The spectacle in the pit was reaching its crescendo. Klara was a storm of brilliant Aura, her greatsword a relentless arc of force that drove Claude backward step by step. The ground around them was chewed to mud and dust from her onslaught.

  “You’re holding well, Claude!” she called out, her voice strained with effort but carrying a note of genuine, grudging respect. “For a Second Spark Arisen to keep pace with my Second Ember…your skill is unreal!”

  But Lucon, attuned to the Flow, felt the lie in her praise.

  Her energy was a mix of frustration and dawning anxiety. Someone a full stage beneath her in the Arisen hierarchy shouldn't be able to weather her storm through skill alone. And he hadn't even set foot in the academy that would supposedly unlock his potential.

  The Arisen stages—Spark, Ember, Blaze, Pyre, Nova, and Solaris—were meant to be separated by insurmountable gaps. A lower stage competing evenly with a higher one was unheard of.

  Claude, his breathing controlled even as he blocked another bone-rattling blow, replied calmly. “It shows that the Red Storm’s reputation as the most talented warrior at Vusric is not misplaced. It is an honor to face you.”

  Lucon felt guilt weave into his brother’s disciplined energy—the guilt of holding back, of knowing this fight was a lesson for him, while for her, it was a true test of her limits.

  [Great Reaping]

  Klara unleashed a horizontal sweep, a blow meant to cleave a group in two at the waist. Claude didn’t block it—he dropped into a desperate roll, the blade’s edge passing mere inches above his back. The crowd gasped as one, certain they had just witnessed the end of the match.

  Klara wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her gauntlet. The question she had been avoiding finally burst free.

  “Why?” she demanded. “Why are you not using any spells?!”

  From the sidelines, Rhavak let out an exasperated sigh. “Because he enjoys wasting our time.”

  Norlon shook his head in theatrical disapproval.

  “Shut up!” Julie snapped, then cheered even louder. “You can win, Klara! I know you can!”

  Lyris hopped up and down, shouting, “Fight on, sister!” Then, in a quieter voice, “But don’t hurt Claude too bad…at least not his face…”

  In the pit, Klara’s sweeping blade bit into the arena wall as Claude rolled beneath it once more, narrowly escaping. She wrenched the greatsword free from the compacted earth and turned to face him.

  “I have always wanted to test myself against the best Arisen at Vusric,” Claude admitted—and the Flow confirmed it as absolute truth. His hunger for growth was a core part of his being.

  Klara’s irritation finally boiled over. “If you truly respect the tradition of this spar, then give it your all! Stop patronizing me!”

  “Sister…” Lyris murmured with worry, as if sensing something wrong with her sister’s tone.

  Claude’s expression shifted. The polite mask fell away, replaced by focused, unyielding intent.

  He nodded once. “You are right. My apologies.”

  Then the air changed.

  [Violet Fire Stance]

  The crimson flame of his Aura didn’t merely brighten—it transformed. Deep, vibrant violet energy erupted from him, a visible fusion of burning life force and the power of creation. Aura and Mana twisted together around his body, forming a hybrid power.

  [Inferno]

  Claude didn’t point his sword at Klara. He drove it into the earth at his feet.

  A wave of violet-tinged fire exploded outward from the point of impact—not as a projectile, but as a flood. A roaring sea of flame surged across the floor of the pit arena, the heat mercifully contained for the crowd by Monk Georgi’s barrier.

  Klara cried out and leapt backward as fire licked at her boots. There was nowhere left to maneuver—no safe ground, no clever footwork to escape it. She was going to burn.

  [Great Reaping]

  With a guttural shout, she spun her massive greatsword in a wide circle. The force of the swing carved a perfect, temporary ring of scorched earth around her, holding the encroaching violet fire at bay.

  She hiccupped as Claude burst through the fire at Arisen speed. Each step parted the flames perfectly, just enough to clear space for his footfalls—flawless spell control.

