The invitation arrived wrapped in silk.
Formal.
Polite.
Calculated.
A request for an exhibition duel during the Imperial Military Review — an event held annually in the capital's Grand Arena, where knights demonstrated strength and nobles displayed loyalty through spectacle.
The challenger?
Lord Kaedran Valmont.
Second son of Duke Valmont.
Twenty-eight.
Renowned aura knight.
Known for precision control and aggressive mana amplification.
Arthur read the parchment once.
Then set it down.
Darius was already grinning.
"They're bold."
Seraphina's expression remained neutral.
"No," she said quietly. "They're strategic."
Arthur nodded.
"Yes."
The arena duel would accomplish three things:
Publicly test the Crown Prince's recovery.
Force him to either reveal full strength… or show weakness.
Shift narrative away from reforms and into spectacle.
Arthur stood slowly.
"Accept it."
Darius blinked.
"You're not even pretending to hesitate?"
Arthur's golden eyes flickered faintly.
"If I refuse, it becomes rumor."
Seraphina crossed her arms.
"And if you win overwhelmingly?"
Arthur looked at her.
"They retreat deeper."
"And if you show weakness?"
"They advance."
Silence.
Darius asked carefully,
"Which do you intend?"
Arthur's lips curved faintly.
"That depends."
—
The Grand Arena of Drakenhart was a masterpiece of imperial arrogance.
White marble tiers spiraled upward around a circular battleground reinforced with layered mana barriers. Flags bearing noble crests fluttered high above.
Tens of thousands filled the seats.
Commoners.
Merchants.
Knights.
Nobles.
And at the highest platform—
The Emperor watched.
Arthur entered first.
No dramatic fanfare.
No golden explosion.
He walked calmly across the stone.
The crowd roared anyway.
"Crown Prince!"
"Dragon Slayer!"
"God's Chosen!"
The title still carried weight.
Lord Kaedran Valmont entered opposite him.
Tall.
Broad.
Aura already simmering faintly around his body.
Confident.
But not arrogant.
Arthur respected that.
They stood across from each other.
Ten meters apart.
Kaedran bowed.
"Your Highness."
Arthur inclined his head slightly.
"Lord Kaedran."
Kaedran's eyes held steady.
"I trust your recovery is complete."
Arthur's voice was calm.
"Enough."
A flicker of interest crossed Kaedran's face.
The signal horn sounded.
The duel began.
Kaedran moved first.
Explosive acceleration.
Aura surged around his blade as he crossed the distance in a blink.
Arthur stepped aside smoothly.
Steel met air.
The crowd gasped.
Kaedran pivoted instantly, sweeping low with reinforced momentum.
Arthur blocked this time.
Golden mana flared briefly as their blades met.
The impact cracked stone beneath their feet.
The crowd erupted.
Kaedran pushed harder.
Arthur did not.
He yielded ground slightly.
Just enough.
Kaedran's eyes sharpened.
He noticed.
Arthur's mana output was lower than before.
Deliberately.
They clashed again.
This time Kaedran unleashed a full aura burst.
A shockwave rippled outward, slamming into the arena barrier.
Arthur absorbed it—
But not effortlessly.
His chest tightened sharply.
The crack pulsed violently.
Pain lanced through him.
Real.
Unpleasant.
He stepped back half a meter.
The crowd saw it.
A murmur spread.
Kaedran saw it too.
He pressed.
Relentless.
Calculated.
Three rapid strikes.
Arthur deflected two.
The third grazed his shoulder.
Fabric tore.
A thin line of red appeared.
The arena fell silent.
Blood.
From the Crown Prince.
Kaedran did not smile.
But something hardened in his gaze.
He launched forward again.
Arthur inhaled slowly.
Now.
Decision point.
Reveal recovery?
Or deepen illusion?
He chose.
Kaedran's blade descended in a vertical strike, aura amplified to near-maximum output.
Arthur raised his sword—
And instead of overwhelming counterforce—
He redirected.
He let the strike land partially.
Absorbed.
Compressed.
Then twisted.
Kaedran's momentum shifted off-balance.
Arthur stepped inside his guard.
One precise mana-infused strike to the wrist.
Kaedran's blade flew from his hand.
Arthur's sword stopped one inch from his throat.
Silence.
Absolute.
Arthur's breathing remained steady.
But faint strain lingered beneath it.
He did not look triumphant.
He did not flare golden radiance.
He simply lowered his blade.
"Yield?"
Kaedran exhaled slowly.
"…Yield."
The arena erupted.
Not explosive hysteria.
But something more complex.
He had won.
But not overwhelmingly.
He had bled.
He had shown strain.
He had shown control.
Arthur turned toward the Emperor's platform.
Caelus watched with unreadable expression.
Arthur sheathed his sword calmly.
He had given them exactly what they wanted to see.
Strength.
But not invincibility.
Control.
But not perfection.
—
That evening.
In a dim chamber far from the arena—
The crimson-cloaked figure examined a mana recording crystal.
"He held back," a subordinate muttered.
"Yes," the figure replied.
"And the fracture?"
"It reacted under pressure."
The figure nodded slowly.
"Good."
A pause.
"He is stabilizing it gradually."
"Then phase three must accelerate."
The cloaked figure's voice lowered slightly.
"We do not want him fully restored."
—
Back in the palace infirmary.
Emily stood in front of Arthur, arms crossed.
"You let him hit you."
Arthur removed his torn coat calmly.
"Yes."
She stepped closer, eyes sharp.
"Why?"
Arthur met her gaze evenly.
"Because perfection is isolating."
She blinked.
He continued.
"If they believe I cannot be pressured… they will unite faster."
She studied him carefully.
"You're letting them underestimate you."
"Yes."
She shook her head slightly.
"That's risky."
Arthur smiled faintly.
"So is hiding."
She reached out unexpectedly and touched the shallow cut on his shoulder.
"You felt that."
"Yes."
"And?"
Arthur's golden eyes softened slightly.
"It reminds me I am alive."
She stared at him for a moment.
Then laughed quietly.
"You're terrifying and dramatic."
He didn't argue.
—
Later.
Alone.
Arthur placed his hand over his chest.
The crack pulsed faintly.
Under the duel's strain—
It had widened slightly.
Not dangerously.
But noticeably.
He exhaled slowly.
"They're watching my limits."
He walked toward the window.
The city lights flickered below.
"They want to time something."
He could feel it now.
The next phase wouldn't be economic.
It wouldn't be narrative.
It would be structural.
And it would target something larger than him.
Arthur's golden eyes reflected the distant horizon.
"Come."
He whispered quietly.
"Make your move."