The competition had been meant as a simple, pride-filled theater—four dukes boasting about their young prodigies, each certain their own bloodline would rise above the others. The children and grandchildren had awakened to cultivation only months before, but in the gilded halls, that was enough to spark quiet wagers, sharp glances, and veiled challenges. Every word exchanged between the dukes carried double meaning, every smile a hidden calculation, a silent probe into the others' pride and resolve.
Golden chandeliers cast fractured light across the polished marble floors, and the echo of footsteps seemed to carry tension in every bounce. The walls themselves seemed to lean inward, as if eager spectators of a drama that had been carefully scripted by ambition and ego. This was no simple contest—it was a stage where bloodlines, reputation, and pride were being measured, where every move would ripple through the power dynamics of the four families.
They staged the friendly contest, equal parts show and gamble, to decide which family's heir would be crowned the strongest. And yet, beneath the glittering surfaces and courteous greetings, it was as much a battle of cunning and hidden rivalry as it was a test of strength and cultivation.
When the final match began, the air grew taut with expectation. Atlas Montclair and Ray Walker faced each other, their gazes sharp, their movements precise. The hall seemed to shrink around them, the crowd fading into a blur as their aura of energy began to crackle like distant thunder. When the fight ended, Ray stood victorious, his stance steady, his breathing controlled. The hall seemed to pause—the question of which family bred the greatest prodigy had been answered.
Robert Walker's chest swelled with pride, his hands trembling slightly as he fought to keep his composure. Alexander Ravenscroft and Edward Ashford approached with congratulatory smiles, their words smooth, their admiration genuine but tinged with the subtle envy of men who recognized greatness when they saw it. Leonardo Montclair, however, kept his expression carefully neutral. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flickered with thoughts he would not yet share.
Then came Prince Lucas Richard, cutting through the residual celebration like a blade. His challenge to Ray was loud, confident, and conceited. The duel began cleanly, each strike a testament to skill and cultivation, but Lucas faltered. Frustration gnawed at him, pride was at stake, and soon he resorted to cheating with the help of the referee. Even that wasn't enough. Humiliated, he drew a weapon stolen from the inventor Ophelia Cogswell—a gun that thrummed with deadly, unnatural energy.
Ray moved to intercept, his fury coiling like a storm ready to strike. "Stop," he warned, voice low but cutting. Pride clouded Lucas's judgment. He pulled the trigger. A searing beam shot toward Ray, hot and precise, intent on destruction. Ray's silver-stage formation flared, a shimmering shield meant to disperse attacks of this magnitude—but the beam cut through as if it were mist. It grazed his hair, a thin line of singed strands, and the hall seemed to tilt with the near miss.
The weapon's recoil tore through Lucas's hand, rendering it useless. His meridians ruptured, and his core cracked under the brutal backlash. He staggered, paying the price for his own arrogance—but the calamity was far from over.
From nowhere, a new force struck Ray—a kick to the chest that sent him flying like a missile. Leonardo Montclair had appeared, his strike precise and devastating. The wall loomed closer and closer, Ray's body a blur of motion and pain. Just before impact, his relic pulsed. A question flickered in his mind: [Should I activate the talisman that was given by Selene?] He clicked yes, trusting the system that had kept him alive.
A golden light flared. The talisman activated—a golden-stage artifact surrounding him like a fragile aura. It was not enough to completely stop the force, but it softened the impact as he slammed against the wall. Dust, debris, and fragments of stone showered around him, and the hall seemed to hold its breath.
Robert, distracted moments before by the referee, saw in horror the chain of events unfold. The beam, the kick, the golden flare—and then Ray flying into the wall. Rage ignited in him like lightning. He surged forward, energy coiling around him, the air crackling with the power of a peak cultivator. Lightning wrapped his legs and hands as he dashed with blinding speed toward Leonardo, who had no time to react. Robert's punch struck Leonardo's shoulder, sending him rocketing across the hall.
Alexander and Edward moved in unison, grasping Robert by the shoulders, holding back a man whose fury could level buildings. "Calm yourself!" they urged, voices taut with urgency. "Do not do something rash!"
Amid the settling dust, Leonardo emerged, clutching his broken arm, his face a mask of controlled pain and hidden calculation. "I did what I had to do," he said smoothly, avoiding the truth. "The inventors could not be allowed to interfere. If Ray had exposed the prince, internal war would have erupted. We could not afford that now."
Robert's voice roared back, shaking the marble itself. "We could have told Ray! You didn't need to kill him! And now you've made an enemy of me!"
Leonardo's tone remained calm and cold. "I do not want an enemy in my own son-in-law. I will compensate you for this."
Before Robert could speak, a sound of movement came from the wall where Ray had hit. Stones shifted, dust swirled—and then Ray emerged, blood streaked across his forehead, dark spatters falling from his mouth. Yet through the blood, the sweat, and the bruises, he smiled—a thin, chilling curve of lips that could freeze the spine of anyone who dared look. "Compensate?" he chuckled, voice low and dangerous. "You have no idea who you tried to kill. You didn't just try to eliminate me—you started a war."
Ray's gaze sharpened. "I've already called the inventors. They are surrounding the Montclair estate as we speak. And the king has been informed of your movements. You'd better not leave this place. Be ready to answer for every arm and leg you thought you could buy."
The hall seemed to shudder. The glittering chandeliers flickered in the chaos, shadows dancing across tense faces. Four dukes, their heirs, and all witnesses now realized: this contest had become the spark of a storm that could consume them all.