The world buzzed.
Across nations, empires, and academies, news channels scrambled to cover the announcement. Social platforms and manaphones exploded with commentary. Never in the thousands of years of the Young Champion Tournament's history had the Valhalla Temple changed the rules mid-cycle.
But this time was different.
"Effective immediately, all participants who qualified for Round 3 will receive resources to attempt their breakthrough to Rank 1. Furthermore, Rank 1 individuals may participate in Round 3—provided they qualified through Round 2."
The statement shook the continent.
The Temple's formal broadcast had been delivered in ancient dialect, backed by divine sigils and stamped with the High Seal of the Sainted Flame. No one questioned its legitimacy.
And none missed its implications.
Valhalla Temple—usually unflinching and indifferent—had recognized this generation as exceptional. Some called them the Golden Generation. Others whispered of divine reincarnations, awakened bloodlines, and the return of Heaven's Chosen.
But one fact was clear.
This tournament had become something more. A test not of age—but of fate.
Among the qualifiers, joy surged.
Especially those with 9th-circle mana circuits. Many had held back from breaking through to Rank 1, afraid it would disqualify them. Now, with official sanction and the Temple's resources—special elixirs, mana scrolls, elemental cores—they could finally ascend.
Some dreamed of entering the Top 100.
Others… dreamed of Top 10.
And nowhere did the tremor resound louder than in the jewel of the Elydrion Empire—
Elyndor.
A city that defied imagination.
Spanning a region vast enough to rival a kingdom, Elyndor was the Empire's heart, a living monument to elegance and might. It was called the Third Most Advanced City in the World, yet beneath its gleaming technologies beat the soul of royal legacy.
The Tower of Dawn stood in the East, shining like a spear of morning light. To the West, the Tower of Dusk shimmered with enchantments of fading stars. The Tower of Flame, seat of imperial magisters, rose from the South with searing majesty. And to the North, the Gate of the Crown opened its gates to all corners of the Empire—but only to those permitted by imperial decree.
Teleportation was barred. The city was sealed in an ancient Anti-Teleportation Array of divine origin, maintained by Elyndor's Mage Corps and the Arcane Office of Imperial Affairs. Warp Gates and the Nexus Rail System remained the only sanctioned entrances—alongside aerial vessels registered under the Imperial Banner.
A magnificent river, wide as a battlefield and glittering with enchantment, coursed through the city like a silver vein. Bridges arched like art. Gardens bloomed across skyways and floating platforms.
And in the very center of the realm stood the Imperial Palace of Elyndor—a citadel of ivory and obsidian, crowned with a vault of starlight crystal. Upon its grand gates shimmered the Sigil of House Elydrion: a phoenix crowned by three stars, wings outspread above a burning sun.
It was within this palace, in a chamber of silken gold and imperial oak, that a young boy sat alone.
He was dressed not in royal robes, but a simple white tunic laced with silver thread. His hair was pure platinum, slightly tousled from restless thought, and his eyes… eyes that shimmered with hues of blue and starlight.
Only twelve years old—yet carrying a gaze heavy with unseen burdens.
He was Elias Elydrion, the Fifth Prince of the Empire. The youngest son of the Emperor. A boy whispered to be born under an omen of flame and moonlight.
He sat curled on a velvet chaise, a manaphone in his hand, its crystal screen glowing with the newly released tournament rankings.
His lips moved slightly as he read them aloud.
"Rank 1… Arthur Valerian. 7899 points."
"Rank 1… Elias Elydrion. 7899 points."
A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. Not of pride—but of curiosity.
"Rank 3… Julian Reinhart. 7000 pts."
"Rank 4… Feldine Sagnius. 6800 pts."
"Rank 5… Veylan Drakmore. 6500 pts."
He continued reading. He saw names he recognized. Names of rivals. Names of allies.
The manaphone bounced softly on the velvet sheets of the bed.
A moment passed.
Then came a whisper, low and half-laced with disbelief.
"Round 3… three weeks from now…"
The boy sat on the grand bedding like a prince from legend—because he was. Yet his eyes held the soul of another, one not born in marble halls or fed from golden spoons.
