The battlefield had gone still. Faint trails of magic drifted in the air like the dying echoes of war.
And then—
BOOM.
The drums of the coliseum sounded.
Above the arena, a great spell circle shimmered, casting golden light across the stands. A voice, ancient and regal, rang out with undeniable power.
"Let it be known across the realm—"
"The Top Ten of this year's Grand Tournament have been chosen!"
One by one, their names appeared in glowing light across the sky, each greeted with a roar louder than the last.
"1st — Arthur Valerian!"
The crowd erupted. The golden boy of swordsmanship. Calm, flawless, untouchable.
"2nd — Elias Elydrion!"
A surge of awe followed. The forgotten prince — now a legend reborn.
"3rd — Julian Reinhart!"
Proud, noble, unshakable — the strategist of fire and steel.
"4th — Feldine Sagnius!"
Storm-walker and spell-dancer, her name soared through the skies.
"5th — Veylan Drakmore!"
The icy swordsman with a cursed gift — cold, sharp, and merciless.
"6th — Nyx Akers!"
Whispers followed her name. Shadow-born, unseen, unstoppable in silence.
"7th — Caelum Ravencroft!"
"8th — Lysandra Mornveil!"
"9th — Kael Voss!"
"10th — Zerina Thaloriel!"
As the final name echoed, the coliseum thundered with applause and cheers. Flags waved, families cried, nobles watched in wonder.
A generation of monsters had risen.
From within the arena, Arthur stood silent, sword on his back, eyes calm.
Elias watched from the shadows, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
And from the imperial balcony, the Emperor of Elydrion stood.
No words.
Only a single nod.
"The age of brilliance… has begun."
The cheering had barely begun to fade when a new magic circle flared to life in the air above the arena—this one deep crimson with golden edges, more ancient, more sacred.
The announcer's voice rang again—
This time, colder. Louder. Weighted with purpose.
"Honored guests and champions of the realm…"
"The time has come."
The crowd hushed.
"The Top Ten have been named…"
"But only one will leave with the title of…"
'Youth Crown: Champion of Champions.'"
Gasps spread through the audience like wildfire.
"The final matches shall now begin."
"One-on-one. No holds barred. Until only one remains standing."
A heavy silence followed. The air itself seemed to tighten.
Then the voice added, almost like a challenge:
"Any warrior who wishes to forfeit—
May do so now."
The arena stood still.
Not a single fighter moved.
From Arthur to Elias, from Feldine to Zerina—each of them stood tall, gazes sharp.
No one would walk away.
They had come this far.
They would see it through.
"Very well," the voice declared.
"Let the battles begin—!"
Match One: Julian Reinhart vs. Lysandra Mornveil
The Dance of Blades and Storm
Lysandra moved first—five crescent blades of wind spiraled outward in a staggered pattern, each one slicing toward Julian from a different angle.
He stepped through them.
His spear spun in a blur—a cyclone of crimson precision.
CLANG. SWISH. SHATTER.
Not one wind blade survived contact.
Then—he surged forward. Crimson mana wrapped his legs like flame-tinted silk as he swept low, spear dragging in a perfect upward arc toward her ribs.
Lysandra vanished in a burst of air, reappearing behind him in a blink.
"Impressive," she murmured.
Her hands weaved rapidly—a delayed illusion burst. Five mirror images scattered in different directions, each mimicking her movement perfectly.
Julian stood still.
Then spun once, eyes flaring red.
"Crimson Bloom: Second Stance."
His spear sang.
One motion—five illusions sliced mid-flight.
The real Lysandra exhaled sharply, landing with a skid. Two spells surged from her hands—Wind Binding Circle at his feet, Gale Javelin from the air.
Julian didn't flinch. He stabbed upward—the javelin burst in midair, mana scattering like petals.
Then came the stomp.
"Crimson Flow: Break."
Mana cracked underfoot—the circle shattered.
Lysandra blinked. He wasn't brute force. He was inevitable.
⸻
Second Phase: Steel vs. Strategy
Julian advanced—precise, rhythmic, deliberate.
Every strike was a lesson. Every motion, clean.
Lysandra responded with rotating wind shields, short jumps, shifting gusts—but he read it all.
He wasn't overpowering her. He was dismantling her.
She flared her hands to the ground—Arc Burst—rocketing dust and debris into the air.
