak of gray through his cropped hair made him look carved from Arleina's walls.
When he stood, the noise thinned as if the air itself remembered discipline.
"On your feet, Prince," Baram said. His tone was even, but heavy enough to settle on every back. "Bravado proves nothing. Arleina demands strength."
The system flared before Red's vision.
[Quest Update: Trial by Combat]Opponent: Sir Halden (Lv. 12)Failure = PurgeReward = Recognition + Political Standing
A duel. For his life.
Red—though they called him Alzein—rose. His crimson eyes cut across the chamber, not lingering but catching details the way a spy always did.
A woman in violet leaned so far forward her perfume carried.
An old lord's lips moved in a dry, hurried prayer.
Lady Corna's mouth tugged into a smile sharp enough to cut parchment.
They were all hungry for blood.
The procession spilled into the night air.
Torches smoked against the courtyard walls, the flame smell catching in Red's throat. The dueling ring at the center looked less like a stage and more like a scar—white stone cracked and gouged from generations of fights. In some grooves, weeds had dared to grow.
Sir Halden waited there.
His armor wasn't ceremonial. It was plain, its edges battered, though polished with care. The man himself carried his spear as though it had grown from his arm. Beneath the visor, scar tissue pulled one cheek taut, a pale reminder of Sylph's Valley.
Baram's voice carried easily: "Sir Halden will test the prince."
The crowd pressed close. Silk rustled, boots scraped stone, whispers slipped through the smoke.
A spear was shoved into Red's hands.
He twirled it once, feeling the weight of it. His form seemed to recall the weapon, even if the mind within did not belong to this prince. Muscle memory—Alzein's, not his own—provided the motion.
Baram held up his hand. "Start!"
Halden lunged without hesitation.
His magisteel spear whipped through the air, whizzing by Red's side.
Instinct took over. Red yanked his spear up to deflect, the blow clattering directly up his arms and into his shoulders.
The knight pressed again, faster this time, heavier, driving forward with practiced precision.
Red staggered back across the stone, boots grinding against the courtyard floor, each step a fight not to fall.
Gasps burst from the nobles. Some chuckled, betting in whispers already.
Spy's Mind pulsed in his head.
"Old wound. Left side. Scar tissue. Slower when pressed."
Useful.
Halden's next sweep smashed into his shoulder. Bone jolted, pain flaring hot and bright enough to taste in his teeth.
[Health: 72%]
The flash burned across his vision, tightening his jaw. Seventy-two percent. A wound like that in the field would mean retreat. Here, it meant nothing but grit.
The noise around the ring thickened. One noble snorted. Another muttered, "Over already."
Halden's voice came rough through the visor. "You hesitate. A prince who thinks too long is a dead man."
Red ground his teeth. Wrong. Spies lived because they thought.
He steadied his breath, caught the rhythm. Each twitch of Halden's shoulder, each lean of his weight—he recorded them like lines in a report.
He slid inside the next thrust, slammed his spear shaft across Halden's helmet, then drove the butt into his ribs.
The older knight grunted, staggered half a step, and came back on guard in an instant.
Through the visor, Red saw the man's eyes. Not recognition. Unease.
Halden had fought beside the real Alzein. This boy was not him.
The knight lunged again, no mercy in the strike. His spear drove forward, fast enough to end it.
Red's hands clenched tighter. His body wanted to parry with the dull spear—yet something deeper surged, something not wholly his own.
Light erupted.
The practice spear dissolved into brilliance, blazing edges forming a crescent blade of dawn-gold. Radiance washed over the courtyard. Shadows stretched long across the walls. The weapon thrummed, not in his hands but in every bone around the ring, as if some old memory had torn free of time.
Gasps ripped through the nobles. A woman shrieked. Several raised sleeves to shield their eyes.
The Light Spear Alside.
Halden froze mid-thrust, eyes wide behind steel. His magisteel weapon slammed against the radiant spear. The sound rang—not metal on wood, but something higher, a clear tone that cut through marrow.
A hymn.
The magisteel shaft split in two.
The Alside cracked in his grip, golden lines racing its length, then shattered. Its pieces dissolved into motes that rose and vanished like fireflies drifting into night.
Red didn't pause. He caught up the discarded practice spear, lunged, and pressed its point to Halden's throat.
The courtyard froze.
Halden's chest heaved once, twice. Then his gauntlet tapped the ground. "Enough. He wins."
[Quest Complete: Trial by Combat]Reputation +25%Council Hesitation -30%
[Fragment of Alside Resonance Triggered]Warning: Stability fragile. Cooldown required before next summon.
The silence cracked like glass.
"The Light Spear…" an older noble rasped, standing half up from his chair. "The Gift of the Goddess—gone since her disappearance."
"Chicanery," another spat, tone like a lash. "Some stage trick."
Lady Corna's smile widened. "Or perhaps a miracle."
Cerana's fan covered her mouth, but her eyes sparkled. "If it's true, then hope returns to Arleina."
An elderly priest keeled over and started to pray, words spilling too quickly to make out.
One courtier laughed, the sound brittle, as though laughter could keep the world from shifting beneath him.
Baram stepped into the ring. His face was iron, but his eyes betrayed thought, heavy and cautious.
"I have lived long enough to see legends fade. Tonight, one walked again."
He fixed the boy with a stare sharp as any spear. "Prince or not, you carry what this kingdom has not touched in centuries."
Lumiaris's lips parted. Awe shimmered in her eyes like stars reflected in water.
Brayl's knuckles whitened against her staff.
Glade's jaw was clenched, suspicion written plain.
He held the training spear low. His ribs ached but his posture did not falter.
Inside, unease gnawed. The weapon hadn't answered his will—it had chosen him.
It felt less like he had summoned the spear, and more like the spear had summoned him.
The whispers swirled, hungry and restless. Some saw salvation. Others smelled threat.
He survived. He gave them spectacle.
But spies did not dwell in triumph. Having passed one test only meant the next blade was already being honed.
And in Arleina, every hand was whetting its own.