A wave of whispers rippled across the stands.
"Unfair?" a noble murmured, lips curled in amusement.
"But who challenges a mage without magic? Foolish boy."
The remark drew scattered nods and soft chuckles—
As if every watching lord and lady had always known how this would end.
Kaelion Drenlor.
Magicless.
Outmatched.
Doomed.
Yet he stood still—unmoving, unreadable—beneath the weight of their judgment.
The high priest raised both arms, undisturbed by the commentary.
"By the Duke's command," he continued, his tone ironclad,
"This duel shall not end in death.
No killing is permitted on sacred ground."
A final chant followed—ancient, guttural, invoking Thalrik, War-God of Iron and Blood.
A call for discipline amid fury.
For battle without carnage.
Then—
A breathless pause.
The weight of thousands settled over the arena.
The priest lowered his arms.
"Begin."
Aerik didn't move.
He stood casually, eyes half-lidded, exuding smug indifference.
With a lazy breath, he closed his eyes and sighed,
"Brother, if you want to forfeit, now's the ti—"
He didn't finish.
CRACK.
A sharp pain exploded across his face.
His eyes snapped open, wide in disbelief.
Blood streamed down his nose.
Kael stood before him—blade raised, calm and deadly.
He had cut Aerik's nose.
The crowd froze.
Every breath caught.
No one had expected this.
The Blood Prodigy—a pride of House Drenlor, a student of the Royal Academy—humiliated in the first strike.
His nose bleeding before the duel had even begun in earnest.
Aerik screamed, staggering back.
"AAAAAAAGH!"
Gasps rippled through the arena.
Kael just smiled.
A small, mocking curve of his lips.
"Better fight me seriously, brother," he said coldly.
Aerik's fury flared, shame eclipsed by rage.
"You'll pay for that, you bastard!"
Mana surged around him.
His hand flashed forward—blood coalescing midair into lances of crimson.
The first volley roared toward Kael.
Kael didn't hesitate.
No magic.
Only instinct, grit, and a body he had trained relentlessly every day since transmigrating into this cursed life.
He ducked.
Rolled.
Dodged again—then lunged.
His blade arced toward Aerik's shoulder.
But a blood shield slammed into place.
Clang!
Kael was repelled, skidding backward across the marble floor.
Yue's voice whispered beside him, dry but impressed.
"His casting speed… it's fast. Royal Academy level, no doubt."
Kael didn't reply.
No fear.
No pause.
He went again.
And again.
Each strike met a shield.
Every dodge narrowly avoided death.
Aerik barely moved—smirking as he defended, lashing out when Kael gave space.
Blood orbs. Crimson spikes. A wall of spells.
It was one-sided.
Kael was breathing hard, body battered and bruised, blood dripping from cuts across his arms and jaw.
But he didn't stop.
He kept moving.
Kept pressing forward.
The crowd, stunned at first, began to shift.
This wasn't magic. This wasn't elegance.
This was raw determination—a man clawing forward through pain, through mockery, through impossible odds.
Someone whispered:
"…He's not even trying to win. He's trying to prove he belongs."
A noble lowered their fan.
Another leaned forward.
Then—
A girl's voice cut the silence:
"Go, Kael!"
It was Selene—hands cupped around her mouth, eyes brimming with emotion.
And with her—like falling dominos—the crowd roared.
"KAELION!"
"SHOW HIM!"
Aerik blinked, shaken.
Why were they cheering for him?
He was the prodigy.
He was the rightful heir.
Not this useless third son with a sword and stubborn pride.
Enraged, Aerik cast another spell.
A blood wave burst from his hands, sending Kael flying across the field.
Kael crashed to the stone floor—blood pooling beneath him.
The stage was slick now.
But it wasn't Aerik's blood.
It was Kael's.
Yue's voice returned, low and urgent.
"Now."
Kael coughed, spitting red, teeth gritted.
He wasn't as wounded as he looked.
This had been the plan all along.
