Chapter 138
The day of Queen Nimriel's birthday dawned with a brilliance that seemed almost staged by the heavens themselves. Lúthien's capital was alive with banners and silken streamers of white and emerald, fluttering above marble balconies and gilded spires. The grand square before the royal palace had been transformed into a festival ground, where nobles mingled in their finest attire, guild champions paraded their heraldry, and merchants hawked exotic wares imported solely for the occasion.
The Queen's birthday was more than celebration—it was tradition, a gathering where alliances were renewed, rivalries displayed, and contests of wit, magic, and steel revealed who truly held influence beneath the crown. At the heart of it was the tournament: a week-long spectacle of duels, challenges of craft, and exhibitions of spellcraft, where the great names of every province sent their finest to earn glory before the throne.
Among the sea of dignitaries, the Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester entered with Daniel at her side. Whispers followed them like shadows. Some marveled at the Duchess's appearance, others at the young man who stood as though the world bent toward him—calm, unflinching, as if he belonged in halls meant for kings. To many he was a stranger, yet already rumors of his city—the so-called War Forge rising in the distance—were spreading like wildfire.
It was here that Daniel's stage was set, not merely to show power, but to place himself against one of the most dangerous figures at court: Aithlin Hasterient, the Azure Archmage. Draped in robes shimmering with sapphire light and runes that rippled like water, Aithlin was both feared and admired. His mastery of elemental ley-lines was unmatched, his influence at Queen Nimriel's side unquestionable. But Daniel knew there was more beneath his serene facade. The Azure Archmage had long held sway over the Rothchester family, using his position to steer their allegiances, to curb their independence, and in whispers, to ensure the Duchy never rose beyond his reach.
Daniel's eyes narrowed as he watched the man exchange words with highborn lords, his every smile a mask. "He targets your family, Duchess," Daniel said softly to Elleena, his voice low so that only she heard. "Not out of duty to the crown, but because he sees the Rothchesters as a piece on his board. If he cannot bend your will, he will break your house."
The Duchess glanced at him, startled, but she saw in his gaze neither flattery nor the bravado of lesser men. It was conviction. He had drawn his line.
And so, as the celebrations began, Daniel was not merely another guest in the Queen's court. He was a challenger entering a battlefield of silken gloves and sharpened tongues, prepared to test his strength against a mage whose schemes had bound noble families for decades.
The tournament drums thundered, signaling the opening duels. Nobles raised their cups. Guild champions unsheathed their blades. And above it all, Daniel silently prepared—not only to fight, but to strip away the Azure Archmage's grip on those he sought to control.
The morning of Queen Nimriel's birthday celebration dawned with such brilliance that the spires of the capital glimmered like crystal against the rising sun. At the heart of the city, the Grand Coliseum stood like a mountain carved by divine hands, a massive ring of white stone, engraved with runes older than the kingdom itself. Its towering arches reached skyward, each lined with banners of countless noble houses, fluttering proudly in the high winds.
The structure could hold thirty thousand souls, yet it was said the cheers within could make even gods turn their heads. Stained-glass mosaics wrapped the upper walls, depicting the victories of past champions, while enchanted stone lions roared whenever the gates opened, their voices thundering across the plaza to announce the arrival of warriors and spectators alike.
The announcer's voice boomed magically through the air, his words carried to every ear in the coliseum without strain. "Today, on this blessed day of Queen Nimriel's birth, we witness the greatest gathering of champions this kingdom, and perhaps the world—has ever seen! Noble houses, wandering warlords, and guild-born warriors all seek glory before the throne!"
The crowd's roar shook the very stone underfoot, echoing like a storm against the colossal dome overhead, which shimmered with protective wards of pale blue light. The enchantments kept the air cool, ensuring no fire spell or volcanic strike would harm the tens of thousands who pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the seats, their eyes alight with expectation.
The participants themselves formed a living tapestry of diversity and danger. From the east came the snow-skinned clans of Hrodmir, carrying axes inscribed with frost runes that smoked with icy mist. From the desert kingdoms strode warriors draped in linen and steel, their curved sabers shining like sunlight on sand.
Elven houses brought archers and spellweavers who carried bows carved from living wood, their arrows humming with enchantments that could pierce steel. Orcish tribes arrived as well, their champions bare-chested and painted in blood-red sigils, wielding weapons that looked more like slabs of iron than tools of war. Among them moved the silent monks of the southern isles, barehanded yet dangerous, their very steps pulsing with unseen power.
