For Rogg, this was supposed to be just another duel—a matter of honor on an open battlefield. But something felt different. There was fire burning behind Thaldrim's gaze. Provocation after provocation spilled from the senior general and Prime Minister of Whiteheaven, as though he intended to force Rogg into the arena not merely as a knight... but as a symbol of treachery.
To Thaldrim, Rogg was nothing more than a pebble on the road—beneath notice, easily discarded. But there was a purpose behind the disdain. Thaldrim was waiting for the right moment to make his move: to seize the throne of the Whiteheaven Empire with Empress Xienna at his side. And for that plan to work, Rogg had to be sacrificed. Scapegoated. Turned into the perfect excuse to strike against Damma Lorexius under the age-old accusation: a false claimant to the imperial bloodline.
Before the duel, a sealed letter arrived—marked with the crest of the Imperial Ministers, signed by none other than Eryndor Frostwind, Head of the Whiteheaven Military Division.
"Thaldrim, proceed as planned. Announce and implement the new imperial decree. With the approval of the Prime Ministers and the Empress, the empire shall henceforth be governed by five ministers under the Empress's direct command. Fifteen years of vacancy on the throne have become both our burden and our duty. The time to lead has come. But one thing remains—Rogg. Make an example of him. Let him be the enemy of the empire. The perfect reason to declare Damma Lorexius a rebel faction. The empire is ready to deploy 150,000 troops... if Rogg is not in your hands within five days."
Thaldrim scoffed. "That man... as impatient as a child trying to unwrap a gift too soon." Still, he knew time was running out. He had to accelerate the fight.
"Mendrova, the rest I leave to you in the arena. I want only one thing: defeat Rogg and deliver him to the Imperial Court—dead or alive. As for Vermithor, I trust it to your hands."
"Yes, my lord," Mendrova replied coldly, her eyes gleaming like lightning.
Thaldrim knew well—so long as Rogg remained in the arena and was still part of the tournament, not a single elder or master of the Doliex would allow him to be touched, let alone taken from Smokeland. But if Thaldrim could defeat Rogg openly—in front of every eye—then nothing could protect him. Thaldrim considered it an easy task. He saw Rogg as nothing more than a nuisance. Yet, to silence the whispers among the Doliex masters and knights, he needed proof. He needed to crush Rogg himself.
And now, the moment had arrived.
"Come forward, boy," Thaldrim roared from the center of the arena. "Show me you're worthy of being called a knight!"
A thunderous roar erupted from the Doliex knights and citizens crowding the stands. But their attention suddenly shifted—when Rogg stepped forward, clutching a long obsidian spear that shimmered like a falling star.
"...That—!!" Master Sigido Covarthis gasped. "Don't tell me... Is that one of the Ten Legendary Weapons?!"
"It can't be... But that shape...!" another master exclaimed.
"According to the records I possess," said Veynor Lauxi, his voice rising, "there are only ten known Legendary Weapons. Aegisfang—the star hammer of Prince Todius. Nexumira—the dark bow of my brother, Veynor Grauri. Elysium Ardent, belonging to Eryndor Frostwind. Glacera, said to be wielded by the heir of Damma Lorexius. Zorynth—mine. Lunaris Fang, wielded by Princess Brisena. Vermithor, the prize of this tournament. Cindrael and Solvarya, owned by Vuuxi. And lastly... Thalasson, the oldest and most exalted weapon, once wielded by Emperor Brovon."
Thalion Velary chimed in, eyes wide, "Could it be that the spear Rogg carries is... forged from the same metal? Perhaps not one of the ten, but crafted from the same source—Lovarian starsteel!"
"I've noticed it too," Veynor added, "Robb, Rogg's younger brother, used a short sword that fractured my own weapon at multiple points. Even Lady Zevanya... wields something similar."
The entire arena fell silent.
The presence of a legendary weapon—or something near its caliber—changed everything. The air around Rogg shifted. The wind grew heavier. The ground trembled beneath him.
The duel began.
But something about Rogg was different this time—his aura had changed. He could feel the tension, and it wasn't from the crowd. It radiated from Thaldrim's eyes, laced with fury... and greed.
The Smokeland Arena trembled. The crowd's cheers split the sky, but within the chaos, only two figures stood still—Thaldrim, the renowned general and minister of the Doliex, a man known by all, and Rogg, the mysterious heir, wielding a spear that echoed the legends
"Don't disappoint me, Rogg," Thaldrim hissed, his eyes blazing, his breath heavy with the lust to kill. In his hands, he gripped a massive, menacing black sword. "I want to see how long you can last before I snap your neck."
Rogg said nothing. His eyes were calm. That wasn't the gaze of an ordinary young knight. It was the gaze of someone who had lost too much… and refused to lose anything else.
BRAAKK!
Without warning, Thaldrim lunged—faster than a shadow. His enormous obsidian blade, Mournveil, sliced the air, aiming straight for Rogg's throat. But—Clang!—Rogg's spear met the strike with stunning force, shaking the arena and kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Impressive," Thaldrim growled. "You're still breathing after a single blow."
WUSSSH!
Thaldrim spun, swinging wildly and generating sharp currents that sliced the air in deadly arcs. But Rogg danced through the storm of attacks like a leaf caught in a hurricane—graceful, precise, and… lethal.
"RAAAAHHH!!!"
Rogg roared as he countered, his spear thrusting toward Thaldrim's chest. The Minister twisted, deflecting with his knee, but his eyes widened—he had nearly been pierced.
"You… You're no ordinary boy. You're strong… and you've hidden your aura completely," Thaldrim muttered.