  [Flame Strike]

  Claude thrust his sword, its metal blazing with violet-tinged fire. Klara thrust the flat of her greatsword forward to meet it. Flames detonated against her massive weapon as it met Claude’s sword point. The onlookers watched as Klara—dominant only moments ago—was driven backward, sliding across the ground as if she’d been rammed by a charging bull.

  The flames of [Inferno] welcomed her back into their embrace.

  “It’s over,” Rhavak said from above. “It only took longer because of Claude’s time-wasting.”

  “You would have ended her in seconds,” Norlon added, groveling with sycophantic glee.

  Perrin offered quietly, “You should respect someone like Klara. She works hard.”

  No one listened.

  Julie shot Rhavak and Norlon a glare.

  “You still don’t know that yet!” She then grinned knowingly. “Klara hasn’t shown her trump card!”

  Lyris clung to Julie’s words as though sheer belief might make them true.

  A tired figure shuffled along the edge of the crowd, spectacles askew, arms laden with ledgers so overstuffed that loose pages fluttered free. His hair formed a frazzled brown bush of sleepless nights, ink stains dotting his fingers like dark bruises.

  Lucon spotted him instantly.

  “Hail, Petyr,” he called from his table.

  The young man became motionless, shoulders stiffening. He turned, offering a bow that was technically correct but emotionally vacant.

  “Young Lord Lucon,” he said quickly, eyes darting back to his stack of papers. “Apologies, but I’m rather busy because…” He gestured vaguely to the lavish celebration—the food, the guests, Toloris’s spent Mana Crystals, the servants running in all directions. “…well, because of all this.”

  Lucon smiled faintly. “Of course you are. But come, speak a while.”

  Petyr grimaced the moment his eyes fell on the pipe and the half-empty bottle beside Lucon’s plate. He sighed wearily.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “I don’t drink anymore,” the overworked clerk muttered. The exhaustion etched into his face deepened, as if just looking at Lucon’s lazy posture drained what little energy he had left.

  Once, they had been friends—childhood companions turned drinking partners. That was before Lucon left for the temple, before the debts, before the endless financial bleeding of House Edelyn had transformed Petyr’s work into a waking nightmare.

  “Then don’t drink,” Lucon said easily. “Just listen.”

  Petyr hesitated, clearly torn between duty and the urge to escape. The title of Young Lord held weight, but his expression said he’d rather take another month of sleepless accounting than stand here.

  Still, he stayed. Barely.

  Down in the arena, the duel reached a new level of ferocity.

  [Great Rupture]

  Klara stomped into the earth, her Aura flaring like a bonfire. The ground beneath her cracked and heaved, shattering the burning floor into molten chunks that sprayed outward in every direction. The shockwave snuffed out the flames immediately around her, buying her a precious heartbeat of breathing room.

  Claude was already moving.

  [Flame Cut]

  He slashed horizontally, sending a blazing crescent of violet fire flying through the air. Klara raised her greatsword in both hands, bracing. The crescent erupted against her weapon, forcing her backward—back toward the inferno still raging across the arena.

  Her footing slipped. Just for a moment.

  [Flame Cut]

  Claude struck again.

  The second crescent hit her squarely, engulfing her in a burst of red-violet flame. The onlookers gasped as she vanished within the blaze.

  Then, through the curtain of fire, her silhouette emerged—kneeling, one arm raised to shield her eyes, her armor smoking but unbroken. She was still alive. Her breathing was ragged, but her eyes were defiant.

  An Arisen’s body was made to endure.

  [Flame Cut]

  More crescents of fire carved through the air, hammering into Klara’s guard again and again. Each impact scattered sparks across her armor, heating it toward a dull, glowing red. She dug her heels into the earth, her greatsword a wall before her—but every strike drove her farther back, deeper into the hungry flames that ringed the pit.