And then, from beyond this world, came the strangest competitors of all: the players from Earth. They were outsiders, summoned by fate and curse, draped in modern garb woven with enchanted armor. Some carried swords that gleamed with unnatural alloys; others bore weapons unfamiliar to this realm, reshaped by magic into forms fit for combat.
They were called "Rankers," legends whispered across taverns and markets, beings whose skill and growth defied the laws of nature. Alongside them walked warlords from distant seas and soaring airships, foreign adventurers who had crossed oceans simply for the chance to test themselves here, in the greatest tournament of the age.
The announcer's tone rose to a thunderous pitch as he named the one all eyes sought: "And now, the warrior who felled the Evolved Dragonoid, the one whispered of in every corner of the land, the Netherborn!" The crowd erupted, their cheers shaking the very wards that sealed the dome. Thirty thousand voices screamed for blood, for glory, for proof that the rumors of this new terror were true.
Somewhere in the crowd, nobles leaned forward in their gilded seats, whispering wagers, while guildmasters marked their ledgers with keen eyes. To prove oneself here was to carve a name into the annals of history, and none wished to miss the spectacle.
Beneath the deafening noise, Daniel stood quietly, his gaze never faltering. He was not dazzled by the grandeur nor overwhelmed by the spectacle; his eyes sought only one figure—the Azure Archmage Aithlin Hasterient, his stage, his reason. ,The duchess's family was his chosen target, and the path he set before himself would unfold today, beneath the sun, before the thirty thousand who had gathered to witness blood and fire.The coliseum roared to life as the preliminary rounds began, the thirty-thousand strong crowd stomping their feet and chanting names as the competitors drew lots for their first matches. The air hummed with anticipation, mana sparking faintly against the enchanted dome that sealed the battlefield.
The tournament was not just a spectacle—it was the proving ground of bloodlines, guilds, and the rising stars of the Tower. Nobles leaned forward in their seats, merchants scribbled frantic bets onto parchment, and students from the Royal Academy clutched their seats, some pale with dread, others burning with excitement.
The first matches were dominated by familiar faces from the Academy itself. Thalen Merrow stepped into the arena clad in steel, his longsword steady in his grip and a broad shield gleaming under the light.
His opponent was an orcish raider wielding dual hatchets, fast and merciless. Thalen fought with the patience of a seasoned knight, parrying blow after blow until he found his opening, a shield bash to the gut, followed by a decisive thrust that dropped the raider to his knees. The crowd roared at his display of disciplined swordsmanship, chanting his name in unison.
Next came Ysil Thorne, lithe and graceful, her bow drawn with unerring precision. Against a beast-handler from the southern coasts who unleashed snarling hounds, Ysil became a blur of motion. Her arrows split the air with a whistle, pinning each beast before they could lunge, and her final shot an arrow infused with wind mana, shattered her opponent's weapon before it could strike. The students of the Academy screamed her name with pride, and Ysil gave only a sharp nod before leaving the arena, her composure unshaken.
The brutish strength of Galen Althus followed. With a war axe nearly as tall as himself, he faced a scaled mercenary armed with twin blades. The clash rang like thunder, sparks showering from each collision. Galen's axe was slow but unstoppable, and after enduring a storm of shallow cuts, he ended the fight with a devastating overhead swing that split the ground and sent his opponent flying. Blood sprayed across the sand, and the audience erupted, chanting Galen's name as he raised his weapon in silent triumph.
Lora Sithe entered next, wielding her war staff with the calm precision of a scholar turned warrior. Her battle was against a spellcaster who tried to overwhelm her with flames, but Lora's staff spun with fluid arcs, weaving barriers of light that smothered fire into smoke. With a sharp twist, she slammed her staff into the ground, releasing a shockwave that shattered her opponent's defenses, leaving him sprawled unconscious. Her older cousin, Ormin Vos Sithe, fought shortly after,his hammer a monstrous slab of stone and iron. Against a towering Barbarian warrior , Ormin's strikes fell like meteors. Each swing broke bone and earth alike, and with a final roar he brought the hammer down upon the troll's skull, silencing the crowd in awe.
But not all battles were brute strength. Selene of House Aevryn, the noble girl whispered of for her character rather than her bloodline, fought with a measured grace that silenced even her critics. Her blade flashed like moonlight, her strikes precise, her defense impenetrable.