Play the underdog. Let them believe. Let them watch him bleed.
And now…
Now they loved him.
He could hear it—the faith, the fire, the fury behind every shout.
His fingers curled against the stone.
"Yes," Kael whispered.
It was time.
From the crowd.
"KAELION!"
"KAELION DRENLOR!"
A storm of voices rolled through the arena like war drums, pounding in waves.
Aerik scoffed, magic still crackling at his fingertips.
"So what?" he spat, turning slightly to face the stands.
"Cheer for him all you want. I'm still going to win."
But then—
He looked toward Kael, expecting a man broken, barely standing.
Instead—
Kael was… posing?
No, wait.
Reverently lifting a hand to the sky.
Eyes fluttered shut.
Blood trailing down his chin.
His palm opened upward, as if expecting a golden apple from the gods themselves.
And then—
In a voice soft enough to be poetic, loud enough to haunt history books:
"By the will of Thalrik…"
He paused. Letting the crowd lean in.
"…I accept your blessing."
Silence.
So total, so absolute, even the wind looked embarrassed.
Elara let out a very un-princesslike sound behind her silk fan.
"Oh no," she muttered. "He's not just dramatic—he's possessed."
Selene audibly groaned and covered her face.
Even Yue—the literal ghost—looked like she wanted to die a second time.
"Kael," she whispered, her voice flat, "you're channeling divine cringe....."
But he didn't stop.
Of course he didn't.
Kael stood there like a prophet mid-miracle, basking in invisible light, dripping blood like it was holy water.
Silence.
A stunned, cavernous stillness descended over the arena.
People glanced at one another, eyes wide.
No one blinked. No one breathed.
They had never seen something like this.
Hell, most of them had never even heard of something like this.
A magicless noble—claiming divine blessing mid-duel?
Was it real?
Was it lunacy?
Was it… working?
Aerik finally broke the stillness, voice dry with disbelief.
"…Have you finally gone mad, brother?"
Kael didn't answer.
His eyes shot open.
And something inside them had shifted.
This wasn't divine.
This wasn't madness.
This was revenge.
He gritted his teeth, muttering the incantation under his breath—Amplification—mana gathering in his legs like a coiled spring.
Then—he jumped.
A blur of motion.
Gasps echoed through the arena as Kael soared skyward, coat flaring like black wings.
Aerik's jaw dropped.
So did everyone else's.
And then—
In mid-air, Kael twisted.
Four crescent-shaped blades of moonlight erupted from his hands, forming a glowing cross as they screamed toward the earth.
Straight at Aerik.
The prodigy of House Drenlor—the student of the Royal Academy, the Blood Prodigy, the one who was supposed to win—stood frozen.
He didn't raise a shield.
He didn't move.
He just stared.
Stared at the incoming death hurtling toward him from the brother he had always called worthless.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
The stage vanished behind a wall of dust and flame.
The air trembled.
Then—
A scream tore through the smoke.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!"
The crowd jolted.
Whispers rose like waves crashing against disbelief.
"Kaelion used magic…"
"He's magicless, isn't he?!"
"Wasn't he supposed to—wait—did we just witness—?"
The smoke cleared.
And the crowd gasped as one.
Aerik was still standing.
Barely.
Half his face was shredded—skin peeled back in ribbons, one ear gone, one eye burst like overripe fruit.
Blood poured from a mangled jaw.
He looked less like a prodigy and more like a prophecy gone wrong.
He staggered, barely conscious—
And that's when Kael appeared behind him like death in noble silk.
No hesitation.
He swung the sword down—CRACK—driving it into Aerik's shoulder, forcing him to his knees.
Aerik screamed again, pure agony.
And then—
Cold steel kissed his throat.
Kael placed the blade gently, almost reverently, at the base of Aerik's neck.
The duel was over.
But still—no cheers.
Just silence.
Kael leaned in close.
So close only Aerik could hear.
"Sorry, brother…"
His voice was calm.
Kind, almost.
"…but you were always destined to lose."