Julian jumped high.
Too high?
A smirk touched Lysandra's lips.
"Shatter Bloom."
Dozens of wind spikes erupted around him—aimed to pierce from every direction.
Julian's mana coiled tighter. His body turned once.
"Crimson Spiral."
A red tornado burst from his form, shredding every spike midair.
He fell—spear-first.
BOOOM.
Dust. Cracks. Silence.
When it cleared—his spear was embedded in the earth, inches from her shoulder.
Lysandra, panting, on one knee. Her mana flickered, exhausted.
She smiled.
"You win," she whispered. "You're… a monster."
Julian didn't speak.
He turned away as the crowd thundered.
⸻
Winner: Julian Reinhart
⸻
Match Two: Arthur Valerian vs. Nyx Akers
From one gate: Nyx Akers—black hair loose, indigo eyes unreadable. A lone katana rested at his hip, quiet and deadly.
From the other: Arthur Valerian—silver uniform, sword on his back, gold in his gaze.
They bowed.
No words.
The bell rang.
⸻
Round One: Speed and Steel
Nyx struck first.
His katana flashed in an arc—drawn in a blur.
Swift Draw.
A lightning slash designed to end battles before they begin.
Arthur stepped back once, smoothly intercepting with a cross-guard block.
Fluid Guard.
Minimal motion, maximal control.
CLANG!
Steel rang out.
Arthur countered instantly—blade sweeping low with surgical grace.
Nyx leaned back, parried, returned with a spinning cut. Sparks danced. Then silence.
They reset.
⸻
Round Two: The Phantom Moves
Nyx's aura pulsed—indigo shadows flickering.
He vanished in a blur.
Phantom Step.
Short bursts of afterimage-speed. Perfect for assassins.
Arthur didn't chase.
He pivoted. Spun into a block—caught the real blade mid-swing from behind.
Blade God: Arvandir.
A technique of sword foresight—predicting sword paths before they land.
He struck—two clean jabs.
Nyx deflected just in time, jaw tight.
"He's reading me…"
⸻
Round Three: Aura Ignites
Nyx's sword shimmered. His aura flared, coiling around the blade like midnight flame.
Sword Aura
Sharper. Stronger. More dangerous.
He launched forward—every strike now humming with raw edge.
Arthur's stance shifted. No more blocking—only motion.
Windwalk.
High-speed movement. Silent, reactive.
He dodged three strikes, then countered low—his footwork ghostlike.
Their blades met again—this time, force against force.
The stone cracked beneath their feet.
⸻
Round Four: The Shadow Strikes
"Shadow Cleave," Nyx whispered.
Dark blades formed in the air.
Shadow Cleave (B-Rank).
Twenty ethereal blades stabbed in from all directions—silent, deadly, unstoppable.
Arthur didn't flinch.
Then—he leapt.
Crescent Step.
A mid-air arc leap—perfect for dodging multi-vector attacks.
He spun mid-air, deflecting the blades in a storm of sparks.
He landed—blade low to the ground.
Ground Fang.
A sweeping mana slash that raced along the floor.
Nyx jumped—but Arthur was already closing the distance.
⸻
Final Round: Night vs. Gold
Nyx's mana surged.
Veil of Night (A-Rank).
His ultimate. A full-body cloak of shadow—speed, strength, chaos-enhanced attacks.
He blurred forward, katana striking in rapid arcs. Every blow trailed a slicing aftershock.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. No escape.
Ashbreaker glowed.
Not crimson.
Gold.
Sword Aura: Rank 1.
Each swing now radiated divine precision—cutting cleanly through the darkness.
He didn't match Nyx's chaos—he answered it.
Every wild strike Nyx made, Arthur countered with exact placement.
Light against shadow.
Order against entropy.
Nyx went in for a high-speed charge—
Arthur activated Ice Bloom—frost locking Nyx's footwork.
Then Lightning Trail—a golden blur of acceleration and shock.
One final flash.
SLASH.
Nyx staggered back—shoulder split. His blade dipped. His breath short.
He held his ground.
"You… really are on another level."
Arthur nodded, sword at his side. No pride. Just respect.
"You're strong, Nyx. But not enough."
Winner: Arthur Valerian
⸻
The arena rose—thunderous applause.
Not for power. Not even for victory.
But for the purity of swordsmanship on display.