The fog cleared—slowly—like a curtain drawn back on the final act of a grand performance.
And in the midst of that battlefield stood Elias Vale Elyndior, blood on his temple, eyes sharp, sword raised. Blue light radiated from his blade like a living flame. This was no simple enchantment—this was Sword Aura, manifested through sheer mastery.
He moved.
One jump. Two jumps.
Footwork so refined, the ground barely cracked beneath him. Each step drew him closer to Feldine, the vampire prodigy standing like a sentinel of the night, his white hair whipping in the mana-charged air.
Feldine, unfazed, cast his A-Rank Arcane Spell once more.
From thin air, a frost bloom formed—dense, sharp, propelled by magic and blood.
But Elias's blade met it midair, cutting through with such precision that the spear scattered like sparks.
Final jump. Elias closed the distance.
Feldine blinked—literally. His Blink skill activated again.
But Elias was ready. His divine senses didn't just rely on sight—they traced mana signatures. In the moment Feldine reappeared, Elias cast A-Rank Lightning Magic.
"Javelin Bolt."
A bolt of lightning as thick as a pike crashed down, striking the exact point Feldine had blinked to.
The vampire screamed as electricity coursed through him. Blood sprayed, his arm tearing open from the impact. But before Elias could land the follow-up strike, he saw it—blood regeneration.
Exposed to air, Feldine's blood shimmered. His torn flesh sealed shut. Bone reconstructed. The arm returned, trembling but whole.
Elias didn't pause.
He invoked another A-Rank Skill—Blade Cascade: 15-Form Slash.
A storm of sword strikes fell upon Feldine.
The vampire grunted, blinking once—but it was clear now. His Blink spell stuttered. The mana cost was too steep. Feldine had reached his limits in using it more than four times. Any more, and the spell would destabilize.
Still, Feldine didn't falter.
He raised both hands.
Light Orb Defense—his own A-Rank defensive spell.
A small sphere of light appeared, floating between them, absorbing strike after strike. But Elias's blade was relentless. Strike 14 cracked the orb. Strike 15 shattered it.
Two slashes landed across Feldine's chest. He was flung backwards, crashing into the arena wall.
Blood regeneration again, bones knitting, skin sealing—but slower now.
Feldine steadied himself, chest rising and falling.
Then he vanished.
A-Rank Wind Movement Skill: Phantom Gale.
He moved like air, his form splitting into flickering afterimages. From the mirages, Wind Blades launched—dozens, dozens more.
Elias's defense activated again—Star Mirror Guard. His magic shield expanded outward, intercepting the wind attacks. But each impact drained mana.
Feldine clicked his tongue. His mirages slowed.
Then, he changed tactics.
He sliced open his palm again. Blood sprayed.
Accelerating, he ran across the battlefield, hurling Blood Spears one after another. They moved erratically, as if alive. Spears sang through the air like cursed hymns.
Elias blocked some with his B-Rank Defense Spell, but three made it through—one slicing his shoulder. Pain bloomed.
And still—Feldine pressed on.
From an arcane circle, he summoned dark spirits again, four in number, whispering in a language of the void. They fired beams of darkness.
But Elias didn't falter. His sword glowed with blue aura again, and his footwork never ceased.
One step. Pivot. Slash.
Dark beams scattered.
Blood Spears shattered.
And Elias struck back—again, again—his blade cleaving through the chaos.
Feldine grit his teeth. The frustration mounting. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
But then—he made his decision.
He called upon the forbidden edge of his system.
His body stilled. His eyes turned black-red. The mana in the air dropped like a dead weight.
"S+ Rank Skill: Stable Crown."
Three seconds.
Three seconds of hell.
Elias couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The world slowed.
And in that timeless moment, Feldine appeared behind him, dagger in hand.
The blade cut deep—ribs, muscle, sinew.
Elias gasped, coughing blood.
It was the first time in the entire tournament someone had injured Elias this badly.
Feldine smirked. His chest heaving. Knees weak. Eyes hazy. He had done it.
But he had nothing left.
His mana core was drained to embers. Blood leaked from too many wounds. He barely stood. One more spell and he'd collapse.
And still—he believed.
He had triumphed.
He will became the champion.
He was destined.
So, with trembling fingers, Feldine began to cast one final spell. An Air Blade. Nothing fancy—just enough to end it.
Elias, bleeding, stood silently. His sword crackled faintly with mana, but his body wouldn't respond.
Feldine smiled.
This was it.
And then—
It happened.
Something struck Feldine on the back of his skull.
A flicker.
A hum.
A soft noise—like the breeze through trees.
No one saw what it was.
No warning.
No chant.
No mana surge.
Just—
Impact.
Feldine's eyes widened. His body locked. He collapsed forward, face-first, into the dirt.
Dead.
Gone before he even realized.
The crowd screamed.
Everyone stood in disbelief.
Elias just smiled
I win
------------------
Far from the roar of the coliseum, in a high chamber cloaked with silver runes and mirror-like glass walls, Arthur Valerian stood silently.
He watched as Feldine's body fell to the ground, unmoving.
And then—he smiled. Just a little.
"…Just as I guessed."
He folded his arms behind his back, turning slightly, light brushing against the side of his face. The chamber's magic reflected the battlefield like a divine observatory.
"Feldine is strong, I won't deny that." His voice was calm, thoughtful, not mocking. "But against someone like Elias… he was always going to lose."
He paused, his gaze hardening as Elias stood bloodied but undefeated.
"Because Elias," he whispered, "is the successor of that man."
The Crownless King, Strongest of mortal realm.
Elias… was his descendant.
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"The Emperor never gave him the Archive. He hasn't reached the Divine Core yet." He tilted his head, processing it all. "But the moment that divine blood activates…"
He exhaled sharply.
"Well, that… even I don't know."
In the far distance, the arena began to shift. The crowd roared anew as the match announcers declared the next semifinal.
Arthur turned back to the screen. His gaze flickered. Julian Reinhart now stepped forward.
"Still," Arthur murmured, his tone light but his eyes sharpened like blades, "the match between Julian and Veylan is still going."
Meanwhile, in the Arena
The body of Feldine Sagnius was respectfully carried off the stage by healers. Though he survived thanks to emergency intervention, the match had declared Elias the winner.
But before anyone could rest, the air changed again.
Two figures now stood on opposite ends of the stage.
Julian Reinhart.Crimson hair. Crimson eyes. His spear glowed faintly with crimson mana, pulsating with rhythmic energy. The crowd chanted his name—the hero of the Reinhart house. Protagonist of the tale. Yet standing before him was no side character.
Veylan Drakmore.Draped in silver-etched armor, his green eyes glinted like nature. A wielder of Sword , his presence was heavy—not just physically, but with pressure, confidence, and the calm of a mountain unmoved.
Julian gripped his spear tighter. Despite his vibrant aura, he was cautious.
Veylan was no fool. No brute. He was a wall. And walls were not broken by flash—they were shattered by force and will.
The referee raised his hand.
"Begin!"