"Let's get started." Zain declared, his voice ringing out with a newfound confidence, as he burst out with a deadly crimson Inner Force, the energy pulsating around him like an aura of power. The room fell silent, a collective gasp escaping the lips of those present, including Izark, who watched in awe and surprise.

  The Emperor, previously oblivious to the unfolding drama, glanced at Zain with a smile, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of admiration. "He's good." he said, before returning his attention to his plate, which servants promptly refilled with an array of sumptuous delicacies, the tantalizing aroma wafting through the air.

  "This..." Izark muttered, his voice barely a whisper, his astonishment evident in the furrow of his brow and the slight parting of his lips. He had been certain Zain was a Grade 3, but now he saw his son manifesting his Inner Force, a testament to his hidden potential and innate talent.

  "Your son has talent, Izark. He has such precise control over his Inner Force at Grade 3. No wonder he could manifest it. I've seen very few kids of this caliber." Duke Olgel remarked, his deep voice resonating with respect, as he leaned back in his ornate chair, his long beard flowing like a river of silver threads. As the oldest Duke in the Zinovia Empire, his words carried weight, his wisdom revered by all who knew him. His dukedom was the most powerful after the Royal family, a fact that lent credence to his assessment of Zain's abilities.

  "Not bad!"

  "What a fine lad..."

  "He is a good seedling."

  Other Dukes joined in, their voices a chorus of praise and admiration, their eyes alight with fascination and approval, as they observed Zain's impressive display.

  "Humph... Well, let's see if it's all show or if he has some strength." Duke Martin grumbled, his tone tinged with skepticism and a hint of begrudging respect, clearly unhappy with this unexpected development, his competitive spirit roused by the challenge that lay before his son.

  While the Dukes were surprised, Ben was equally shocked. He had assumed it would be an easy fight, given his opponent was supposedly a Grade 3, but Zain's unexpected skill shattered that assumption, leaving him reeling with disbelief and uncertainty.

  'So, he is at least Grade 5.' Ben thought, his mind racing as he reassessed his opponent, his dream of an easy victory shattered like fragile glass. It didn’t occur to him that Zain was a rare talent capable of manifesting his Inner Force at Grade 3. Though Inner Force manifestation before Grade 5 was possible, it was extremely rare. Ben had assumed Zain's Grade had been exaggerated, just as he had exaggerated his own, a miscalculation that now threatened to undermine his confidence and strategy.

  From Grade 1 to 9, the difference lay in the control of Inner Force and mana within a person’s body. Each breakthrough granted more power and control. However, Zain’s power Grade was at 3, while his control was at 5, a difficult feat. It was easier to increase power than to refine control, a fact that set him apart from his peers and marked him as a prodigy among them.

  Ben drew two daggers, the steel gleaming in the ambient light of the hall, the blades sharp and deadly, as he adopted a battle stance, his muscles tense with anticipation and excitement, his eyes gleaming with a fierce determination that belied his initial shock and uncertainty.

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  The banquet hall buzzed with anticipation, the atmosphere charged with electricity as Zain, his dark crimson Inner Force ablaze, faced Ben Marker, whose eyes gleamed with determination, twin daggers poised for action, their polished surfaces reflecting the flickering torchlight in a mesmerizing dance of shadow and light.

  Izark, as the host, stood and signaled the start of the battle, his gesture commanding attention and respect, his gaze unwavering as he observed the unfolding spectacle with a mixture of pride and apprehension, his thoughts consumed by the weight of his son's destiny and the implications of his actions.

  With a graceful sweep of his hand, Zain summoned his Inner Force, the energy coalescing into a shimmering sword that hummed with power, its blade as sharp as the edge of a razor, its presence commanding respect and awe. Ben smirked, a cocky grin spreading across his face, as he twirled his daggers with practiced ease, ready to meet the challenge head-on, his confidence unshaken by the unexpected turn of events.

  The air crackled with energy as the two circled each other, each waiting for the perfect moment to strike, their movements fluid and precise, their senses attuned to the subtle shifts in the atmosphere. Suddenly, Zain lunged forward, his sword slicing through the air with deadly precision, the blade cutting through the silence like a bolt of lightning, its path illuminated by the flickering torches that lined the walls.

  Ben danced out of reach, his daggers flashing in the light of the hall, their deadly edges gleaming with a malevolent glint, as he countered Zain's attack with lightning-fast reflexes, his movements a blur of speed and agility. With a swift flick of his wrist, he sent a barrage of strikes towards Zain, each one aimed with lethal accuracy, his skill and determination on full display for all to see.

  But Zain was no ordinary opponent. With a graceful twist of his body, he deflected Ben's attacks with ease, his sword moving in a blur of motion, its blade shimmering like a mirage in the desert heat, its edge as keen as the bite of a winter frost.

  The combatants clashed repeatedly, their movements a symphony of grace and power, their blades singing a song of battle and conquest, their spirits intertwined in a dance of life and death. Sparks flew as steel met Inner Force, each strike echoing through the hall with a resounding clang, its resonance a testament to the strength and skill of those who wielded it.

  Despite Ben's skill with his daggers, Zain's mastery of his sword was unmatched, his every move calculated and precise, his every strike as a result of his dedication and training. With each passing moment, he grew stronger, his strikes becoming faster and more precise, his resolve unshaken by the intensity of the battle that raged around him.

  Sweat beaded on Ben's brow as he fought to keep up with Zain's relentless assault, his muscles straining with the effort of every movement, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Every move he made was countered with effortless grace, leaving him struggling to find an opening, his frustration mounting with each passing moment, his confidence waning with every failed attack.

  But Ben was not one to back down easily. With a fierce shout, he redoubled his efforts, launching himself at Zain with renewed determination, his daggers flashing in a whirlwind of steel, their deadly edges gleaming with a malevolent glint, as he sought to overwhelm his opponent with the sheer force of his onslaught.

  For a moment, it seemed as though Ben might gain the upper hand, his daggers flashing in a blur of motion, their deadly arc threatening to cut through Zain's defenses like a scythe through wheat. But Zain was always one step ahead, his reflexes honed to perfection, his movements proving his skill and determination. With a sudden burst of speed, he closed the distance between them, his sword flashing with blinding brilliance, its edge gleaming like a beacon of hope in the darkness of the hall.

  Ben barely had time to react before the blade struck true, its deadly arc slicing through the air with the precision of a scalpel, its edge biting deep into Ben's defenses with a force that sent him sprawling to the ground with a cry of defeat, his daggers clattering to the floor like the shattered remnants of art.

  The hall erupted into cheers as Zain emerged victorious, his sword dissipating into the air with a soft hum, its energy spent in the heat of battle. Ben lay on the ground, panting heavily, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body bruised and battered from the intensity of the fight, his spirit broken but his resolve unshaken.

  As Zain extended a hand to help him up, Ben couldn't help but smile, a sense of camaraderie and respect blossoming between them like a flower in the desert sun. Though he had lost the fight, he knew he had faced a worthy opponent, a foe whose skill and determination matched his own, if not surpassed it. In that moment, he felt a sense of pride unlike any he had ever known, a pride born not of victory, but of the knowledge that he had given his all in the pursuit of greatness.

  The room was alive with chatter as people discussed the fight, praising Zain’s skill and courage, their voices a cacophony of admiration and awe. Izark felt a wave of relief and pride wash over him, his heart swelling with paternal pride at his son's triumph, his faith in Zain's abilities reaffirmed in the crucible of battle.