Ding!
The heads of the halberd and spear clashed, and Jarvan staggered back two steps.
As he moved to recover and return to a defensive stance, he saw Xin Zhao bypass him and lunge toward an unsuspecting soldier within the Lightshield phalanx.
Even with Ryan's timely magical barrier, the soldier was sent flying with a groan.
Had two nearby comrades not caught him with their bodies, he would've been launched out of formation.
The soldier stood, glared at Xin Zhao, then quickly withdrew from the line without hesitation.
"Coward!" Jarvan snarled, his face contorted with frustration.
He swung his halberd forcefully, only to be blocked once more by Xin Zhao.
"Do you think this is a game? Or has the magical protection dulled your sense of danger?" Xin Zhao's voice was stern, his black armor battered but solid.
His spear locked against the halberd, his weathered face resolute.
"If you can't take responsibility for your soldiers, you're not fit to lead them."
Every kill you make might cost you a soldier in return.
That was his reality—his path.
He gripped his spear tightly, something in his eyes distant—as if haunted by a memory—and his next thrust came with even greater force.
The spear moved like a snake, fast as wind, striking with the suddenness of lightning.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Jarvan, face flushed with anger, met each strike with defiance.
Though held on the back foot, he parried every blow without missing a beat.
He didn't believe himself inferior. His talent was real.
But experience—experience was where Xin Zhao outmatched him.
Jarvan was still young.
He knew the gap between them, even if he hated to admit it.
Ding!
Halberd met spear again, and Jarvan stumbled slightly.
But Xin Zhao didn't press the advantage. Instead, he spun his spear to the right, fast.
Ding!
The silver-white spear of a Lightshield soldier clashed against Xin Zhao's black spear, only to be wrenched and bent from the force.
"Argh!" the soldier cried, unable to maintain grip or control.
Shhk!
Xin Zhao's spear shot forward like a black dragon, piercing the soldier's throat before he could react.
Only the glow of magic saved the soldier from a fatal blow.
Ding! Ding!
Jarvan surged forward with his halberd, re-engaging Xin Zhao in the center of the fray.
Cough, cough…
The eliminated soldier gasped heavily and limped away from his comrades.
Still, he wasn't discouraged—he'd accomplished his goal.
Xin Zhao had already broken into the heart of the Lightshield formation.
Now, surrounded, he remained composed.
His spear moved in sweeping arcs—fast, fluid, merciless. He gave them no opening.
Within moments, more than ten shield-bearers had been driven back or taken out.
"Haven't you noticed yet?" Xin Zhao growled.
As he sidestepped a spear aimed at his back, his spear met Jarvan's halberd once more.
"What are you talking about?" Jarvan barked, cold and sharp.
If Xin Zhao refused to duel properly, he'd have to deal with being overwhelmed.
Not even he could withstand a full assault from Demacia's elite.
"You usually have someone watching your flank, don't you?"
Xin Zhao's voice was calm. He speared another soldier in the eye, knocking him from the fight.
"What the hell are you implying?" Jarvan snapped.
"Yes, Garen is often by my side—but don't mistake that for weakness."
"You may be a capable commander," Xin Zhao said, spinning through another group, forcing them back.
"But in a high-level battlefield, you can't afford even a moment's distraction. Haven't you realized yet? Your formation is collapsing."
"Collapsing?" Jarvan blinked, taking a glance away from the duel, and what he saw chilled him.
Xin Zhao was right.
In the chaos, Xin Zhao had driven a wedge straight into their ranks.
The Trifarian Legion was now close to him, and the Lightshield Bulwark had been split.
One half was barely holding against the Trifarian onslaught.
The other half was here, with Jarvan, locked in a desperate fight against Xin Zhao alone.
"As long as we can kill you, the sacrifice is worth it!" Jarvan said firmly, his expression grim.
Xin Zhao was undoubtedly the strongest warrior in the Trifarian Legion.
Taking him down would ease the pressure on their lines and strike a devastating blow to enemy morale.
"Hahaha! I'd love to see how you plan to take me down!" Xin Zhao laughed, voice booming.
"War!!"
With a roar, he threw himself back into the fray, meeting the circle of surrounding soldiers head-on.
Meanwhile, in the rear, the Trifarian Legion had taken full advantage of their numbers and maneuvering.