She dispatched her opponent swiftly not with cruelty, but with a mercy rare in the arena. Her older brother, Railan Aevryn, entered with less restraint, wielding a long spear with lethal efficiency. His movements were crisp, his strikes honed, and the crowd cheered as he cut down a scaled knight with barely a scratch to his own armor.
From the eastern lands came the siblings Jin Xifeng and Bai Xifeng. Jin, twenty-five years old and already a level twenty-five Dao warrior, entered the sand with his saber drawn. His strikes were fluid, his footwork dazzling, each cut carrying the weight of his Dao.
He fought like a storm, relentless yet controlled, and his victory was earned in less than a dozen exchanges. His younger sister, Bai, danced across the battlefield with twin butterfly sabers, her attacks laced with poison smoke and carried by the whisper of wind. She pressed her opponent into submission with deceptive speed, her low-tier healing and barriers protecting her as she chipped away until the fight was hers.
The coliseum trembled when Bralthor the Grey Ogre entered, his massive frame blotting out the sun as the crowd gasped in awe. His wife, Shunra, a female ogre with eyes like molten gold, roared from the stands in support. Bralthor crushed his opponent with raw savagery, his fists alone enough to shatter steel. The roar of the crowd nearly shook the arena apart as Bralthor raised his axe in triumph, his name echoing from every throat.
The Lazarus Guild fighters followed in waves, each eager to show their mettle. Charlotte Lazarus, lithe and deadly with her sword and dagger, carved her way through a sand mage with ruthless precision. Jacob Lazarus, wielding magma-infused strikes, burned his foe to ash in a dazzling display of fire.
Oliver's poisoned arrows found their mark with surgical precision, while Farrah's plant manipulation turned the battlefield into a snare of living vines. Rainey, the insect tamer, unleashed swarms that overwhelmed his foe, while Sabine's shapeshifting left her opponent striking at shadows. Finally, Noah, the metal-bodied warrior, stood immovable, his skin gleaming like steel as he absorbed blows until he crushed his foe with inhuman strength.
The White Devil Guild made its presence known through Natasha Sokolov, their vice-captain. Tall, slender, and composed, the Russian-born spellcaster wielded her crossbow with chilling precision. Her ice and water spells froze her foe in place before she delivered a decisive strike. The crowd whispered of her cold beauty and ruthless efficiency.
From the Brilliance Guild, Lirael Schafer fought with anger and fustration , her every move was erratic trying to maintain the flawless reputation her guild demanded. Her strikes were heavy and somewhat efficient, her posture was rough and her victory ended inevitable against a hunter that uses a metallic whip covered with spikes,
And then came the names the crowd whispered with growing excitement: Daniel and Melgil. Representing their age group category, the two stepped onto the sand with a confidence that silenced even the rowdiest corners of the coliseum. Melgil fought with the precision of a swordsman honed by countless battles, his blade weaving arcs of brilliance that cut through his opponents with terrifying ease.
Daniel, however, dominated the battlefield in a way no one could match. Each motion carried weight, each strike was final. Against him, resistance crumbled. His presence alone his aura, raw and terrible, pressed upon his foes until they faltered, and when he moved, the crowd swore they saw shadows ripple and chaos burn faintly at the edge of their vision.
By the end of the preliminary rounds, the dust of the coliseum floor was thick with the scent of sweat and scorched stone. Champions from noble houses, tribal clans, wandering mercenaries, and even Earth-born adventurers had clashed with all they possessed.
Some had fallen in dazzling bursts of fire and wind attack spells, others had been cast aside by sheer brute force. using skills they gain from the tower, The roar of the crowd had grown hoarse, not from fatigue, but from anticipation. It was no longer a question of who would advance or which family's champion would claim honor.
No every voice, from the velvet-draped nobles in their private boxes to the commoners crammed shoulder to shoulder in the upper terraces, rang with a single demand: "Where was the being named Netherborn?"
Rumors had spread like wildfire throughout the capital long before the tournament began. Whispers of a shadowed figure who had struck down an evolved dragonoid in single combat—a feat that should have been impossible.
Some dismissed it as tavern talk, a myth woven to stir the people into frenzy. But others swore they had seen him with their own eyes, a warrior cloaked in power unlike anything the tower had seen in decades. His very title, Netherborn—made the hairs on men's necks rise, for it spoke of origins not entirely of this world.
Now, as the coliseum's massive bronze gates groaned open and the announcer's voice thundered across the air, the people leaned forward in their seats. "Thirty thousand strong bear witness today!" the announcer cried, his voice magically amplified so that it rattled the banners strung across the towering walls.
