The air in the arena vibrated with the ringing sound of steel colliding with steel.
Below us, Sir Milo and Lady Hillaria were locked in a fierce exchange. To the untrained eye, it might have looked like a stalemate, but from my vantage point, the dynamic was crystal clear. Milo had adopted an impenetrable defensive stance, rooting himself like an ancient oak, while Lady Hillaria was the storm raging against him.
Clang!
Hillaria swung her blade in a wide, horizontal arc, the sheer force of her Transmutation making the air whistle.
Clack.
Milo shifted his weight, catching her blade on his crossguard and diverting the kinetic energy harmlessly to the side. He didn't flinch. He didn't step back.
Swing after swing, Hillaria threw herself at him. Her movements were amplified by her power, blurring with speed and striking with the weight of a sledgehammer. Yet, parry after parry, Milo answered her. He was a wall of discipline.
The crowd, initially polite, began to roar. The sound started in the commoners' section—a guttural cheer for the underdog—but it quickly spread like wildfire. Even the Nobles' Section, usually reserved and cynical, began to stir. Fans were lowered. Wine goblets were set down. Eyes narrowed in scrutiny.
Everyone was amazed. Milo wasn't using his Transmutation. He was facing a Commander's daughter who was actively enhancing her physical capabilities with magic, and yet, he wasn't just surviving—he was controlling the fight.
"Is this what she wants to show?" my mother murmured, a small, sharp grin curling the corner of her lips. She leaned forward, her eyes locked on the duel.
"I don't believe her; this is half-wit behavior," my father scoffed, leaning back and tapping his jeweled cane on the floor. "Why expose the weakness of the Transmutation to the public?"
"Well, even if she is a half-wit, surely this is an interesting spectacle," my mother countered, her voice low and analytical. "A Knight of the Order who can withstand a daughter of the Commander, even while she uses Transmutation? Showing this to the entire Kingdom... does she want to show her Order's power? Or its redundancy?"
"Perhaps," my father mused. "However, if the purpose of the Grand Sparring is showing him—this Milo—to the entire Kingdom, what is the purpose of the finale? Lady Octavi with Lord Kaeso?"
"Showing him in this state gives Lady Octavi much room to breathe."
Hearing the conversation between my parents sent a chill down my spine. They referred to the Queen and her machinations with such casual depravity, treating human lives like pieces on a chessboard.
However, when my mother said, 'Showing him in this state gives Lady Octavi much room to breathe,' I immediately understood. If Milo showed skill surpassing Transmutation, it meant the public would accept a high level of skill without magic. Lady Octavi could use that precedent. She could fight Kaeso, secure a clean match, and end it in a Draw without needing to reveal her own devastating power or shatter her father's reputation.
In the arena, the tide was turning.
Lady Hillaria's movements, once fluid and terrifying, were becoming jagged. Her chest heaved. Her swings, though still powerful, lacked precision. The constant use of Transmutation was draining her stamina rapidly.
On the other side, Milo remained composed. His breathing was even. His eyes were focused, calculating. He had the upper hand now, having conserved his energy while she burned hers away.
Clang... scrape... thud.
The sounds of combat slowed. Hillaria lunged, overextended, and stumbled. Milo stepped aside gracefully, letting her momentum carry her past him.
She stopped. She turned, her sword tip dragging in the dirt. Her legs were shaking.
Surprisingly, she didn't try to attack again. She threw her weapon to the ground—a clattering sound that echoed in the sudden silence. She knelt on one knee, head bowed, gasping for air.
It was a symbol of absolute surrender.
Milo didn't celebrate. He didn't gloat. He walked toward her discarded sword, picked it up by the blade—careful not to cut his gloved hand—and offered the hilt back to her. It was a gesture of profound respect, acknowledging her bravery in the face of defeat.
The crowd fell silent, stunned by the sudden end.
"The Winner!" the Master of Ceremonies bellowed, breaking the spell. "Sir Milo of the Blue Order!"
