Arthur's POV
It's been a day since Leona's match ended. She fought well—really well. Despite still being at the Ninth Mana Circuit, she gave her Rank 1 opponent a serious challenge. That's Leona for you. Unyielding, sharp, and stubbornly proud. But that was yesterday.
Today… is my turn.
The crowd outside roars, thousands of voices blending into one deafening wave of excitement. My name echoes from the loudspeakers, carried across the coliseum that floats at the edge of the imperial capital.
"Arthur Valerian. Please proceed to Arena 5. Your opponent: Valk Remus, Rank 1 Beginner."
So, that's who I'll be fighting. Doesn't matter.
The hallway I walk through is cold and long, torchlights flickering with magitech energy. I glance around. No Leona, no Drake. They're probably still recovering or resting. Can't blame them. My father, Count Alaric, is off in the Emperor's council meeting—handling things far above our heads. That leaves only the knights with me: Rein, Captain Kael, and a few elite guards bearing the Valerian sigil of a sword piercing a crown.
I can feel their quiet stares behind me. They're probably thinking I'll need all three days to climb through eight fights against Rank 1 opponents. Logical guess. Even for a prodigy, winning against seasoned Rank 1s isn't easy.
But they'll be shocked.
They'll be shocked when they hear I crushed all eight matches in a single day.
As I step into the arena, the sun blazes high above, casting golden light across the field. Cheers erupt as I'm introduced. My cloak flutters with each step, and the sigil of House Valerian glints like firelight.
Across the field stands Valk Remus. Tall, muscular, sword strapped to his back, and the kind of overconfidence in his stance that only comes from crushing weaker opponents.
Good.
The match official steps forward.
"Match One: Arthur Valerian vs. Valk Remus. Rank 1 Combat Trial. Begin!"
The moment the announcement echoed through the arena, Valk Remus moved.
He wasn't planning to hold back—smart. He knew if he wanted even a chance at defeating me, he'd have to land the first strike. He surged forward, sword already drawn, blue mana coating the blade in a shimmering aura. He was fast, enhanced by his footwork skill, covering the distance between us in seconds.
We were both swordsmen. But unlike him… my sword was still sheathed.
That only made him angrier.
His expression twisted in frustration, his pride flaring. Maybe he wasn't a genius, maybe he wasn't noble-born—but a fight where your opponent doesn't even draw their sword? That was just disrespect.
"RAAAH!!"
He shouted and invoked his strongest skill. Water surged from his blade, forming a roaring dragon, crashing forward with a wild cry—its fangs aimed for my heart.
I didn't blink.
I tilted my body slightly, letting the water dragon crash past me harmlessly, evaporating against the arena's energy field. Valk's eyes widened, barely able to process how close he had been… and yet, how far.
He roared again, lunging in a blind charge, fueled by fury more than form.
Another mistake.
He slashed, fast and precise—but I was faster. I dropped low, sliding under his swing, and his balance broke for just an instant.
Just enough.
"You're wide open."
I twisted my foot and launched a sharp front kick—straight into his jaw.
CRACK!
The impact lifted him clean off the ground. His body spun back through the air like a broken doll, blood trailing from his lips. He hit the arena floor hard, rolling once—then went still.
The crowd didn't even cheer right away.
They were stunned.
He lost… to someone who never even drew his sword.
A moment later, the announcer's voice filled the arena:
"Winner: Arthur Valerian!"
I turned and walked away, calm and composed.
Valk had given it everything—he was fast, aggressive, and had real power behind his strikes.
But that wasn't enough.
Not against me.
......…
The arena was in uproar.
The crowd had erupted the moment Valk hit the ground and the match ended—no one could believe what they had just witnessed.
"He didn't even draw his sword!"
That one sentence was being shouted from every corner of the stands. Whispers turned to gasps, gasps to chants. Everyone was speaking the same truth: Arthur Valerian had won without even unsheathing his blade.
"Valk wasn't weak! He's one of the better Rank 1 fighters in the bracket!"