"I'm no one. I came here to fight," Rogg answered quietly. "But I won't let you trample everything you look down on."
The fight turned into a deadly dance. Every move sparked light, every clash of weapons blazed. Their bodies bruised, their armor cracked, blood began to flow—but neither spirit wavered.
Then—DUAR!—Rogg's spear landed with a crushing thrust. The arena trembled, forcing Thaldrim on the defensive for a brief moment. Rogg vanished from sight.
"What?!" Thaldrim gasped.
Too late.
BOOM!
From above, Rogg spun in mid-air and drove his spear down like a bolt of lightning, slamming into Thaldrim's shoulder and forcing him to his knees—for the first time in his life inside the arena.
"Get up, Thaldrim. Isn't it true… you wanted to be Emperor?"
Thaldrim roared, lifting his sword in a final desperate strike—but was met by a spiraling slash from Rogg's spear that crashed into his arm. Mournveil flew from his grip, stabbing into the far edge of the arena.
Silence.
Blood trickled from Thaldrim's temple. His breath came in ragged gasps. "You… little bastard… how did you know what we were planning?"
Rogg stared at him, a gash open across his chest, his hands trembling—yet his spear remained raised.
"I'm no heir… no hero… I'm just someone who came to end tyranny—for the people, and for the oppressed—here and now."
ZAAAKKK!!
With one final twist, the butt of Rogg's spear smashed into Thaldrim's jaw—clean, brutal, and final. Thaldrim's body crumpled and rolled, unmoving.
"The winner is… ROGG!!!" the referee shouted, and the crowd erupted like a storm.
The masters and elders rose to their feet. Sigido Covarthis could only hold his breath. Brisena stared in disbelief, and Mendrova… merely smiled faintly from the shadows.
In the center of the arena, Rogg stood, barely upright—his eyes gazing toward the sky, his spear pointed to the earth.
The elders of Smokeland—who had once remained silent—now stood one by one. Their gazes toward Rogg were no longer filled with doubt, but with respect… and awe.
"That is enough," said one of the eldest elders, Thalion Velary. His voice echoed across the arena.
"Thaldrim's defeat… is a recognition of power. And in the face of just and undeniable strength, we, the elders of the Doliex, declare Rogg… shall proceed to the Round of Sixteen in the Knights' Arena. And for as long as he stands as a knight of the arena, no one from the Empire shall lay a hand on him!"
"Rogg! Rogg! Rogg!" the cheers rang again—this time not just from common folk, but from knights who had remained silent until now.
But those cheers were suddenly cut off by a voice—harsh, ragged, and filled with rage.
"THIS ISN'T OVER!!"
Thaldrim rose slowly. His eyes burned red, his clothes soaked in blood, but he was still alive… and his heart still burned with vengeance.
"I'll be back… I'll reclaim Vermithor… and then… I'll return to kill you, Rogg… with my own hands."
"And now, we announce the sixteen knights advancing to the Round of Sixteen!"
Sigido Covarthis's voice thundered across the arena, echoing between the roars and held breaths of thousands.
"Elandra Faelin. Ashwar Faelin. Korvath Faelin. Torgath Faelin. Brando Velary. Vardrake Velary. Kelthorn Velary. Zepharoth Veynor. Dornak Veynor. Mendrova Covarthis. Baltharos Covarthis. Azrakar Covarthis. Tarkhan Covarthis. Brisena Robelix. Rogg Robelix. And lastly… Nyx Varelyn!"
The once-chaotic arena fell into a ringing silence—just for a moment. Then, a thunderous cheer erupted like a storm atop a mountain. But amid that uproar, one name drew every eye: Rogg Robelix.
No one had expected it—not a single soul—that the alliance of Thaldrim Covarthis would fall so quickly. Thaldrim, the master strategist, the man with the largest army, the figure long feared… had been defeated. And the irony? He had been defeated by one man—by Rogg, a newcomer to the knight's arena.
Every gaze—of knights, masters, and elders alike—turned to him. In awe. In fear. In wonder.
"That spear… it's terrifying," whispered one assassin, his voice choked with dread.
"His movements… gods! Every strike is like a thousand techniques fused into one… one deadly dance!" exclaimed a wide-eyed knight.
"In all my years on the battlefield and in the arena… I've never seen a duel like that," murmured a Thalvion gatekeeper, still trembling, his breath yet to recover.
Elsewhere in the arena, Rogg gathered with those closest to him: Brisena, Nyx, Elandra, Brando, and Argento.
Brisena stepped forward with a faint smile, though her eyes glistened. "Brother… I was worried. But when I saw you fighting with that kind of focus… I couldn't even keep my eyes open. I just believed—completely—that you'd win."
Rogg gave a small smile. Silent, but full of meaning.
Brando clapped him proudly on the back. "That's the Lord Rogg I know! You killed Lagosh alone—that gave me goosebumps! And now… Thaldrim? Ha! Just another man who sat on a throne too long and forgot how to fight!"
Nyx chuckled, raising a small metal cup. "Honestly, we didn't even need to bet on who'd win… But it would've been way more fun if Robb and Vuuxi were still around."
Her words drew everyone's gaze to Rogg.
Elandra stepped forward half a pace, worry on her face. "Lord Rogg… in the last two rounds, we haven't seen Robb or Vuuxi. They've never gone missing for four days. Vuuxi… he's never failed a mission before. And now, he's with Robb…"
"Are they okay?" Argento asked softly.
Rogg looked up at the dusky sky. His expression calm, but in his eyes… a storm brewed.
"I don't know," he said at last, his voice quiet, but resonant. "But maybe… the battle they're facing out there… is far worse than anything we've fought in here."