Arthur Valerian stood in the center of the shattered arena—undefeated.
A thin stream of blood traced down his shoulder, but his stance hadn't faltered. His breathing was calm. Sword resting at his side, eyes watching nothing in particular.
The wind carried silence.
Not even the sound of a cheer.
Because everyone watching had felt it.
That wasn't Arthur going all out.
That wasn't even close.
Yes, he had bled. Yes, he had taken hits. But the battle carried a strange weight—as if at any moment, if Arthur had chosen to end it early, he could have.
Like a god toying with the idea of mortality.
And then—one clap.
Another.
And another.
The silence shattered, replaced by an explosion of sound.
The crowd roared, people stood, nobles gasped and nobles bowed, even some knights among the elite lowered their heads.
Arthur Valerian had defeated the prince.
But more than that—
He had declared, without saying a word, that he was beyond this generation.
⸻
Far above, in the highest chamber of the coliseum, sealed to all but the highest of the realm, two thronelike seats sat in the center of a velvet balcony that overlooked everything.
No guards. No attendants. Just two men.
One dressed in crimson robes embroidered with a phoenix's wings, his platinum beard and hair glowing under sunlight. His eyes were the piercing blue of command.
Emperor Solan Marvek of Elydrion.
Beside him, in immaculate white robes with golden linings, sat a man far younger in appearance, with gold-white hair and eyes like deep shadows.
The Pope of Vallhal, Arkan Thalor.
The emperor chuckled. "He even dodged it… a strike from another dimension." His voice was warm, even proud.
Arkan Thalor's eyes narrowed slightly, unreadable.
"I thought Arthur would lose," the Pope admitted. "Elias had the advantage—more mana, elemental control, unique skill, partial affinity use. His growth after awakening his core was… beyond expectations."
The emperor smiled faintly. "He is my son. I've watched him rise after his recovery—he's driven, brilliant, angry. But perhaps… he needed this. A reminder."
He looked out across the cheering crowd.
"There is always someone stronger."
The Pope didn't answer, but his gaze remained on Arthur.
"I can't read him," he thought. "He's only rank one… but I can't. I should be able to see it. Every gifted child reveals threads of fate. But him…"
As if sensing it, the emperor spoke casually.
"Don't try, Arkan."
The Pope flinched.
"I didn't say anything," he replied smoothly.
The emperor just smiled, eyes never leaving Arthur.
The Pope rose quietly.
"Time to give the rewards."
He left the balcony, white robes flowing behind him like wind-kissed snow.
And in the arena below, Arthur stood tall, his blade in hand, the storm in his blood calming.
He had drawn blood.
But no one had made him kneel.
——————————-
Three hours had passed since the final match.
The sun had begun its slow descent over Elydrion's capital, casting golden hues over the towering coliseum now transformed for ceremony. The bloodstained arena floor had been washed clean, banners bearing the sigils of noble houses fluttered along the walls, and the crowd had not thinned. If anything, it had only grown larger.
Because victory in combat was one thing.
But recognition—from the Empire and the Church—was what marked the future.
Over a thousand young combatants stood in perfect formation, dressed in their finest uniforms or freshly laundered battle gear. Their wounds had been healed, their spirits stirred. They had come from every province of the Empire, and some even beyond.
They were the proud thousand—the survivors, the victors, the next generation.
A clear voice echoed through the coliseum, infused with divine mana and enhanced by runes etched into the arena walls.
"All participants, step forward."
The crowd hushed.
A tall priest in gold-trimmed vestments raised his hand toward the formation.
"You are the top one thousand. You have fought with courage, honor, and strength. As decreed by His Holiness Arkan Thalor and His Majesty Solan Marvek, each of you will receive resources and state support for the next ten years—in cultivation materials, guidance, and access to regional training academies."
A roar of applause burst from the stands.
Many of the young combatants clenched fists, others wept openly.
But the voice wasn't done.
"Among you, the top one hundred have displayed exceptional talent. Their reward shall be doubled—resources for twenty years, and direct entry into select training squads of the imperial army or research division, based on their path."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The magnitude of support was unheard of. Generational wealth and backing for some… born only from sweat and battle.
Then, the final declaration fell like a hammer.
"And now… the ten who stand at the very peak."
Trumpets flared.
A sacred light spread across the arena floor, golden and soft, as if heaven itself reached down to mark them.
A platform rose at the center, and ten names echoed across the arena—each name followed by thunderous cheers or stunned silence.
⸻
"Arthur Valerian!"
"Elias Elydrion!"
"Julian Reinhart!"
"Feldine Sagnius!"
"Veylan Drakmore!"
"Thalira Cindervael!"