"But against someone like Arthur Valerian… that's just not enough."
The camera projections zoomed in on Arthur's calm face as he exited the stage. No arrogance. No overconfidence. Just a composed, focused expression—as if defeating Valk had been routine.
But before the noise could die down, another chime echoed through the arena—sharp, crisp, and unmistakable.
"Next Match: Arthur Valerian vs. [Tristan Hale]!"
The audience went silent for a moment—stunned.
"Wait—what?! Another match?!"
"Didn't he just finish fighting?!"
"Yeah, but… he barely even used any energy."
One spectator stood up, hands on their head, still processing. "Bro didn't even warm up! He walked in, kicked the guy in the face, and now he's fighting again?!"
Whispers turned to murmurs again—anticipation building.
They realized something.
Arthur Valerian… wasn't planning to take three days for eight fights like the others.
He was going to finish them all—today.
...…..
The arena buzzed with anticipation. On one end stood Tristian Hale, the son of a Viscount from the eastern province. Though his family, the House of Hale, was known more for trade than warfare, Tristian was different. He had trained in secret, away from the eyes of his merchant father, seeking recognition not in business—but on the battlefield.
He clenched his fists inside his gauntlets, his breathing measured but tense.
"Arthur Valerian… The heir of the swordborn house. Damn it… I can't afford to back down here."
From the other side, Arthur Valerian stepped forward calmly, his black coat swaying lightly with each step. His eyes were unreadable—neither excited nor bored, simply… focused.
As the announcer's voice boomed across the arena, a ripple of cheers followed:
"Match Start: Arthur Valerian vs. Tristian Hale!"
Without hesitation, Arthur drew his sword—a crimson blade unlike any other. Its jagged, ancient design and faint golden glow made it look less like a weapon and more like a relic of kings.
The moment it left its sheath, the entire arena fell quiet.
Even Tristian blinked, feeling the weight of that sword from meters away.
"So he really did draw his blade…" Tristian muttered, lips twitching into a nervous grin. "At least he acknowledges me enough for that."
But before his next breath could leave him—
Sching.
A sound—so faint it barely existed—brushed the air.
Tristian's eyes widened. Something felt… wrong.
He looked down.
His legs were gone.
No, not just gone—they were gone without pain, without sensation, as if they were never there to begin with. His torso hovered above a dissolving lower half, pixelating as the arena's virtual array absorbed his fragmented body.
"W-what…?" he whispered, not in pain, but in disbelief. "When…? How…?"
Before darkness took his vision, he heard a cold yet respectful voice from across the field.
"Your stance wasn't bad."
"But your resolve hesitated for just a moment. In a real battle… that's all it takes."
With that, Tristian's form vanished completely.
⸻
The crowd erupted into chaos.
"Did anyone see that?!"
"He drew the sword, and the fight ended!"
"What kind of sword was that?! Did it even move?!"
Some leaned forward in disbelief. Others rewound their personal mana-screens to watch the moment again.
Still nothing.
Even in slow motion—Arthur's attack was a blur, almost like the slash happened before the sword moved.
From the observation balcony, a senior knight muttered under his breath:
"A cut too fast for the eye… Is this the famed Valerian 'Invisible Blade' technique?"
⸻
Meanwhile, Arthur sheathed his sword calmly and turned to leave the arena.
"Two down," he said quietly. "Seven to go."
The dust of the last match had barely settled when Arthur looked toward the referee, his voice clear and calm.
"No need to delay. Send in the next one."
The referee blinked, surprised.
"Are you sure? You haven't taken any rest. Your mana—"
Arthur didn't respond with words. He simply sheathed his sword and stood tall, his posture completely untouched by fatigue. Not a scratch on him. Not a drop of sweat.
The referee hesitated, then checked his mana-linked tablet. The system had already generated the next pairing.
He glanced back at Arthur, then nodded.
"Very well. Next match—beginning now."
Another name was announced. Another warrior walked in, more cautious than the last after seeing what happened to Tristian.
He didn't get the chance to last longer.