  Her Aura faltered under the assault. She could endure the blows—her Arisen body inhumanly tough—but the heat was the true enemy. Every breath scalded her lungs, every step seared through her boots. Inside her armor, she was cooking alive.

  Defeat was becoming inevitable.

  Above, the crowd leaned forward, breathless, watching as the tide turned. Klara’s reputation as the best Arisen in Vusric could be seen on their shocked faces. The girl known as the Red Storm was being taken apart by Claude’s measured and surgical mastery.

  At Lucon’s table, Petyr had stopped fidgeting with his ledgers, the pages half-spilled in his lap.

  “It looks like Young Lord Claude will win,” he said, unable to keep the awe from his voice.

  Lucon took a lazy pull from his pipe, the ember flaring like a tiny imitation of the arena below. “Of course. A Named Hero candidate is incomparable to those of normal talent,” he said, almost wistfully. “That’s why the Hero’s Party is usually made up of the ones who fail to become Named.”

  He then exhaled a long stream of smoke and addressed what he needed to address.

  “Tell me, Petyr,” he said, “how fares your father—the Treasurer?”

  The question wiped the awe from Petyr’s face. His expression soured immediately.

  “You know how,” he said tightly.

  Before Lucon could respond, the ground beneath them trembled, accompanied by a boom.

  In the pit, Klara was standing again. But she was changed.

  Her Aura had thickened, no longer a waning fire but a chaotic blaze. The violet tinged flames shrank around her power, the ground fracturing under her feet. Blood drew bright lines down her cheek and across her armor, yet she looked more alive than ever.

  [Love for War]

  Her eyes burned red, her once-gray hair bleaching toward white as her life force burned into Aura.

  Above, Perrin leaned over the barrier, eyes wide. “It seems Young Lady Klara has invoked her war blessing! I haven’t seen her use it since the Academy forced us to duel an instructor!”

  Norlon sneered at his brother. “So in all your little challenges, you never once pushed her that far?”

  Perrin flushed and fell silent.

  Rhavak merely watched, expression unreadable.

  Julie, on the other hand, was nearly glowing with excitement.

  She roared, “Yes! That’s the real Acolyte Klara—show him your might!”

  “Be careful, sister!” Lyris called down, torn between loyalties. “Stay safe, Claude!”

  From his seat, Lucon could see Klara’s Aura Heart in the Flow. Like with all Arisen, her heart was enveloped in a red miniature sun—the source of their power. But Klara’s Aura Heart was burning far faster and brighter than it should, devouring life force at a rate no ordinary Arisen would dare endure.

  The war blessing granted to Warfaring Acolytes by their god was both a gift and a curse. Ordinary Arisen gathered life force in their Aura Hearts to enhance their bodies beyond human limits and to fuel their Battle Skills, burning that life force to create Aura. But Warfaring Acolytes went further. When they needed more power, they burned their own vitality, trading attributes of their own body for additional Aura.

  They burned whatever their bodies could offer. That was why they bore the marks of their path—gray hair, pale eyes, the color leeched from them by the war blessing.

  [War Whirl]

  Klara spun again, faster and wilder than before. Her greatsword became a red cyclone, and even Claude’s flames were blown aside by the gale of force she unleashed.

  But Claude did not falter.

  [Fire Cut]

  A crescent of violet fire slammed into the ground before her, shattering her footing and breaking her stance mid-spin.

  [Flame Lance]

  He followed immediately, fire condensing into a spear-like thrust that crashed into her chest plate. She reeled, spitting blood that hissed as it struck the molten earth.

  [Sky-bound Phoenix]

  Claude’s next swing carved an upward arc of fire that took the form of a blazing violet phoenix. The flaming bird struck her squarely, lifting her off her feet before she could even register it. She slammed backward, her body colliding with the semi-transparent barrier that encased the pit.

  [Hell Ballista]

  Claude raised his sword high—then hurled it.

