The shockwaves from the collision between Ragnar's thunderous strike and Sir Lancelot's mighty sword technique still echoed through the Royal Knights Hall like the aftershocks of a quake. Dust and debris swirled through the air, coating the once immaculate training ground in a thin veil of gray. The onlookers—knights, squires, and hopeful candidates alike—shielded their faces from the gusts, their eyes wide with anticipation as they waited for the storm to settle.
Then, with a loud bang, the last of the compressed air released outward, pushing the haze away in a spiraling gust. As the dust cleared, gasps rippled through the crowd. In the middle of the arena stood Ragnar and Sir Lancelot, both unmoving, their bodies taut with tension, blades frozen in a final decisive position.
Ragnar's Excalibolt, still crackling faintly with residual red lightning, was pressed against the side of Sir Lancelot's neck. Meanwhile, Lancelot's gleaming silver blade rested just as dangerously against Ragnar's own throat. It was a scene of mutual destruction, a moment where neither side had managed to completely overpower the other.
The spectators were stunned into silence. Even the knights, veterans who had seen countless duels and training bouts, could not hide their surprise. Ragnar was a candidate, a newcomer who had arrived in the capital not long ago. Sir Lancelot was the commander of the Royal Knights of Elrion, a living legend whose skill and strength were said to surpass all others in the kingdom. For a candidate to bring the commander to a standstill was unheard of.
For several heartbeats, the training ground was enveloped in an almost sacred stillness. Dust particles floated in the air like suspended stars. The only sound was the faint crackle of Ragnar's lingering lightning, dancing along the edge of Excalibolt.
Then, abruptly, the silence was shattered by a deep, hearty laugh.
"Ha ha ha ha ha!"
The sound came from Sir Lancelot himself. He threw his head back and laughed, not mockingly, but with genuine exhilaration. His sword withdrew from Ragnar's neck as he took a step back, still laughing. "Magnificent!" he declared, his voice echoing throughout the hall. "I acknowledge your strength. I must admit, it's been a long time since I've felt this excited."
The tension evaporated like mist in the sun. Ragnar lowered Excalibolt, its glow fading to a dull shimmer as he relaxed his stance. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though he didn't laugh. "I feel the same," he said simply, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of pride.
The knights watching erupted into murmurs. Some were amazed, some skeptical, and some whispered in awe of Ragnar's prowess. Sir Lancelot turned to face them all, his expression serious once more, but his eyes sparkled with approval. He raised his sword, then pointed toward Ragnar.
"I am Lancelot, commander of the Royal Knights of Elrion!" he proclaimed, his voice booming like a drum. "Before all gathered here, I hereby recognize candidate Ragnar as an official knight of this kingdom. From this day forward, he shall fight not as a wanderer, but as a protector of this land. Give your all to this country!"
Ragnar straightened his posture, then raised his right hand to his chest in a perfect knightly salute. "Roger!" His voice was strong, unwavering. "I will not disappoint your expectations!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. Even the skeptical knights could not deny the raw strength and courage Ragnar had demonstrated. Sir Lancelot's laughter returned, this time softer, proud. "Good," he said. "Then tomorrow, be here for your knighting ceremony. Do not be late."
Ragnar nodded firmly. "Understood."
With the formalities complete, Sir Lancelot gestured for the other knights to clear the training ground. Ragnar sheathed Excalibolt, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and satisfaction wash over him. He had fought fiercely, but more than that, he had proven himself—not just to Lancelot, but to him in the past.
As the sun began to dip behind the castle walls, Ragnar wandered through the bustling streets of the royal capital. The city was alive with the sounds of vendors calling out, carriages rolling on cobblestone, and citizens laughing as they moved through the lively evening. Ragnar's stomach rumbled audibly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since morning.
He scanned the streets for a place to eat, his mind half-occupied with thoughts of the battle and the ceremony to come. Then, a familiar voice called out from behind him.
"Ragnar!"
He turned sharply. Standing near a fountain was Lyra, the young woman he had met on his journey to the capital. Her long hair caught the warm glow of the setting sun, and her robes bore faint traces of magical residue—evidence of recent spellcasting. She waved, smiling brightly.
"Lyra," Ragnar said, surprised but genuinely pleased to see her.
She jogged up to him, slightly out of breath. "I just finished my test at the Wizard Tower," she explained excitedly. "It was intense, but I think I did well."
Ragnar nodded. "Good to hear. I just finished my test at the Royal Knights Hall."
"Obviously," she said, grinning. "The shockwaves could be felt even halfway to the Tower. The whole capital was talking about some insane candidate who fought Lancelot to a draw. I should've guessed it was you."
Ragnar chuckled softly. "I didn't fight him to a draw. He's stronger. But I didn't lose either."
"Typical Ragnar," she teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow.
He glanced around and noticed a small restaurant tucked into the corner of a cobblestone street. It wasn't grand, but warm light glowed from the windows, and the aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted meat drifted out, making his stomach grumble again.
"Let's eat," Ragnar suggested, nodding toward it. "My treat. You look like you could use a break too."
Lyra's eyes lit up. "I won't say no to free food."
They entered the restaurant, a cozy establishment with wooden beams and flickering lanterns. A few other patrons sat scattered around, enjoying their meals and conversations. The owner, a cheerful older woman, greeted them warmly and quickly led them to a small table by the window.
They ordered simple but hearty dishes—roasted chicken, bread, stew, and ale. When the food arrived, the two dug in eagerly. Lyra talked animatedly about the Wizard Tower test: the magical constructs she faced, the puzzles she solved, and the strict evaluators who observed her every move. Ragnar mostly listened, occasionally asking a question or giving a small comment, but he enjoyed simply hearing her speak. Her excitement was contagious.
Time passed comfortably. The restaurant filled with the hum of evening diners, and outside, the city lights flickered to life as night approached.
Then, as Lyra was halfway through describing how she barely managed to solve the final puzzle, Ragnar's voice cut through the lighthearted atmosphere.
"Lyra."
She paused, looking up from her stew. "Huh?"
Ragnar leaned slightly forward, his expression serious now. "The power of Voltra," he said slowly. "Why do you have it?"
The question struck like a hammer. Lyra's spoon froze midair. For a brief instant, her entire body stiffened. Her eyes widened slightly, and her fingers trembled just enough for Ragnar to notice. The warmth and cheer that had filled her face moments earlier drained away, replaced by something tense, guarded, almost fearful.
She didn't answer immediately. The air between them grew heavy, the ambient chatter of the restaurant fading into the background as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for her response.