Chapter 37: Trial by Bloodfire
The Arena of Inheritance.
It stood at the heart of the Luther stronghold, an amphitheater of stone and steel where the blood of generations had soaked into the ground. Torches lined the perimeter, flames flickering blue with aura. The air thrummed with ancient power.
This was where successors were chosen.
And destroyed.
Jean stood alone in the center.
Around her, hundreds of clan members, elders, and distant nobles filled the stands. Swordsmen. Envoy Knights. Watchers from the Iron Empire and even veiled emissaries of the Magistery watched from the shadows. The world was paying attention.
Charles Luther's voice rang out across the arena.
"The Rite of Bloodfire begins."
A thunderous gong echoed.
Three figures descended into the ring.
Adam Luther. Broad-shouldered, bronze-skinned, with the brutal aura of a mountain bear. His sword, Brimward, had once belonged to their father.
Raven Luther. Cloaked in deep black, her slender form coiled like a whip. Her blade—thin and jagged—hummed with a strange dark resonance.
And the third… a surprise.
Lance Luther.
A distant cousin. Quiet, unassuming. But a Master-level swordsman with a calm killing aura.
Three against one.
The Grand Patriarch made no objection.
Jean drew Solstice. It shimmered under the moonlight, its silver edge kissed with golden glow.
Whitney stood at the edge of the arena, eyes locked on Jean, ready—if she fell.
Then, without warning—
Adam struck first.
---
Brimward came down like a falling star, searing with fire aura. Jean twisted away, her blade catching the edge of the blow. The impact flared, sending a ripple of force across the arena.
Lance flanked, precise and methodical—aiming for her legs.
Jean pivoted, kicking upward into Lance's stomach. He slid back, winded, but not broken.
Raven circled like a vulture, waiting.
Jean turned.
Too late.
Raven moved.
Her blade slashed out in a spiral of shadow. Jean barely brought Solstice up in time. Sparks flew. The aura was wrong—corrupted. Jean gritted her teeth.
"That isn't clan aura," she muttered.
Raven smiled.
"No. It's better."
---
Jean bled.
A shallow cut on her shoulder from Lance. A cracked rib from Adam's last charge. Sweat mixed with blood. Her vision blurred.
But she stood.
And then… she stopped defending.
She breathed.
Celeste's light surged through her limbs. Solstice blazed like a newborn sun. Her aura exploded—no longer Master. Grand Master.
The crowd gasped.
Even Charles leaned forward.
Jean moved.
Faster than thought.
She struck Lance first—one clean cut to the thigh. He dropped, conscious but defeated.
Raven came at her with that warped aura—but Jean met her blade head-on, light devouring shadow.
And Jean won.
Raven's sword shattered. She was hurled backward, tumbling in a heap.
Only Adam remained.
The last son.
The strongest.
---
Their blades clashed in a storm of fire and light. Brimward against Solstice. Brother against sister. Earth shook beneath them. Spectators leaned in, breathless.
Jean ducked under a wide arc, spun, and struck Adam in the side—but he barely flinched.
"You've gotten stronger," he growled.
"So have you," Jean panted.
"Not enough."
He raised Brimward overhead.
Then—
Jean dropped her blade.
And punched.
Her fist, glowing with divine aura, struck Adam's chest.
A soundless boom.
He flew backward—crashing into the arena wall.
Silence.
Then…
"Victor—Jean Luther!"
The arena erupted.
Cheers. Gasps. Horror. Hope.
Charles watched her from his throne. For the first time in decades, his expression cracked.
A smile.
---
As the medics carried Raven and Lance away, Adam sat where he fell, staring at the sky.
Jean stood above them all.
Not just a warrior.
A chosen.
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