"Nyx Akers!"
"Caelum Ravencroft!"
"Lysandra Mornveil!"
"Kael Voss!"
⸻
The ten walked forward, each rising one by one onto the glowing platform at the center of the arena.
Arthur's boots touched it first.
He stood calm, composed, wearing a dark coat lined with silver and gold, Ashbreaker sheathed at his side. Though he'd bled earlier, not a scratch remained.
Beside him stood Elias, silent, but no longer arrogant. His gaze was firm, and his injuries, too, gone—but something deeper had shifted in him.
Julian crossed his arms with a proud smirk, Veylan stood cool and reserved, and Feldine had his usual cold detachment. Thalira glowed with fiery elegance, while Nyx kept his eyes lowered, thoughtful. Caelum, Lysandra, and Kael stood tall—each proud, each having clawed their way to the summit.
Then came a hush.
As a radiant white light descended from the sky.
At its center, a man floated down—his robes whiter than snow, his eyes dark and fathomless, his presence holy.
Pope Arkan Thalor.
He landed softly before them. No guards. No escort. None dared approach him unbidden.
He looked at each of them, one by one.
When his eyes met Arthur's, he paused for the briefest moment—almost imperceptibly.
Then he spoke, voice smooth and ringing like a temple bell.
"You ten… have not only excelled, you have defined this generation. You stand above the thousand, and you carry with you the hope of our Empire."
He raised his hand.
A single golden scroll appeared above each of their heads, radiating divine energy. The symbol of the phoenix and the sun glowed on the seal.
"This is your direct admission scroll to the Erinoguard Academy. The most prestigious training institute of the Empire. Valid for five years. Guard it well."
One by one, the scrolls floated down into their hands.
He did not let attendants distribute them.
He personally handed each one over—making eye contact, offering a single, simple line to each.
The crowd, still breathless from the last match, fell into a reverent hush as one name echoed across the grand coliseum.
"Arthur Valerian!"
The boy with golden eyes and black hair stepped forward, his gait calm, unwavering. Each step echoed softly across the rune-etched marble stage. He wore a deep-toned, regal outfit trimmed in silver and midnight blue, modest yet elegant—a quiet contrast to the storm of talent he'd just displayed.
From the highest chamber overlooking the arena, Count Alaric Valerian watched in still silence. Beside him, Rubina Valerian, radiant in her own right, held a proud smile. Their daughters—Lyria, Selene, and Elyra—stood near the crystal window, watching their youngest brother approach the divine.
Behind them, Rein, Arthur's loyal personal butler, stood with quiet pride. Drake,Leona his subordinate, gave a rare grin. Even Grandpa Sebastian, the ever-formal head butler, allowed a small nod of approval.
Arthur stopped before Pope Arkan Thalor, leader of the Vallhal Church, robed in divine whites threaded with living gold. The Pope, younger in appearance than one might expect, looked down at Arthur with an unreadable expression—then smiled faintly.
"So… this is the boy who silenced a thousand," the Pope said gently, yet his voice carried through the silence like the first chime of dawn.
Arthur gave a small bow, formal and respectful.
The Pope studied him a moment longer, then spoke again.
"Arthur Valerian. Your sword speaks with purpose. Your magic walks the line between restraint and wrath. But more than that… your heart holds no fear of the unknown."
"You've earned your place. Not by title, not by blood—but by strength."
Arthur remained quiet, gaze unwavering.
The Pope's expression softened, and then he raised his hand. A scroll shimmered into existence—not like the others that floated to the top ten, but something wholly different.
Black parchment. Gold divine seal. Living runes danced across its surface.
The crowd didn't know what it was. They weren't supposed to.
But Elias Elydrion did.
Standing among the top ten, his breath caught the instant he saw it. His sharp, princely features tightened. His hands clenched.
That scroll… he had seen it before. In his father's archives. In prophecy scrolls. In dreams.
That scroll was only created for one purpose.
To awaken a Divine Core.
The Pope stepped forward and handed it to Arthur personally.
"This is not for today. Nor for tomorrow," the Pope said softly.
"Open it when you're alone. Its gift is meant only for you."
Arthur took the scroll with a simple nod, not reacting. To him, it was just another piece in the path he was walking. But to those who watched closely—it meant something much more.
He turned, scroll in hand, walking back to join the others.
Behind him, Elias stood stiff. His jaw locked. His vision blurred at the edges.
"No…"
"That was supposed to be mine.
Fuck"
The cheer of the crowd began again—first as whispers, then applause, then full-blown celebration. But Elias didn't hear it.
He only heard the silence in his own mind.
The silence that came from losing not just the match… but the future he believed belonged to him.