"You have seen noble scions, wandering swordsmen, sea-farers from the western archipelagos, sky-duelists from the tribes of the clouds, and even Earth's own rankers cross blades and clash spells upon these sands. Yet one name remains on your lips—the warrior called Netherborn! Will he descend into the arena, or does he wait, as fate itself unfolds, for opponents worthy of his legend?"
The words whipped the crowd into a storm. Chants rose, pounding like war drums: "Netherborn! Netherborn! Netherborn!
" Some cheered with awe, others with doubt, demanding he prove his strength before their eyes. In the high seats, nobles whispered uneasily, for they wondered if this mysterious fighter's rise was coincidence or deliberate. More than one lord glanced at the Duchess and her so-called son, Daniel, knowing the boy's shadow was tied to the rumors of the Netherborn.
Down in the waiting chambers beneath the coliseum, the tension was palpable. Fighters who had spilled blood to advance sat silent, their hands on their weapons, casting wary glances at the sealed gates. Each one knew, whether they admitted it or not, that their victories meant little.
The true spectacle the true trial of strength would begin only when the Netherborn chose to walk out into the light of the arena.
The preliminary rounds had ended in a thunder of applause, leaving the sands of the coliseum marred with scorch marks, frozen craters, and gouges cut deep by steel and spell alike. When the last bell rang, no one cared for the winners' names or even the feats of strength already displayed what filled the air was only one lingering question: when would the Netherborn step forward? Murmurs rippled across the tiers of the arena, from the high balconies draped in velvet where nobles sat sipping wine, down to the shouting commoners packed shoulder to shoulder in the open galleries. The people wanted a spectacle greater than the duels they had just witnessed. They wanted the figure who had slain a dragonoid with ease. They wanted to see if the rumors had flesh.
Hidden among them, Daniel sat cloaked in shadow beneath the stone arches of the western gallery. His eyes tracked every clash, every spell, every feint of blade, but his mind turned elsewhere. Did he intend to reveal himself here, before thirty thousand eyes and the calculating gazes of nobles who would never forget? Part of him longed for it, longed to step into the sun-lit sand, to show the world what the Netherborn truly was. Yet another part whispered caution.
Every display of power painted a larger target on his back, and the enemies circling him already were many: Aithlin Hasterient with his cold, calculating stare, guild masters weighing alliances, and nobles already whispering Daniel's name in schemes he had no desire to serve. "Not yet," he thought, his hand tightening over the brim of his cloak. "Not until the board is set, not until they reveal what they hide."
In the stands, the crowd's voices tangled together like a thousand rivers colliding. "Did you see the blade of House Velrune's heir? He cut through the salamander's scales like butter!" shouted a blacksmith, sweat on his brow as though he'd fought the duel himself. "Nonsense, the sea-raider from the west was better! He fought bare-chested against two spellcasters and still threw them down," countered a sailor with a voice like rolling surf. Groups of students from the Academy argued over spell formations, while merchants cheered loudly for the earthborn gladiator wielding a war hammer too heavy for three men. Everyone had a favorite, everyone had an opinion—but woven through every voice was the same hunger: the Netherborn, the Netherborn, the Netherborn.
Up in the royal box, Queen Nimriel leaned forward, her smile as sharp as it was serene. She adored the spectacle, of course, and the way the gathering of champions from every tribe and family reflected her realm's power and prestige.
Yet her thoughts moved beyond celebration. If the Netherborn truly exists, she mused, and he can be tied to my court, then I hold a weapon no other kingdom dares challenge. Her jeweled fingers tapped the armrest, betraying the restless curiosity beneath her regal composure.
Not far from her seat stood Archmage Aithlin Hasterient, his azure robes whispering with layered enchantments. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—cold, crystalline, calculating—followed the battles with less joy and more measure.
He did not care for the crowd's cheers or the children of noble houses proving their worth. He sought only the unknown variable. The Netherborn was power without allegiance, chaos wrapped in flesh. That made him dangerous. And dangerous things either had to be broken or bound.
Around the queen's dais, lords and ladies whispered among themselves, their pride swelling as their sons and daughters showed grace and skill before the masses. Some preened like peacocks, already dreaming of political marriages or guild alliances; others leaned back smugly, secure in the thought that their lineage had been validated before the throne.
Yet even in their pride, their eyes turned again and again to the gates at the edge of the arena, waiting for them to open, waiting for a cloaked figure to emerge. For though their children fought valiantly, every noble here knew the truth: it was not their heirs the people had come to see. It was the Netherborn, the shadow haunting every cheer and every gasp.