"That's enough time for most of them to stabilize their cores. Heck, knowing these freaks, they won't need three weeks. A week—maybe two at most—and half of them will break into Rank 1…"
His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the bed.
"Golden generation, huh? Generation of monsters."
There was a pause.
A faint sigh.
Then his tone changed.
Frustration bled into the air, sharp and questioning.
"But seriously—who the hell is Arthur Valerian?"
He stood up suddenly, brushing a hand through his moonlight-colored hair, pacing toward the arched window again.
"There was no mention of any 'Arthur' in the original novels. I read To the Eternity like a dozen times. No character with that name. No Valerian family boy with that kind of power…"
"So where did he come from?"
He said nothing for a while, just stared out at Elyndor's towers as if answers might be etched on the marble spires.
This boy—Elias Elydrion—was once someone else entirely.
Mathew Wilson, 21st-century office worker. Age 27. Died by Truck-kun.
Just another overworked human with a pile of light novels and fantasy books in his browser tabs. One of those stories—To the Eternity—was his favorite. The tale of a genius protagonist and his brothers-in-arms struggling through a world of divine war, treacherous nobles, and cosmic truths.
It had everything: emotion, scale, mystery… and an ending that still haunted him.
And when he opened his eyes after death, he found himself here—not as the protagonist, not even a side character—but as the sickly Fifth Prince, born with a weak constitution and destined to become the future right-hand of the main villain.
A side villain. No, worse… a stepping stone.
At first, he panicked. Who wouldn't?
But he soon realized—there was time. The story hadn't begun yet. He had five years until the plot truly took shape.
No system. No cheat item.
But…
He carried the bloodline of the strongest empire in the world.
And perhaps most importantly—he had the script.
The insight from thousands of pages. He knew what events would unfold. Where the heroes would go. What treasures lay buried. Which masters were hidden in plain sight.
The original Elias, fated to be a villain, fell from grace due to jealousy and arrogance.
"I won't make that mistake," he muttered, voice low.
He trained. Day and night. Ate elixirs he shouldn't have had access to. Used secret exercises from the novel. Beat every opportunity to the punch.
By age twelve, he had reached the Ninth Mana Circuit, far ahead of the timeline. Sword and magic both—mastered to the limit of his current rank.
"I was sure I'd dominate Round Two…" he whispered. "I had every opening mapped out…"
But then it happened.
The deviation.
Mutated golems. Machines far above Rank 0. Monsters laced with anti-magic and hidden skills. Even with his talent, Elias couldn't scratch them. He struggled. Barely held on.
And just as he was about to be eliminated…
A golden light descended.
Blinding. Divine.
The entire enemy core was annihilated. The monsters vaporized.
Then—darkness.
He blacked out.
And now, here he was, watching the ranking list with shaking hands.
He looked at his reflection in the glass—his face pale but composed, golden light tracing the lines of a boy far older in soul than in years.
His voice was quiet, but laced with disbelief.
"He even beat the protagonist…"
His hand trembled slightly as he picked the manaphone back up, Julian's name staring back at him from the third spot.
"Julian Reinhart… The Chosen Vessel. The one destined to lead the war against the them…"
A breath escaped his lips. Not fear. Not awe.
Just a cold, calculating murmur.
"So then… just who the hell is Arthur Valerian?"
The screen dimmed. The river outside shimmered beneath the moonlight.
And the Fifth Prince, born under stars and shadow, stood still as a storm began to gather behind his eyes.
............….
chamber, far from the echoes of nobles and screens, Arthur Valerian stared at the announcement list projected before him.
The names glowed faintly.
1.Arthur Valerian – 7899 pts
2.Elias Elydrion – 7899 pts
3.Julian Reinhart – 7000 pts
The very moment the announcement was made, the entire empire had begun to stir. The Valhalla Temple's decree. The Phase 3 restructuring. The allowance of Rank 1 participants.
But Arthur showed no reaction.
No raised brow. No smirk of pride.
Only silence.
His black hair fell across his eyes as he turned away from the screen. Hands by his side. Shoulders still. The cool air in the chamber stirred ever so slightly with his restrained mana.
Yet in his heart… a ripple passed.
"In my past life… as Rudra… I never failed a mission.