The battlefield was completely divided—nearly half of the Lightshield Bulwark forces had been cut off and encircled.
Their defeat was inevitable.
On a high platform overlooking the battlefield, Draven watched the chaos unfold, a confused look on his face.
"Why do I feel like we're not even trying?" he muttered.
He had fought alongside the Trifarian Legion before—he knew what they were truly capable of.
Yet, it felt like Xin Zhao alone had carried the battle.
The rest of the Legion had only shown a fraction of their full might.
"All battles serve a purpose," Morgana said, glancing toward Ryan, who stood silently nearby.
"Soldiers earn honor. Generals earn glory. Politicians seize power. The nation thrives through conquest."
Her voice was calm and cold, reflecting a truth she believed deeply.
That had been the way of old Noxus.
Everyone understood that the moment expansion halted, the empire would begin to fracture.
But the rise of Trifarix had changed everything. The vision of the empire had shifted.
Transformation had become possible.
Draven crossed his arms, his chin tilted upward, the corner of his mustache twitching in annoyance.
"Tch. More scheming. The obsession with tactics and manipulation—it's disgusting."
Then, realizing the stares he was getting from Morgana and Ryan, he forced a grin.
"Haha. Uh, no offense. Didn't mean you."
As time passed, the soldiers of the Lightshield Bulwark were steadily picked off, one after another.
In the heart of it all, Xin Zhao fought like a man possessed—unrelenting, unstoppable.
Jarvan's face was flushed with effort. His hands ached, the skin of his palms cracked and bleeding, but he surged forward again.
He watched Xin Zhao cut through the formation, and in a daze, he was suddenly reminded of another warrior, Darius, on that day in the wilderness.
That same overwhelming presence. That same helpless feeling, watching his comrades fall one by one.
Why? Why can't we stop them, even after upgrading our forces, even with Lightshield formations?
"Demacia!!" he roared, gritting his teeth as he swung his halberd with all his strength, desperately trying to halt Xin Zhao's advance.
He knew it in his heart: this was a total loss—a crushing defeat.
There wasn't some unbridgeable power gap between the Lightshield Bulwark and the Trifarian Legion.
On paper, they were evenly matched.
But Xin Zhao—Xin Zhao alone had tilted the entire battle in their favor.
And Jarvan… didn't have that power.
What should have been a fair, balanced clash had become a slow collapse.
Another sharp thrust from Xin Zhao forced him back.
Staggering, Jarvan's thoughts suddenly drifted.
Garen…
Every time they fought together, Garen had been there.
A living sword of Demacia, always leading the charge, cleaving a path through enemy lines and disrupting formations.
Was this what Garen looked like to their enemies? Was Xin Zhao doing now what Garen had once done?
The realization weighed heavily in Jarvan's chest.
His rhythm faltered, and his halberd strikes grew unsteady.
Xin Zhao noticed—but didn't press the advantage.
Instead, he turned away from Jarvan and continued sweeping through the remaining soldiers, one after another.
At the same time, images of overwhelming individual power flashed through Jarvan's mind—scenes from Demacia, Noxus, even the Freljord.
He was forced to admit that, no matter how skilled his command might be, it was only the icing on the cake.
What truly changed the tide of battle… was the strength of a single person.
If Kayle had defeated Ryan and Syndra...
If he could defeat Xin Zhao now...
A bitter sense of powerlessness swelled in Jarvan's chest, threatening to consume him.
Why... why wasn't it he who possessed that strength?
His eyes burned red, and he started to lose awareness of the teammates around him, charging recklessly after Xin Zhao.
But Xin Zhao didn't waver. He continued his assault methodically, his spear striking with deadly precision, dismantling the Lightshield soldiers one by one.
Against his speed and power, they never stood a chance.
Jarvan, drained of strength and spirit, could only watch helplessly as his comrades were cut down. Frustration and self-loathing gnawed at him.
'If only I were stronger...'
'If only I could defeat Xin Zhao...'
'If only I could crush the Trifarian Legion... effortlessly...'
Then—clang!
The tip of Xin Zhao's spear slammed into the side of Jarvan's golden helmet, sending it flying.
It clattered to the ground in front of the defeated Lightshield soldiers with a hollow ring.