And Daniel, watching from the dark, allowed himself a ghost of a smile. They are already dancing to a song they cannot hear. Let them wait. Let them hunger. When I step into that sand, it will not be as a pawn in their game but as the hand that tips the board.
The great bells of the Coliseum tolled in unison, their deep, sonorous vibrations shaking the air and echoing across the city like a call to war. Thirty thousand watchers fell silent, their collective attention drawn to the massive bronze gates at the far end of the arena.
Smoke from the preliminary battles still lingered, curling in wisps across the sand, carrying the faint scent of scorched wood, blood, and the residue of high-tier magic. The announcer, perched on the high dais and amplified by the magical wards of the arena, raised his arms, commanding the silence.
"Lords, ladies, champions of the realm!" His voice thundered across the grand structure, vibrating in the walls and ricocheting off the crystal mosaics that crowned the upper tiers.
"The preliminary rounds have ended, and only the strongest, the most cunning, and the most resolute have advanced. Today, in the second preliminary, the stakes grow higher. Glory is within reach, but danger lies in wait!"
He gestured to a massive, rotating crystal chart that hovered above the sand floor, etched with names and sigils of families, guilds, and independent warriors alike. The crowd gasped as the first bracket was revealed. Among the advancing were names that had dominated the preliminary rounds: Lord Daniel Rothchester, the young noble whose calm, strategic strikes had left opponents trembling; Lady Melgil Veara Gehinnom, the white-haired warrior whose blade had danced with precision and deadly grace; Bralthor the Grey Ogre, whose raw, unstoppable strength had crushed all in his path; and Jin Xifeng, captain of the Velvet Knights, twenty-five years old and already a level twenty-five Dao master, his saber strikes a whirlwind of perfected martial skill.
The announcement sent ripples through the audience. Whispers erupted like wildfire, some of admiration, others of awe tinged with fear. "Lord Daniel… the boy who faced the undead marionettes?" a merchant muttered, his eyes wide. "And Melgil… the white-haired demon they call the 'Netherborn's kin'? Do you think they will—" His words trailed off, swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
Noble families in the high boxes leaned forward, pride painted across their faces, though for some, unease had crept in. Queen Nimriel herself studied the brackets carefully, her jeweled fingers tapping the armrest in rhythm with her racing thoughts. So the Rothchester heir and the mysterious Melgil have advanced… she murmured. And Jin Xifeng as well. If the Netherborn does appear, it will likely be now.
Archmage Aithlin Hasterient's eyes, sharp as frosted glass, swept across the advancing names. His lips pressed into a thin line. The Netherborn was not a myth. The evidence had been clear enough, though carefully concealed from the public, and the Rothchester heir's calm, deliberate style marked him as the hidden danger. He, Aithlin, had to prepare for the possibility that today, the battlefield might not remain a contest of honor, it could become a stage for the clash of powers that might rend the kingdom.
The announcer's voice rose again, now trembling slightly with excitement—or perhaps the subtle pressure of magic-infused wards amplifying his tone. "Witness now as the second preliminary unfolds! Lord Daniel Rothchester shall face the rising talent of House Veydar! Lady Melgil Veara Gehinnom enters the arena against the formidable sorcerer of the Sapphire Lotus guild! Bralthor the Grey Ogre defends his honor against the war-mage of the eastern steppes! And Jin Xifeng, captain of the Velvet Knights, challenges a dual-knight pair from the western islands!"
The audience erupted, a deafening chorus of cheers, gasps, and shouts as the gates slowly creaked open, letting in the first competitors. Dust swirled in the wind, spells glimmered faintly in the air, and swords gleamed like captured sunlight. All eyes, however, continually drifted to the shadowed corners of the arena, to the empty spaces where the Netherborn had yet to step forward.
Daniel, perched behind a column in the outer gallery, allowed himself a calm exhale. Beside him, Melgil adjusted the grip on her blade, her white hair catching the sunlight streaming through the crystal-tinted dome. "We make them wait," Daniel said softly, his eyes sweeping the arena. "Let them exhaust themselves on lesser foes. Then… they will see."
Melgil's lips curved in a faint smile, her expression unreadable. "And when we strike, none will deny what we are."
The crowd, oblivious to the thoughts whispered in shadows, continued to cheer, to bet, and to murmur, as the first fights of the main rounds commenced. And all the while, an invisible tension coiled in the air—the promise of something far greater, far darker, waiting for the moment when the Netherborn would finally step into the arena.