  It became a streak of violet light that struck Klara midair with a thunderous crack. The resulting explosion of flame sent her spinning, slamming her into the earth in a shower of sparks.

  She lay dazed, struggling to rise, one gauntleted hand clawing at the dirt for purchase.

  Claude advanced, his sword already back in his hand, poised to finish the bout.

  Above, Julie watched in horror, hands clamped over her mouth. Lyris closed her eyes. Rhavak yawned openly. Norlon hid his smile behind a fist while Perrin murmured, “This is the first time I’ve ever seen her lose…”

  At the table, Petyr was frozen—awed, disbelieving, utterly swept up in the spectacle.

  Lucon turned back to him, his voice calm, almost pointed.

  “We need to talk, Petyr,” he said, “about being a worthy heir—and about doing one’s duty.”

  Petyr stared, nearly floored that such words could come from the lips of the so-called Prince of Ruin.

  Lucon opened his mouth to continue, but a sudden tug in the Flow brushed against his senses—familiar, gentle, and achingly sad. Someone nearby was quietly drowning in insecurity and shame. Someone he had failed more times than he could count.

  His gaze turned instinctively.

  There, standing amid a ring of brightly dressed noblewomen, was his mother. Lady Mabel Edelyn—poise unshaken, laughter forced, hands clasped too tightly. Around her, noblewomen wielded smiles like wolves in sheep skin. Their words drifted toward his enhanced senses—compliments with hidden hooks.

  “How remarkable that you manage to hold your head high even without the polish of your peers.”

  “And to think—you were raised in the country, weren’t you? So refreshing to meet someone so…simple at heart.”

  A gaggle of giggles followed. Mabel smiled back, color rising in her cheeks. The Flow captured her embarrassment. She was too kind, too gentle to retort.

  “Excuse me a moment, Petyr,” Lucon said, pushing up from his seat.

  Petyr blinked, clutching his ledgers tighter. “Ah—Young Lord, I really am rather busy—”

  Lucon ignored him.

  Crossing the distance in long, easy strides, Lucon approached the circle of noblewomen. Their laughter thinned as they noticed him, their expressions tightening. Mabel looked up, startled.

  “Ladies,” Lucon said smoothly, bowing slightly, “I hope you’re not laughing too hard at my mother’s expense. The last time someone did, Father had them audited.”

  The amusement died instantly.

  One of the women, a powdered blonde in an ostentatious gown, recovered first. “Young Lord, we were merely complimenting Lady Mabel’s…rustic sincerity.”

  Lucon smirked. “Ah, good. I’d hate to think the nobility of House Edelyn was being mocked for honesty. A rare virtue, these days.”

  Their faces stiffened. He was implying they lacked virtue. The group suddenly discovered the garden’s hedges fascinating. Mabel’s eyes widened—equal parts horror and disappointment.

  “Lucon!” she chided, stepping between him and the women. “That’s enough! You don’t speak to our guests that way.”

  He blinked, then softened his voice. “Apologies. I was simply joking.”

  Her gaze remained severe. “Your father and I taught you better than this. We never resort to cruelty. That is not who we are.”

  The women murmured their agreement, emboldened by her scolding.

  Lucon looked at them all, then back to his mother. “Of course,” he said mildly. “But remember, Mother—this is still House Edelyn. Respect should flow both ways.”

  “That is enough!” she snapped. “No more talk of status or standing. As your father always says—‘To House Edelyn, upright character matters more than anything, even in the face of death!’”

  Lucon felt nothing in the Flow except the need to defend his mother. It was what his vessel required. Though the Flow urged him to let all currents pass, something deep inside demanded he shield her.

  Then, as if the world itself sought to break the tension, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause.

  Down in the arena pit, Klara and Claude knelt, smoke curling around them, weapons buried in the ground between them. The duel had ended not in triumph, but in equilibrium.

  The fight had ended in a draw.

  The cheers rolled across the garden like a wave.