As Milo turned and walked off the grounds, the silence broke into a cacophony of whispers. especially among the high nobility. Milo had withstood a Transmutation user. He had pushed her to the edge of exhaustion without using a speck of magic himself. It led people to speculate wildly about the extent of Milo's own skills—and perhaps, the hidden strength of the Royal Order.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Out of the blue, a slow, solitary sound cut through the murmurs.
Heads turned. I looked to my left.
It was Lady Eliana Aemilia. The Duchess of Romgardia stood alone near the edge of her box, clapping her armored hands together. It wasn't polite applause; it was a salute.
"I knew it; she will appreciate him," my mother said with a satisfied smile. "That half-wit Queen needs to protect him more after this match, or Eliana will get him."
"Hahahaha!" My father started to giggle, a sound that seemed incongruous with his stern appearance. "Now, the Finale. With the crowd focusing on that young man's skill, the Grand Finale won't feel like a finale at all. It will feel like an afterthought."
He was right.
The Master of Ceremonies announced the next match.
The Grand Finale: Lady Octavi vs. Lord Kaeso.
As their names echoed over the grounds, the crowd seemed indifferent. The energy had evaporated. The names of the "Golden Sword" and the "Commander" didn't command the attention they usually would. Instead, all mouths and ears were fixed on Milo, discussing his finesse, overshadowing the main event before the first blow was struck.
Lady Octavi and Lord Kaeso took their positions.
I looked around. The spectators were chatting, eating, looking anywhere but the arena.
Suddenly, I noticed movement in the Royal Box. The Master of Ceremonies walked up to the Queen. They had a small, quick exchange—a whisper, a nod—and the Master of Ceremonies walked back to his position, a strange expression on his face.
"Begin!"
Lady Octavi and Lord Kaeso began their match.
It was a beautiful display of swordsmanship, technically perfect. But it lacked soul. Even though the crowd had lost interest, Lady Octavi maintained the act. She moved with the grace of a dancer, parrying Lord Kaeso's heavy, aggressive strikes.
It was like watching a mirror image of the previous match—daughter and father. Kaeso took the offensive, a whirlwind of steel; Octavi defended, a flowing river.
I watched intently, wondering how long Lady Octavi would keep up the charade. With the crowd distracted, she needed to finish this quickly before the experts in the audience realized she was holding back. If she dragged it out, it would become an insult to her opponent.
"It is over," my mother said calmly, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
I looked back at the arena.
Flash.
With a movement almost too fast to track, Lady Octavi sidestepped a downward slash, spun inside Kaeso's guard, and brought her blade up.
It stopped inches from his throat.
A decisive strike.
The crowd applauded politely, but their hearts weren't in it. It was too clean. Too fast.
The Master of Ceremonies announced Lady Octavi as the winner.
I frowned. I saw the similarity. The way Octavi finished this spar was exactly the same as her spar with Lady Hillaria—a quick dash, a plunge into the enemy's guard.
"Why did Mother know the match was going to end right then?" I asked, turning to her.
"A sense, I guess…" she replied enigmatically.
"What sense?"
"A sense… or like an instinct," she clarified, tapping her temple. "I sensed that Lord Kaeso was about to use his Transmutation. His frustration was peaking. I believe Lady Octavi felt it too. With that, she must have ended the match quickly before he could activate it and force her to reveal her own power to counter him."
So that was the tingling sense.
I had felt it before when Lady Octavi and Lady Hillaria sparred in our courtyard. It was the buildup of mana, the pressure before the storm. If it was like that, it meant Adel could feel it too—because she was the one who warned me to end the spar back then.
As both sides walked toward the exits, the Master of Ceremonies stepped into the center of the arena. He looked nervous.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "As Her Majesty, The Queen, has requested, there will be an Additional Match!"
A ripple of shock went through the Nobles' Section.
"This additional match emerges because of the lack of… enlivening… at the finale between Lady Octavi and Lord Kaeso," the announcer continued, clearly reciting a script he had just been given. "Her Majesty wants to ensure that the spectators and the public are thoroughly entertained and satisfied! Considering the exemplary skill displayed earlier, the Additional Match will be between Sir Milo and Lady Octavi!"
I sat back, disbelieving. The Queen had gone behind my back. She was forcing a confrontation between the two victors to salvage the excitement of the event.