Pharom stood as if carved from the same stone he commanded, a towering figure that reached well over six and a half feet, his frame lean but corded with wiry strength, built not for bulk but for precision and endurance. His weight, somewhere close to two hundred pounds, was carried with the balance of a man who had spent his life in battlefields where a single misstep meant death. His skin was pale from the northern cold, yet weathered and scarred, each mark etched into him like a memory of wars long past.
A jagged scar slashed down from the corner of his left brow, just narrowly missing his eye, and his hands were rough, the knuckles swollen from years of weapon practice. His hair was a mane of pale blond, almost silver in the light, braided with leather cords and beads that spoke of his clan's traditions. His beard was trimmed but thick, framing his face in a way that gave him the look of an ancient raider carved into northern sagas. His eyes, a glacial blue, carried no warmth—only the cold, calculating sharpness of one who had seen men rise, fall, and die by his will.
He wore mithril scale armor layered over fur-lined leather, a practical mixture of magic and tradition. The scales shimmered faintly with runes etched by old northern smiths, each glyph a protective charm or enhancement passed down through generations of warriors. On his shoulders hung the pelt of a white direwolf, its head preserved as a trophy, its teeth still gleaming and fierce. His boots were heavy, iron-clad, caked with the wear of travel across frost and battlefield alike. Every piece of his attire spoke of function, but also of pride—of a man who bore his culture and victories like a mantle.
Pharom was no stranger to war. At forty-five seasons of combat experience, he had been tempered by campaigns in the frozen north, raids along the coastlines, and duels fought under the blood-oaths of his people. He had been trained as a warrior mage, a veteran of the shield wall who could both endure and break enemy lines, but unlike most of his kin, his bond with elemental magic elevated him beyond the ordinary.
The war staff he carried was tipped with a crystal that thrummed with the essence of earth, its shaft reinforced with steel and ending in a crescent-shaped axe blade. With it, Pharom could summon and command golems forged from raw stone, hulking constructs that were far from mindless brutes. They moved as extensions of his will, their bodies carved with glowing runes that granted them both speed and adaptability, striking with precision as though guided by his own hand.
With a gesture, Pharom could direct one to shield his flank, strike down an opponent, or crumble and reform at his command. In battle, he fought with a mixture of relentless melee skill and devastating magical support closing the distance with the agility of a duelist while his summoned guardians pressed in from the sides.
His fighting style was one of controlled ferocity: precise strikes aimed to exploit weaknesses, sudden bursts of overwhelming strength when his war staff crackled with elemental surges, and an instinct for timing honed by countless battles. He had fought kings guard, mercenaries, beasts of the tundra, and rival chieftains, and each victory added to the cold confidence in his bearing. To face Pharom was to fight not only a warrior but the weight of his people's traditions, the power of northern sorcery, and the relentless advance of stone and steel moving as one.
From the moment the bell rang, the battle erupted. The first golem lunged forward with a crash, fists smashing into the sand and sending jagged shards flying. Daniel rolled low, the flat of his gunblade scraping against stone, sparks dancing where metal met rune-carved rock. With a fluid twist, he sprang to his feet and unleashed a flurry of close-quarter strikes, each swing of the gunblade a blend of martial precision and mechanical fire. A small mechanism in the weapon hissed and roared as rounds discharged, bullets ricocheting off the golem's torso, denting its outer stone but failing to shatter it.
The northern warrior chanted swiftly, his hands weaving a sequence of signs, summoning two more golems that stomped down with synchronized precision. Daniel backflipped, dodging a hammering swing that cracked the sand beneath him, then slammed the gunblade into a wrist joint of one construct, twisting it sharply.
Shards of enchanted stone exploded outward, embedding in his arms and leg as he staggered back, a spatter of blood mixing with the dust. Pain flared, but he suppressed it, letting his instincts take over.
His eyes flicked to the rhythm of the golems' attacks the way they moved like extensions of their master. He adjusted, stepping inside their reach rather than evading, reading their momentum. A spinning low kick shattered the stone knee of one, toppling it, while his weapon struck another's temple, while Daniel pulled the trigger and release a focus fire bullet ,sending chunks of rock raining over the sand.
His movements were a blur: punch, spin, discharge, sweep, thrust a storm of violence that drew gasps even from the crowd high in the stands. The northern warrior's lips curled in a brief, tight smile, realizing Daniel's style was not just offense, it was anticipation, reading the flow of magic and stone as if it were a living rhythm.