Even if it meant my own death—failure was never an option."
His fingers curled slightly. Just a fraction.
"But for the first time in this new life…
It feels like I've failed."
He walked slowly toward the training platform in the center of the chamber. The weight in his chest was not fear, nor anger. Just… a hollow recognition.
The mutated golems. The near loss in Phase 3. The helplessness in front of Feldine's final blow.
He sighed.
Not heavily.
But as if releasing a truth he had long denied.
"…Good. This needed to happen."
"At least now I understand—until I truly become invincible…
I have no right to call myself so."
A vow formed silently in the back of his mind.
"I will never feel this helpless again.
Not in this life. Not ever."
He wasn't naive. He knew that day might still come. A future opponent, a calamity beyond reason, perhaps something even he could not prepare for.
But he swore: he would try.
He would prepare like never before. Bleed, suffer, burn through mana until the foundation was unshakable.
"Time to form my core…"
His hand rose slightly, golden mana flickering faintly around his fingers.
But he paused.
A whisper of fury passed his lips.
"But first…"
His eyes narrowed, voice hardening with quiet rage.
"I will defeat that fucking golem myself."
He wouldn't allow this breakthrough to be fueled by shame.
He would earn it. With blood, with pain, with victory.
Arthur stepped forward.
"Training chamber. Replicate the mutated golem from Phase 3. Exactly as it was—anti-magic alloy, peak Rank 1 output, hidden abilities included."
The crystal core at the chamber's heart lit up, glowing with arcane script. The walls shifted. The temperature dropped. Faint mechanical groans echoed as illusion magic, pressure fields, and artificial mana density all synced to his command.
A voice echoed from the ceiling—his chamber's AI unit.
"As you wish, Sir Valerian."
The floor trembled.
Smoke hissed out of vents in the stone.
Then—steel thundered.
The training chamber darkened.
Steam hissed. The crystal arrays embedded in the chamber walls flickered to life as the replicated construct materialized—identical in every parameter to the monster from Phase 3.
A mutated golem, forged of anti-magic alloy, the size of a man but with the force of a living calamity.
It stood silently, sensing Arthur.
Then moved.
Arthur didn't wait.
He drew Ashbreaker, the crimson longsword humming softly in his hand, and struck first.
The golem's counter was instantaneous—a punch aimed directly for his ribs.
CLANG!
Sword and fist collided, sending a thunderous shockwave rippling through the chamber. The tiles beneath their feet cracked from the impact.
But unlike last time—
Arthur didn't stop there.
"This time, I'm not backing down."
He surged forward.
Mana infused his knee—swift and sharp.
CRACK!
His knee shot into the golem's jaw. The monster barely tilted—its mana sense reacting in time—but Arthur wasn't finished. He twisted, rolled over its shoulder, and slashed downward with precise sword aura.
No skills. No elements.
Just pure swordsmanship.
He wouldn't use his affinity this time.
This battle was about reclaiming pride.
"Let's see how far a swordsman with nothing but technique can go."
The golem retaliated, its palm slamming into the ground, sending a shockwave laced with destabilizing magic. Arthur flipped backward, boots skidding. He could feel the anti-magic field pulse again—direct skills wouldn't land.
But he wasn't relying on them anymore.
He remembered the Deathfiend from Phase 1.
That shadow stalker.
Arthur vanished into his own shadow—no skill, just precise spatial movement and intent. He emerged at the golem's flank and struck with a burst of raw sword aura.
The golem spun, blocked, and instantly unleashed a pulse of blue mana directly from its core.
Rank 1 privilege—manipulation of raw mana, not through skills but through body mastery.
The beam screamed toward Arthur.
He didn't block.
He danced.
Feet flashing with the rhythm of high-speed footwork, Arthur weaved through the blast, closing the distance once again. The golem roared and launched a combo of hand-to-hand strikes—blindingly fast.
But Arthur was faster.
Sword met fist. Knee met rib. Shockwaves rang like war drums.
"You rely on your body?" Arthur's eyes narrowed. "So will I."
His blade curved, slicing the air.
He twisted his footwork—just like he'd learned from the Mana Drainers in Phase 3. As he clashed with the golem, he drew in the faint excess mana from its core with a refined version of a drain technique. Not as a skill, but as a natural flow.