Jarvan remained standing only because of his halberd.
His knees threatened to buckle. His long hair hung messily across his face, his former vigor gone.
"You've lost," Xin Zhao said coldly, his spear aimed straight at Jarvan's throat.
Just an inch more—and it would all be over.
Jarvan could feel the blade's killing edge, its intent as clear as day.
He laughed bitterly, a hollow sound, and then leaned forward, straight toward the point of the spear.
Thud.
The magic ward activated around his neck. A sharp pain stabbed through him as the spear pierced his skin, but it didn't go deeper.
He looked up at Xin Zhao, his voice raw and full of despair:
"A defeated general… what's the point of living?"
Xin Zhao slowly withdrew his spear and slung it behind his back, his expression steady, unwavering.
"In this battle," he said evenly, "twenty-three soldiers gave their lives to protect you. And under my spear… You saved only five."
Jarvan turned and looked at the silent rows of Lightshield soldiers watching him from the sidelines.
The pain in his eyes was unmistakable.
But as he turned back, Xin Zhao was already walking away, returning to the Trifarian line.
The Legion had already stood to attention, awaiting their general.
As Xin Zhao approached, every soldier straightened and raised their voices in unison:
"Noxus!!"
Just moments ago, they had stood on equal ground—one hundred soldiers against one hundred.
With only five losses, the Trifarian Legion had utterly crushed Demacia's elite Lightshield Bulwark.
Xin Zhao strode to the front, raised his spear high, and roared:
"Noxus! Trifarian Legion!"
The battlefield shook as the Legion responded, weapons raised high:
"Noxus! Trifarian Legion!"
"Noxus! Trifarian Legion!"
The chant thundered through the sky, echoing far beyond the arena.
Even the Noxians below—those not present for the duel—could hear it ring across the city.
At that moment, the Noxians filling the grandstands rose to their feet, unleashing thunderous cheers and applause in their own unruly fashion.
The noise shook the sky, drowning out everything else.
Watching from the high platform, Morgana allowed a small, knowing smile to touch her lips.
She raised one pale arm slowly.
Hum...
Magic gathered above the arena—black mist swirling from every direction, chaotic at first, then forming with purpose.
In the sky, the shadows condensed, taking shape until a distinct sigil appeared: the mark of a book wreathed in darkness.
Every soul in the Immortal Bastion recognized that mark, even those of the defeated Lightshield soldiers.
The symbol of the Trifarian Legion.
The champions of today's trial.
Xin Zhao and the Trifarian Warband had claimed victory in the arena.
For now, they owed their moment of glory.
On the other side, though none of the Lightshield Bulwark had fallen permanently, they had suffered a decisive defeat.
But even in loss, there was honor. They had been bested by sheer strength.
And they knew it.
They looked across the field at the Trifarian soldiers—not with resentment, but with reluctant respect.
The victors had earned it.
Jarvan stood in front of his line, silent amid the chorus of Noxian chants.
Even as their enemies, he could not help but admire them.
To fight for such a country—one where strength meant everything, where your worth was undeniable—that was something to envy.
But Demacia had its pride, too.
Still...
His expression twisted with inner conflict. He glanced at Xin Zhao, standing tall and proud before his legion.
Then his gaze shifted to the three figures on the high platform: Morgana, Draven, and Ryan.
Jarvan lowered his head and let out a long breath.
Strength... personal might...
A flicker stirred in his eyes—not shame, but longing.
He wanted that kind of power.
The battle was over.
The victor stood bathed in glory.
The defeated walked off the field in silence.
No blood had been spilled, but the outcome resonated deeply.
Symbolism carried weight in the Immortal Bastion.
As Jarvan and the Lightshield Bulwark returned to their station, the voices of the onlookers surrounded them like an invisible tide.
The mark of the Trifarian Legion still shimmered above the arena—a brand burned into the memory of all who witnessed it.
Everyone knew what it meant.
This had been no ordinary contest. It was the clash of nations, of ideologies.
And Demacia had lost.
Jarvan's fists clenched at his sides. He walked faster, head down.
His thoughts churned with shame, confusion, and doubt.
Back at the camp, he stood before the assembled Lightshield Bulwark.
They waited, silent and solemn.