But even Daniel could not avoid every blow. A colossal stone fist connected with his side, sending him sliding across the arena floor. Pain exploded through his ribs, a flash of blood staining his tunic, and the crowd roared with astonishment.
He rolled, flipping back to his feet, gunblade raised, each breath measured, each motion precise. Analyze. Adjust. Dominate, he reminded himself. He altered the rhythm of his strikes, feinting with spins that drew golems off-balance, then using low, brutal kicks to destabilize their legs.
When the northern warrior attempted a high-level rune burst from his staff, Daniel leapt through the explosion, the shockwave grazing his arm but leaving him agile enough to close the distance.
Finally, Daniel struck. A combination of spinning gunblade swings and short-range blasts tore through the northern constructs. The largest golem's chest cracked open like shattered earth, molten magical energy leaking and fizzing against his blade.
The northern warrior stumbled, panic flickering in his pale eyes for the first time, and Daniel seized it. He vaulted onto the back of the collapsing golem, sliding down its shoulder in a devastating arc, blade connecting with the staff and sending the runic crystal exploding in sparks that rained like lightning.
With one last pulse, Daniel drove the gunblade upward in a brutal thrust, the blade piercing the warrior's chess plate and shattering the protective runes. The man fell, unconscious, the golems crumbling to jagged ruins around him.
Daniel staggered, blood streaking his tunic and arms, each breath sharp with the ache of bruised ribs. The arena floor was littered with jagged remains of shattered golems, their runes still flickering faintly before fading into silence. For a moment, the coliseum fell utterly quiet. Thousands of eyes fixed on him, the young noble who, until today, many had dismissed as nothing more than an arrogant son of privilege, pampered, entitled, and untested. Yet what they had just witnessed was no accident of luck, no reckless gamble. It was skill, discipline, and a predator's instinct sharpened in the heat of combat.
He was only twenty-three, still so young compared to the grizzled champions who usually filled the arena, but the way he fought left no doubt: Daniel belonged here. His movements had been swift and controlled, each attack chosen with calculation, each feint designed to draw his opponents into weakness.
Against living foes, his victories had already been impressive, but these constructs, these level fifteen golems, were another matter entirely. Unlike the undead marionettes he and Melgil had faced before, the golems were far sturdier, their stone forms absorbing blows that would have felled lesser opponents. Where the marionettes were clever, even sinister in their precision, these golems fought with a different danger. Their attacks were fast, relentless, and erratic, lacking polish but also lacking predictability. They had no rhythm, no hesitation, no human flaw to exploit.
And yet Daniel found one. He adapted. He read their chaos as if it were its own kind of pattern, adjusting his footwork, stepping into their swings instead of away, and using his speed to shatter their balance. Every strike he made was deliberate, every motion part of a larger rhythm that only he could see.
When one collapsed, he was already moving to the next. When one struck, he bent but did not break, flowing back into the fight with brutal precision. It was not brute force that carried him through but anticipation an uncanny ability to see the thread of battle and seize it.
The nobles who once whispered disdain for him now leaned forward in silence, watching a young man who refused to be the caricature they had made him out to be. Every sweeping arc of his gunblade, every precise kick and devastating discharge proved the truth: Daniel was no pampered person He was a molded by his past life , focus, sharp and unyielding, his talent undeniable. By the time the final golem crumbled into dust, the crowd erupted in a thunderous roar, not merely for the spectacle of violence, but for the realization that they were witnessing the rise of someone extraordinary.
Daniel straightened, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes steady and unflinching. He had been tested against stone, speed, and unpredictability, and he had prevailed. As the cheers shook the coliseum walls, the young noble allowed himself a faint, quiet smile, not of arrogance, but of promise. The world had expected entitlement. What they saw instead was mastery.
Pharom's eyes widened as the last of his constructs split apart beneath Daniel's storm of strikes, the rune-light dimming into nothingness. For a heartbeat, the northern warrior looked as though the ground had been torn from under him. His staff, once the unbreakable anchor of his command, lay shattered in the dust, its crystal splintering into sparks that fizzled out in the air. He had faced seasoned warriors, mercenaries, and rivals who had fought for decades, yet here he stood beaten—not by a veteran of countless campaigns, but by a young noble barely twenty-three. As the pain of his defeat settled into his chest, Pharom could only manage a strained breath, pale eyes narrowing as recognition flickered there. Daniel was no child of privilege. He was a predator in the making, a warrior whose future battles would carve his name into the memory of nations. With that last thought, his body gave way, collapsing unconscious onto the blood-stained sand.