The golem's defenses trembled slightly.
That was enough.
Arthur followed up with a cursed mark slash—subtle, silent, laid against the alloy of the golem's knee joint. A technique adapted from the cursed ghouls of Phase 2. It didn't break the golem, but it destabilized its balance.
That's when he twisted his sword mid-strike.
And let out a soundwave, precisely calibrated with resonance—another gift learned from the golem itself.
"You taught me this. Now suffer it."
The screeching resonance disrupted the golem's sensors.
Arthur blurred forward and struck at three joints simultaneously with three consecutive slashes—each timed, each calculated, each hitting not the armor, but the sub-structure.
The golem stumbled.
It recalibrated quickly, gathering mana into a ball of condensed pressure in its chest. A fatal beam was about to fire.
Arthur didn't give it the chance.
He spun to the side, dragging his foot through the dust—his sword tracing a crescent arc that tore into the air itself. Not a skill. Just speed and mastery.
His blade tore through the air and struck the golem dead center.
A burst of internal pressure exploded.
The golem staggered, leaking raw mana from the core.
Its attacks slowed.
Arthur exhaled hard, blood dripping from his arm. A shallow cut. Nothing serious.
"I'm not invincible yet…"
He rushed again.
And this time, he didn't stop.
He used misdirection.
He used indirect strikes.
He targeted flow points, not armor.
He didn't fight like a Rank 0.
He fought like a swordsman who'd lived two lives.
Ten seconds later, the golem fell to one knee.
And Arthur, standing over its dimming core, whispered:
"Now… I'm ready."
He turned away.
But the golem moved.
A sharp grinding noise.
Its eyes reignited—blue flames flaring brighter than ever before.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "…Of course."
The alloy along the golem's body shimmered, shifting as its internal regeneration matrix activated. The cracks along its limbs began sealing. Its chest closed slowly over its sparking core.
This wasn't over.
The golem stood back up, now faster—leaner.
"Adapting mid-fight… just like in Phase 3."
Blood dripped from Arthur's knuckles. He was breathing heavier now, body marked by shallow cuts and one bruised rib. His aura was beginning to flicker. But his grip on Ashbreaker never loosened.
"Fine. Round two."
The golem lunged forward.
Arthur deflected the first strike but couldn't fully dodge the second—its elbow caught his side, sending him skidding across the floor, his boots grinding furrows in the training chamber tiles.
He coughed. Blood on his lips.
Still, he smiled faintly.
"Now we're getting serious."
⸻
They clashed again.
Fist against blade.
Metal screamed.
Arthur bled.
But he learned.
Every movement of the golem — its rhythm, its weight, its anchor shifts — was burned into his instincts. He struck with counterflow, parried without wasting a single muscle.
Then—
He vanished.
A faint shimmer rippled in the air.
"Ash Mirage."
A rare technique. Not true invisibility, but a momentary illusion tied to sword aura. Learned from high-tier duelists of the Old World. It bent light and shadow—not for deception, but for timing.
The golem hesitated.
In that heartbeat—
Arthur appeared at its flank, blade glowing not with magic, but sheer velocity.
He whispered, "Final Crosscut."
His body flickered forward in a sharp X pattern.
A storm of slashes struck the golem all at once—joint, core, visor, knees—Arthur's sword moved too fast for normal perception. Dust exploded. The chamber trembled.
Then—
CLANG.
Arthur landed behind it, blade dragging in the floor, leaving behind a thin molten line.
The golem stood, perfectly still.
A crack formed diagonally across its chest.
It began to fall—
But not before its final defense activated.
Its hand lashed out—
SCHLNK.
A jagged alloy spike pierced into Arthur's chest just below the collarbone.
"—Ghkk."
He gasped, staggering back. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking his shirt. His knees buckled as he clutched the blade still in his hand.
The golem collapsed behind him—its core finally dimmed.
But Arthur dropped to one knee, blood dripping from his mouth.
⸻
"Damn thing… even in death…"
He looked down at the blood staining the chamber floor.
He was shaking, pale.
And yet—
He smiled.
"Worth it."