He closed his eyes, bowed deeply, and forced the words out:
"Today's loss was my fault. I... deeply regret bringing this upon you all."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Then—thud!
Every single member of the Lightshield Bulwark dropped to one knee in unison.
Jarvan's eyes widened in disbelief.
Their voices rose together, loud and unwavering:
"We are willing to fight to the death for Demacia! May Your Highness command it!"
Jarvan's heart lurched.
"What are you doing? Stand up! All of you!" he shouted, voice cracking.
He understood their hearts. He knew what this meant.
They were offering their lives. They hoped that they could restore even a sliver of Demacia's honor through death.
But that wasn't what he wanted.
"No!" he barked.
"The shame of this loss is mine alone. Your lives—your loyalty—are not what failed today. I did."
Still kneeling, their voices rang out again:
"May Your Highness command it!"
It was louder this time. Fiercer.
Jarvan's chest tightened as he looked at them, each bearing the weight of shared disgrace, willing to shoulder it in the only way they knew how.
But he would not let them.
He would carry this alone.
Jarvan stared down at the kneeling soldiers below, fists clenched so tightly that blood welled up from old, unhealed wounds.
Tick. Tock.
Crimson drops fell from his hands to the dirt.
"Good... good... good!"
His voice cracked with fury.
His face twisted with pain, and his whole body trembled under the weight of frustration and helplessness.
Every time, it was always like this.
Every time he failed, someone else stepped up to bear the blame.
This battle, he had lost.
Last time, he had been captured.
Before that, a failed command had cost them dearly.
And every time, someone else—Demacia, the Lightshield Bulwark, General Laurent, even Garen—took responsibility.
They protected him, covered for him, and shouldered the shame that should have been his.
His own weakness. His lack of strength.
But this time... this time he couldn't stand it.
This time, the resentment inside him was a fire, roaring louder than his pride.
For the first time, he felt it—the craving for power.
Even magic.
Even the forbidden kind.
If it meant reclaiming Demacia's glory… if it meant winning… then let the consequences come.
He buried those thoughts deep in his heart for now.
There was something more urgent in front of him.
These soldiers—his soldiers—needed direction. Not grief.
His bloodstained gaze swept over them like a blade.
Then he roared:
"I don't object to you dying. But before you throw your lives away— think."
His voice cut through the silence like thunder.
"Have you thought about your parents? Your children? Have you thought about what your death would do to Demacia's future? To the fragile peace between nations?"
The silence cracked.
"You want to die for my shame? Then let me ask you—do you think Noxus wouldn't love that ending?"
He laughed bitterly.
"They didn't spare us today out of kindness. They didn't want war, not one they couldn't win without cost. And we? We don't want to see you die in vain."
He pointed his halberd toward the heavens.
"If war breaks out, it won't be you or me dying alone—it'll be thousands. Innocents. Civilians. Children."
The fire in his voice grew stronger with each word.
"And all because you wanted to die for someone else's mistake."
The soldiers, one by one, lowered their heads in shame.
"Stand up!" Jarvan commanded.
"Defeat is only temporary. Grow stronger. We will win it back!"
He paused. His next words were ice-cold.
"But if any of you still wishes to die in the arena, I won't stop you."
His voice softened—just a little.
"But if you do... I will remember your names. And one day—even if I become a demon—I will earn back the honor you died for."
Silence fell once again.
Then—
"Your Highness..."
A voice rose timidly.
A soldier, face flushed with shame, stood up.
Then another. And another.
Soon, the entire company was on its feet again.
Still bowed in silent reflection—but standing.
Their eyes were clouded with conflicting thoughts, but they were thinking. Listening.
Seeing this, Jarvan exhaled—slow, unsteady.
He stepped forward, gripping the halberd he had earlier stabbed into the ground, and used it to steady himself.
His limbs were heavy.
Exhausted.
But he turned to face the sky once more, eyes drifting toward the floating arena.
The wind stirred his tangled, blood-matted hair as he looked up.
The battlefield where Xin Zhao had stood proud.
Where he had been humbled.
Jarvan stared for a long while. His gaze was distant, clouded.
Then he laughed quietly. Bitterly.
Anyway...
The Lightshield Bulwark, defeated.
Jarvan Lightshield... lost.