The Royal Stadium vibrated with the roar of fifty thousand throats. The sound was physical, a wall of noise that crashed against the magical barrier separating the stands from the arena floor.
In the center of the vast, sandy expanse, two figures stood thirty paces apart.
On one side stood Prince Valerius, the Holy Dragoon. His golden plate armor caught the afternoon sun, turning him into a beacon of blinding, divine light. He twirled his Spear of Sanctity effortlessly in one hand, a relaxed, arrogant smile playing on his lips. He looked less like a warrior entering a duel to the death and more like an actor stepping onto a stage to receive his applause.
On the other side stood Marcus Hale, the Blade Emperor. He wore battered, functional dark-steel armor that bore the scratches and dents of a dozen dungeon raids. His massive claymore, the Greatsword of the Sunken King, rested heavily on his shoulder. He didn't smile. He didn't wave to the cheering crowd. He stared at the Prince with the hollow, hyper-focused eyes of a man who had watched his friends die in a forest.
Ren stood in the shadows of the competitor's tunnel, Erna clutching his leg and peeking out from beneath his cloak. Ren watched them intently, his mind calculating the odds. He didn't need a System stat to tell him the reality of the situation; his own survival instincts painted a clear, grim picture.
'Level 40 versus Level 28,' Ren thought, his eyes tracking their stances. 'A twelve-level gap. In a fair fight, stats are absolute. Valerius has at least forty percent more Mana and Speed. Marcus can't win a contest of attrition. He has to end it early, or he dies.'
"Begin!" the referee shouted, his voice amplified by magic, echoing like thunder.
Valerius moved first.
"Witness the brilliance of the Crown!" the Prince shouted, his voice ringing with absolute confidence.
He didn't run; he launched. Golden mana exploded from his boots, sending him rocketing thirty feet into the air. He hung there, suspended by light magic, his cape billowing behind him. He looked down at Marcus like a god judging an insect.
[Skill: Light Rain]
Valerius thrust his spear repeatedly in a blur of motion. Dozens of condensed beams of light shot down from the sky, hissing through the air like laser fire.
Marcus gritted his teeth. He couldn't dodge an area-of-effect attack of that scale. He planted his feet wide, gripped his claymore with both hands, and swung the massive blade in a rapid, defensive arc, creating a wall of wind pressure.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The light beams slammed into the sand and Marcus's blade. The arena floor exploded. Plumes of dust and scorched earth shot into the air. Marcus was forced back, his heavy boots carving deep trenches in the ground. He managed to block the direct hits, but the splash damage scorched his armor, the heat radiating through the steel.
"Is that it, Blade Emperor?" Valerius taunted from the air, his voice echoing over the explosions. "You look like a turtle hiding in its shell! Where is the ferocity of the Otherworlders?"
Valerius didn't wait for an answer. He descended.
He became a streak of golden fire, his spear aimed directly at Marcus's chest. The speed was incredible—a flawless execution of a Dragoon's aerial assault.
Marcus saw it coming. He shifted his grip, angling his greatsword to parry, but the sheer kinetic force of a Level 40 Dragoon diving from the sky was overwhelming.
CLANG!
The impact rang out like a massive bell. The shockwave blew the dust away in a perfect circle.
Marcus was driven to his knees. The ground beneath him cracked in a spiderweb pattern. His arms shook violently, the muscles bulging against his armor as he barely held the glowing spear back with the flat of his blade.
Valerius landed gracefully, using Marcus's sword as a springboard to flip backward and create distance. He didn't let up. The moment his boots touched the sand, he dashed in again, unleashing a flurry of thrusts.
Stab. Stab. Slash.
Marcus was drowning. The level gap was painfully obvious in close quarters. Valerius was faster, stronger, and had significantly more reach with his spear. Every time Marcus tried to swing his heavy claymore, Valerius was already gone, leaving a shallow, burning cut on Marcus's arm or leg.
Ren watched closely from the tunnel, his eyes narrowing. 'Marcus is losing the trade. He's taking damage just to stay standing. But Valerius is getting sloppy. He's overextending his thrusts. He's enjoying the torture too much. He thinks this is a game.'
"You are slow," Valerius laughed, landing a spinning kick to Marcus's chest that sent the heavier boy stumbling back, gasping for air. "You are clumsy. You are a 'Hero' only because the System pitied you when you fell into our world."
Marcus stumbled again, panting heavily. Blood ran down his forehead from a cut above his brow, blinding one eye. He looked exhausted. The tip of his greatsword dragged in the sand.
But as Marcus looked up, Ren saw something in his former classmate's eyes. It wasn't defeat. It was the same cold, desperate look Marcus had when he crushed that first goblin's skull in the forest.
Marcus Hale was a survivor. And survivors didn't play fair.
As Valerius dashed in for another mocking strike, Marcus didn't try to block. Instead, he kicked a massive spray of sand directly into the Prince's face.
Valerius flinched, his eyes shutting instinctively. "Gah! Peasant tactics!"
It was only a half-second opening, but it was all Marcus needed. He stepped inside the spear's reach, ignoring the burning light magic, and slammed the heavy pommel of his greatsword directly into Valerius's jaw.
CRACK.
The Prince's head snapped back. He staggered, his perfect balance broken, a line of blood flying from his mouth.
The crowd gasped. The Golden Prince had been hit.
Valerius touched his jaw. He looked at the blood on his white glove. His arrogant smile vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated fury. His aura changed. The golden light turned jagged, unstable, and blindingly bright.
"You... filthy... commoner," Valerius hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "I will mount your head on the palace gates!"
Valerius leaped backward, soaring higher than before. He raised his spear to the heavens. The ambient mana in the stadium rushed toward him, forming a massive, swirling halo of destructive light above his head. He was abandoning technique. He was going to use his ultimate skill to obliterate Marcus and half the arena with him.
[Skill: Heaven's Judgment]
The pressure in the stadium dropped. The crowd fell silent in awe and terror.
Marcus stood in the center of the arena, looking up at the miniature sun forming above him. He was bleeding, his stamina was nearly depleted, and his armor was cracked. He couldn't dodge an attack of this magnitude.
Ren leaned forward in the shadows. 'What are you going to do, Marcus?'
Marcus took a deep breath. He didn't raise his sword to block. He didn't brace for impact.
Instead, he lowered his greatsword, leaving his chest completely exposed. He closed his eyes, his body relaxing entirely.
Ren's eyes widened. 'He's dropping his guard. He's baiting him.'
"DIE!" Valerius screamed.
The Prince dove. He came down like a meteor, a blinding pillar of golden destruction aimed directly at Marcus's unprotected heart.
The spear tip was inches away. The heat was already singeing Marcus's clothes.
Marcus's eyes snapped open, burning with a furious, blood-red light.