The silence in the coliseum was absolute, broken only by the echo of Baldwin's words. The seven-level difference between Edmon and Darren Acre was significant, but both remained within the same rank. According to the kingdom's laws, a duel between Adepts was permitted as long as it was conducted under official supervision and in an authorized venue.
Edmon, his light armor already adjusted, felt a fleeting sense of relief. He had feared, deep down, that Darren might have reached the threshold of forty, ascending to the Legionary rank. That would have completely changed the dynamic, granting his opponent far greater endurance and mana reserves. A level 38 Adept, however, was a formidable challenge—but not an insurmountable one.
From the opposite end of the arena, Darren Acre smiled arrogantly. Seven levels separated him from Edmon—a gap that, in the world of mana, equated to years of intense training and real combat. His aura, a rough, reddish mist flickering around him, seemed to mock Edmon's restraint.
—Do you see it, bastard? —Darren roared, drawing his longsword, its blade vibrating with a faint crimson glow—. The law grants you the right to die with honor, but not to win.
Alan Baldwin, the magical artifact now extinguished in his hand, stepped back and traced a glowing circle on the dirt ground with his staff.
—The duel is authorized —he declared, his voice carrying with magical authority—. It will begin at the sound of the horn. The rules are as follows: surrender, incapacitation, or death. May justice—or strength—prevail.
The battle horn sounded, a deep, prolonged note that sliced through the tension like a blade.
Darren moved first, the ground exploding beneath his feet as it propelled him forward. His sword, tracing a scarlet arc, came down on Edmon with the force of an anvil. It was not a refined strike, but a brutal one, meant to break guards and bones from the very first instant.
Edmon did not block. He pivoted on his heel; Darren's blade passed within inches of his shoulder, cutting only air. The efficiency of his movement was perfect—he had not wasted a single drop of mana. As Darren carried forward on his own momentum, Edmon counterattacked.
His own sword, a more modest and practical blade, lit up with a steady silver glow. It wasn't the flashy brilliance of Darren's aura, but a concentrated light, like steel under moonlight. The strike was not aimed at Darren's body, but at the back of his right knee—the support point of his reckless charge.
The silver blade struck with surgical precision. It didn't cut through the armor, but the impact, enhanced by Edmon's mana, was enough. Darren grunted in surprise and pain, his leg buckling as he barely managed to regain his balance with an awkward turn.
The first exchange was over. Darren's powerful attack had struck nothing but air, and Edmon's precise counter had found its mark. In the stands, murmurs returned, now laced with surprise. This was not the overwhelming superiority many had expected.
Darren straightened, his face twisted with fury and a hint of disbelief. The red aura around him stirred, growing denser, hotter.
—Beginner's luck —he spat.
Edmon did not respond. He resumed his stance, his breathing steady, his eyes calculating. The chess match of steel and mana had only just begun. He had proven that the difference in levels was not an abyss, but an obstacle. And obstacles, as he well knew, could be overcome with ingenuity, precision, and the cold resolve of a man who did not fight for glory, but for something infinitely more valuable.
The fight continued with measured movements. Both combatants studied each other cautiously, exchanging controlled cuts and thrusts without exposing openings. Their swords clashed again and again, ringing like metallic bells in the mana-charged air. Each strike felt like a test, a search for weakness in the opponent.
Darren was the first to break the balance. With a quick gesture, he channeled mana into his sword and muttered an incantation. Five spears of water formed before him and shot toward Edmon.
The young man reacted instantly: his sword, wreathed in flames, traced brilliant arcs that evaporated the spears one by one in bursts of steam.
But as he deflected the last, his defense opened. He had raised his arm too much while blocking, leaving his left side exposed. Darren noticed immediately and lunged forward, his blade cutting through the air in a direct arc toward the opening.
The crowd held its breath. It seemed like certain death.
Then, a sphere of fire crossed the space between them, forcing Darren to retreat at once. Edmon had prepared the spell in advance, setting it as a trap for a counterattack. The audience roared at the sudden reversal.
Darren managed to block the spell with a water barrier, but the impact destabilized him. Edmon seized the moment to strike downward with force, though the blow was stopped by his opponent's blade. Both stepped back, panting, surrounded by steam and sweat, as if the air itself had grown heavy.
From the stands, Lusian watched closely. Though the fight seemed intense to the crowd, to him their movements were slow, predictable. Their blows lack weight, he thought, aware that his training with Albert had taken him far beyond the level of these Adepts.
Fifteen minutes of tense exchange passed. Every spell, every thrust drained the combatants' mana. Finally, Darren began to stagger; his magical flow faded, his water aura barely flickering around his sword.
Edmon, still standing, advanced with determination. His blade, wrapped in fire, traced a downward arc. Darren tried to block, but his strength failed him. The burning edge pierced his defense and then his chest, leaving behind a trail of steam… and silence.
For a few seconds, no one in the coliseum moved. Then the knight Alan raised his hand and declared the result solemnly:
—The victor, Edmon of the Adept class, level thirty-one!
The crowd erupted in cheers, applauding and celebrating.