The silence that followed was heavy, as if even the crowd needed a moment to accept what they had witnessed. Then, all at once, the coliseum erupted with thunderous cheers. Nobles and commoners alike rose from their seats, their voices rolling like a storm, echoing against the stone walls. Whispers of arrogance and entitlement, once tied to Daniel's name, burned away in the light of his performance. What remained was awe. What remained was fear. What remained was admiration.
Among the roaring crowd, Melgil allowed himself a rare smile, pride flickering across his usually composed face. He had seen Daniel fight before, but never like this—never with the eyes of the entire kingdom fixed upon him. Not far away, Duchess Elleena Rothchester, sister to King Deryth Cererindur, rose from her seat and clapped with unrestrained delight, her laughter carrying above the thunder of the masses. For years she had defended her nephew against the venomous whispers of the court, who saw him only as weak, spoiled, or unworthy of his name. They had never considered his past, nor cared to understand it.
Elleena had tried to tell them. She had reminded the court again and again that Daniel had not grown up in the comfort of a palace or within the gilded walls of noble estates. He had lived in the Gorge Forest for eighteen long years, a place where even seasoned hunters tread carefully, where survival was not taught but earned each day with blood and wit. He had endured storms, beasts, hunger, and solitude, shaping himself into something far different from the pampered heirs they compared him to. But her words had always been dismissed, brushed aside by those who could not imagine a noble child thriving in such wildness.
And when Daniel was finally summoned to the Royal Academy, as was the mandatory law for all able citizens of the kingdom, the nobles had laughed even harder. He had been there barely thirty-eight days just over a month, when the tournament began. To them, it was proof that he lacked discipline, that he was untrained, that his place in the Academy was a courtesy to his bloodline rather than a reflection of his skill.
Now, in the sand of the coliseum, Daniel had answered them without uttering a word. Every strike, every feint, every calculated movement had silenced their jeers more effectively than Elleena's defenses ever could. His survival in the wilds, his instincts honed outside the polished halls of academia, had merged with the discipline of his brief academy training to create something terrifying and new.
Elleena's hands trembled as she clapped, not with fear, but with pride. At last, the truth she had carried in her heart stood undeniable before the kingdom: Daniel was no weakling, no arrogant young man playing at war. He was a fighter forged by hardship, tested by wilderness, and refined by battle. And now, after only thirty-eight days at the Academy, he had done what few could—he had turned the laughter of his detractors into thunderous applause.
High above, seated in a place of honor, Queen Nimriel Cererindur watched with shining eyes, her face lit with satisfaction. It was her birthday, and this tournament had been meant as celebration, but now it had become something more: proof that her husband's bloodline carried strength beyond question. Beside her sat three of her children, who for the first time truly saw their cousin not as a distant relative of little consequence, but as a warrior to be measured against.
Crown Prince Lashrael, the eldest at twenty-two, leaned forward, his sharp features betraying a rare sense of wonder. Blessed with wind magic and trained with the rapier like his mother, he had thought himself unrivaled among his peers. Yet here was Daniel, only a year older, striking down rune-crafted golems with an audacity and precision that demanded respect. For the first time, Lashrael felt a tug of envy, envy not born of malice, but of admiration for his cousin's fearlessness.
At his side, the second prince, Waelthor, twenty years old and gifted with fire magic, gripped the fletching of one of his enchanted arrows as though imagining how it would fare against Daniel's unrelenting style. A bow enchanted with flame gave him distance and power, but could he have stood against the sheer speed and adaptability he had just witnessed? Waelthor's lips pressed into a thin smile. He, too, wanted to test his strength against Daniel.
And then there was Caerthynna, the king and queen's eldest daughter. At twenty, with her gift of short-burst teleportation and a glaive always at her side, she was proud and fierce in her own right. Yet as she watched Daniel stand bloodied but unbroken in the arena, she felt something different stir in her chest. He had done what none of them had dared, stepped into their mother's tournament and faced the coliseum's cruelty head-on. Caerthynna's envy was sharp, but so was her admiration. In her heart, she whispered a truth she would never speak aloud: she wished she had been brave enough to do what he had done.
Together, the royal siblings sat in silence for a moment longer, each of them awed in their own way, each of them recognizing that their cousin Daniel was no longer simply a noble of their bloodline—he was a warrior. And not just any warrior, but one who could shape their world.