In a second, the crowd erupted into deafening cheers and applause. This was the match they wanted.
Lady Octavi stopped. She turned back to the grounds. Her face was a mask of cold fury.
"HALT!" she shouted.
Her voice, amplified by her aura, silenced the thousands in the stands instantly.
"As a Knight," she declared, looking directly at the Royal Box, "I need approval from my Liege. Because this additional match is being done behind my Liege's back."
She turned on her heel and began to walk toward our section.
The silence was heavy, suffocating. Every eye in the arena followed her.
She stopped in front of our box. She didn't say anything. She simply stood there, waiting.
I couldn't say anything because my parents were the true Liege here.
The tension was palpable. Octavi looked at my parents. Then, I saw it.
My mother looked across the arena at the Queen. The Queen looked back.
It was a silent war. At the end of their exchange, both my mother and the Queen sneered. It was a smirk of mutual recognition—a game of wits where both sides wanted to outmaneuver the other.
"Octavi," my mother called out softly. "Come here."
Lady Octavi stepped closer to the railing. My mother leaned down and whispered something into her ear.
I watched Octavi's face closely. Her eyes widened in genuine surprise. For a split second, she looked conflicted. Then, she composed herself, her face returning to that stony knightly mask.
She nodded once. "Understood, Madam."
Lady Octavi walked back to the center of the grounds.
"My Liege," she announced, her voice ringing clear, "has approved the match!"
The crowd roared.
The Master of Ceremonies announced the start. Milo vs. Lady Octavi.
Milo stepped forward again. He looked tired, but resolute.
"Begin!"
The match started.
Lady Octavi and Milo began circling each other. As in the previous matches, both sides played a defensive game, testing the waters. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Suddenly, Milo moved.
He took a few steps forward and launched a swift, probing attack at Octavi's left side.
Clang!
With lightning speed, she deflected it to her left and thrust her sword's hilt toward Milo's face—a non-lethal but disorienting strike.
Milo dodged, ducking under the blow. He tried to regain control of his sword after the deflection. He spun, swinging low toward the bottom of Octavi's right side.
Her stomach was wide open.
Milo changed his grip mid-swing, intending to use his pommel to strike her vulnerable spot.
But Octavi anticipated his move. She took a single, fluid step back, the blow missing her by a hair's breadth.
They separated. They started circling again.
I squinted. I saw their lips moving. They were having a conversation in the middle of the fight, their words lost to the roar of the crowd.
What are they saying?
They engaged again. A deadly dance. Strike, parry, dodge. It was a stalemate of high-level skill.
Out of the blue, my father leaned toward my mother.
"Are you sure about this, dear?"
"What are you talking about?" my mother replied, her eyes fixed on the fight.
"Come on! Even though you whispered it to her, I know what you told her. I am watching her performance right now. This isn't the usual Octavi. She is leaving openings. Tiny ones. But they are there."
"Well, dear," my mother sighed, swirling her wine. "I just don't want to deal with the Royal Family, especially the Queen, complaining about a boring event. With that, I want to give her a present. A hope."
As my mother kept talking, the match below became more intense. Sparks flew as blades ground together.
"A hope for her people…" my mother whispered, almost like a spell. "A tale for her people… A new gate for her people… Where finally, her people have a hero."
Suddenly, the crowd erupted. A massive, earth-shaking applause thundered through the stadium.
I blinked. I couldn't believe it.
The match had reached a shocking conclusion.
There, in the center of the arena, stood Milo. His sword was extended. The sharp point was pressed gently against the throat of Lady Octavi.
"A breakthrough of the Royal Order…" my mother finished softly.
Immediately, Lady Octavi lowered her weapon. She bowed her head, showing a gesture of deep respect toward Milo.
I looked at Milo's face.
He didn't seem happy. He had just won the biggest match of his life against a legendary opponent. With Lady Octavi's reputation, this victory should have been the crowning moment of his career.
Yet, he stood there with a plain, almost troubled expression. He looked at Octavi not with triumph, but with confusion.
"With this," my mother said, leaning back in her seat with a satisfied smile, "the light of this theater will be focusing entirely on that young man."