Lusian, however, did not feel well. Watching the life leave Darren's body was something he had never experienced before. The sound of metal hitting the ground, the dark blood mixing with the dust, and the heavy silence that followed struck him with unexpected force. He had to look away and suppress the nausea.
Unlike the others, who cheered or murmured with excitement, Lusian felt a deep discomfort. The cultural difference unsettled him: for the people of this world, death seemed like a spectacle; for him, it was something far too real, too human.
Emily, beside him, took his arm with a nearly imperceptible gesture, sensing his unease. Lusian took a deep breath and tried to steady himself, aware that this duel was no game.
Baron Joel Denisse Mofet, who until moments ago had radiated confidence, had turned pale upon seeing the outcome.
Knight Alan Baldwin approached the body and, after a brief inspection, nodded gravely:
—The duel has ended. Darren Acre is dead. The victor: Edmon of the Adept class, level thirty-one.
A murmur spread through the stands. Edmon, panting and drenched in sweat, raised his sword—still wrapped in a faint crimson glow—and, with a trembling voice, said:
—Baron Joel… I don't want you to come near my fiancée again.
The baron clenched his teeth. His expression, a mixture of rage and humiliation, twisted into something grotesque.
—How dare you, bastard! —he roared.—Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who you're speaking to?
Suppressed laughter and murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire. Lusian quickly grasped the rumor: Baron Joel had tried to take Edmon's fiancée as a concubine. When the young man refused, the baron sought an excuse to eliminate him legally through a duel. Practices like this were common among nobles when they became infatuated with a woman.
Still furious, the baron produced a parchment sealed with golden wax and unfurled it before the public.
—Here is the contract —he declared with a venomous smile.—Samantha's father, Edmon's fiancée, owes me one thousand gold coins. The deadline has passed. According to the laws of the kingdom, I can claim the daughter as payment. And if I wish to make her my slave, I have every right to do so.
Silence fell over the coliseum like a heavy veil. Even the murmurs died out.
—However —he added with feigned generosity—, I am a just man. I will give him a chance. If Edmon wins another duel, this time against my next knight, the debt will be settled. If he loses… the girl will be mine.
Edmon's eyes widened in despair. He was exhausted, his body trembling, his mana completely depleted. Another fight would mean his death. To die at twenty-one, or abandon his fiancée—that was his choice.
The tension was unbearable. Then, a female voice broke the silence with unexpected force:
—How despicable!
Everyone turned toward the stands. It was Emily, standing, her face flushed with indignation. Her voice rang out so clearly that even Knight Alan looked up in surprise.
Baron Joel looked at her, first irritated, then—upon noticing her beauty—his gaze turned lustful.
—Miss —he said provocatively—, are you insulting me? If so, present yourself at once. You will be held accountable for your disrespect.
He did not get to say more.
Charles Grell, head of the Douglas escort, stood up, his voice echoing through the coliseum:
—Knights, protect Lady Emily!
Twenty swords were drawn in unison. The echo of steel rang out as the Douglas men descended the stands, forming an impenetrable line around Lusian and Emily.
Baron Joel froze. He recognized the emblem on their shields: two wolves, symbol of the Duchy of Douglas. The color drained from his face.
And then he saw him: beside Emily, seated with icy calm, was Lusian. That gaze was unmistakable. There was only one punishment for those who offended a Douglas: death.
Lusian rose slowly, still shaken by what he had just witnessed. The blood, the metallic smell in the air, the tense silence of the coliseum weighed on his stomach. He had seen death for the first time, and yet his mind did not rest.
If I can ignite a conflict between the Denisse family and the Douglas, he thought, I could weaken the empire's structure. A blow to its main source of influence and manpower.
Baron Joel remained pale, unable to speak. Lusian looked at him calmly, a faint smile forming on his lips; in the baron's eyes, that smile was the very face of death.
—I will take responsibility for any disrespect my fiancée may have shown —Lusian said, his voice calm, each word measured.—If you desire a duel… or something more, I agree.
Silence fell completely. Baron Joel, understanding the gravity of those words, dropped to his knees.
—Mercy! —he begged, trembling.—I did not mean to offend you… please, young Master Douglas, show us clemency…
Emily, who had been holding her breath, stepped forward and whispered to Lusian:
—Lusian… please, ask for a formal apology. And that he hand over the debt parchment. That will be enough.
Her eyes reflected genuine compassion—not only for Edmon and Samantha, but even for the baron himself, who crawled like a frightened animal. Lusian looked at her in silence for a few seconds. Part of him wanted to refuse, to let the baron pay in blood for his arrogance. But Emily's sincerity disarmed even his coldest resolve.
—Very well —he finally said.—So be it.
Baron Joel hurried to hand over the parchment, trembling, and bowed his head until it nearly touched the ground.
Emily took the document and extended it to Samantha, who was still crying over Edmon's body.
—Here —she said softly.—Your debt is settled.
The young woman looked at her with tears in her eyes.
—Thank you… thank you so much, my lady.
With a single gesture, Emily had saved two lives. Lusian noticed.
Power does not reside only in strength, he thought. It also lies in mercy. And both can destroy or save, depending on who wields them.