Arthur moved like a storm—calm before it struck, then ruthless in precision. Whether they were mages, swordsmen, or martial artists, none could last beyond the first exchange.
Each opponent brought something new—an enchanted spear, a shield technique, a fast-casting barrage. Arthur, however, met every style with overwhelming adaptability. Sometimes he used footwork. Other times, just a flick of his blade. One opponent attempted a flurry of attacks; Arthur countered with a single strike to the pressure point and knocked him unconscious.
It wasn't just skill.
It was as if he saw the fight before it happened.
By the time his sixth opponent fell, even the crowd had grown quiet.
They weren't just watching a tournament anymore.
They were witnessing the rise of a monster.
The seventh opponent—a beastman with enhanced strength—roared and charged, only to find himself flipped midair and slammed onto the ground without Arthur even drawing his sword.
And then came the final fight.
A tall girl from the northern academy, known for her high-speed magic bursts, stood across Arthur, visibly trembling.
"Tch… I'll at least land one hit!" she shouted defiantly.
Arthur nodded in acknowledgment.
"Then come at me with everything you have."
She did. And she lost.
Not out of incompetence—but because Arthur read her like an open book. He deflected her spells with minimal effort, weaved past her casting gestures, and in the final moment, delivered a clean strike to her core, ending the match without injury.
As the referee confirmed the result, the audience finally burst into cheers—mixed with stunned silence.
"Incredible…"
"He didn't just win. He dominated every match."
"Eight fights… in a single day?"
From the VIP box, one of the imperial knights leaned back.
"That boy… he's a walking disaster for anyone unprepared."
⸻
As Arthur exited the field for the final time that day, the system projected a golden banner across the arena:
[Arthur Valerian has advanced to the Top 20]
As Arthur strode off the arena stage, the final clang of his blade still ringing in the air, the crowd erupted—not with mere excitement, but with a deep, electric reverence. A shift had occurred.
The arena roared, yet for Arthur, it was just distant noise.
For everyone else…
"He won all eight fights… in one day! No one's ever done that before!"
"And not just won—he barely broke a sweat! Did you see how calm he was? Like he wasn't even trying."
"That last match? He toyed with her, no sword drawn, no flashy moves… just pure skill."
"No injuries, no special effects… What is this guy made of?"
In the royal box, a nobleman in fine robes leaned toward his elder companion.
"Reminds me of the Fourth Prince when he first entered the tournament Fourt years ago…"
The silver-haired strategist scoffed lightly.
"Prince took nearly week to reach the Top 20. This boy did it in a single day."
"Is that even humanly possible?"
"No. We're not watching a human. We're witnessing a phenomenon."
In the commoner stands, children copied Arthur's precise footwork, swinging invisible swords with wide eyes.
"Did you see how he barely moved his shoulder and that guy missed completely? That was incredible!"
"He's like the sword itself chose him!"
A young merchant muttered quietly, disbelief in his tone.
"He's not fighting… he's evaluating. Like everyone else is just part of his training regimen."
From a shadowed corner, a cluster of magicians whispered nervously.
"He's only Rank 1, but he's dismantling other Rank 1s as if they're novices."
Then one voice cut through the murmurs.
"He fights like the Count Alaric did in his youth. Untouchable, flawless."
A hush fell. People turned, uncertain, then nodded in agreement.
"Valerian… a name that carries weight. First the father, now the son."
"Is he stronger than Elias?"
"Elias is the Fifth Prince, a symbol of the empire's pride. But Arthur? He's not just talented — he's relentless, hungry, dangerous."
"Mark my words: if Elias is the empire's shining hope, Arthur Valerian is its sharpest blade."
"I think fifth prince will beat him just watch you guys"
Even the announcer, as the golden banner declaring Arthur's unprecedented eight consecutive victories shimmered above the arena, paused longer than usual.
"…Ladies and gentlemen, Arthur Valerian — the only contestant to reach the Top 20 in a single day."
Under his breath, almost inaudible through the magic microphones:
"…If I hadn't seen it myself, I would've called it impossible."