"You annoying cockroach," Siwa Loma thundered, her monstrous voice shaking the stage. "It's time to swat you like the bug you are!"
She lunged forward, the ground cracking beneath her feet. Her claws shimmered like blades, her fangs bared in bloodlust. The air itself trembled as she closed in.
Blaise Dean stood unmoving, his rod clenched in both hands. His eyes were half-open, calm amid the chaos. The ancient voice whispered in his mind again and again, steady as a heartbeat—"You are the weapon, and the weapon is you…"
His lips moved in rhythm, barely audible at first. "Rios Belum Werea… Rios Belum Zhalik…"
The rod began to hum, then glowed—first faintly, then furiously. The light crawled up his arm, across his chest, then burst outward in a wave of silver radiance that engulfed the entire stage. The crowd shielded their eyes as the blinding light pulsed, rhythmic like breathing—alive.
Siwa Loma entered the glow—and froze.
In an instant, her diamond-hardened skin screamed under invisible assault. It was as if a thousand blades carved through her flesh, slicing through her once-impenetrable armor. The glow burned, shredded, tore through her defenses as if mocking her monstrous power.
"What—what is this?" she gasped, her voice breaking into a growl of pain.
Before she could steady herself, a violent shockwave erupted from Blaise. The impact hurled her backwards—her colossal body smashing through the barrier wall with a thunderous crash. Dust and shards of tile flew through the air as she fell unconscious, sprawling outside the stage.
For a moment, silence reigned. No one moved.
Then all eyes turned to the boy standing in the centre of the glowing storm.
Blaise Dean stood tall, his black hair rippling in the current of light. His expression was tranquil, his breathing steady, his consciousness barely tethered. The ancient words still circled his mind like sacred echoes: "You are the weapon. The weapon is you."
He didn't even realize that he had already won.
The glow brightened once more, flaring like a dying star, before dimming gradually. His knees wavered, his strength gone. And then—he collapsed. The rod rolled from his hand, the last ember of light flickering out beside him.
Gasps filled the air. Then came the shout: "He's down—but look! Siwa Loma is out cold!"
The referee raised his arm, stunned. "Victory… Blaise Dean of the Martial Arts School!"
The stadium erupted. The roar was deafening.
The emperor himself leaned forward, a rare smile curving his lips. "A prodigy," he murmured. "A true prodigy. That boy's final technique… if he masters it, he could challenge even the masters themselves."
Governor Raphael MacNelly, seated beside the nobles, had been silent since the morning's executions. Guilt had weighed heavy on his heart—but now, seeing Blaise's victory, a spark of pride returned. "He carries the flame of our forefathers," he whispered. "Unbending… unstoppable."
The emperor nodded slightly, his gaze still fixed on the unconscious boy.
And then—like thunder—the chants began.
"Blaise Dean! Blaise Dean!"
The name spread like wildfire, echoing across the imperial arena. The ground shook beneath the unified voices of thousands. Even those who had once mocked the boy's low birth now shouted his name with trembling awe.
Steam still rose from the scorched floor where he had fallen, and through it, his motionless body glowed faintly in the fading light.
A legend had been born.
Blaise lay motionless on the stage, his rod resting beside him, its faint glow still flickering like the dying flame of a torch. Steam rose from the stage floor where the impact had scorched the surface, forming a mist that curled around his small frame like a shroud.
"Unbelievable…" whispered one of the mage instructors from the Oradonian side, his voice trembling. "That technique—there's no record of such resonance between weapon and wielder. It's… forbidden magic!"
But another master from the martial arts school merely crossed his arms and said proudly, "No… it's not magic. That was discipline. The boy became one with his weapon."
The emperor remained seated but leaned slightly forward, his gaze intense, thoughtful. "So… the prophecy of the 'Weapon Born' was not mere superstition after all." His voice was soft, yet it carried enough weight that the generals and ministers beside him stiffened.
Governor Raphael MacNelly, felt something ignite within him again—hope. "That boy," he murmured, "he carries the spirit of our ancestors… fierce and unyielding." His hands, which had been trembling earlier from shame, now rested firmly on the railing before him.
Below, the medics hurried onto the stage, checking Blaise's pulse. "He's alive!" one of them shouted, and a fresh wave of cheers erupted.
At the same time, Siwa Loma's unconscious form was carried away. Even in defeat, the sheer strength she had displayed earlier made her seem almost mythical, but the story now belonged to the boy who refused to stay down.
The announcer, still shaking his head, raised his voice once more. "Winner of the first round—Blaise Dean of the Martial Arts School!"
The crowd exploded again, flags waved wildly, and the sound of horns echoed through the imperial stadium. From the high stands, the Oradonian mages sat in silence—stunned, humiliated, yet grudgingly impressed.
Back in the waiting section, Blaise's classmates looked on in awe. Camille Ajun's mouth was slightly open. "That idiot… he actually did it."
Durst Atun punched the air, tears threatening to fall. "He did more than win, Camille. He rewrote history!"
Meanwhile, the emperor whispered to his advisor, "Ensure that boy receives the best treatment available. I want him alive and well by tomorrow."
The advisor bowed deeply. "As you command, Your Majesty."
As the medics lifted Blaise from the arena, the sunlight broke through the clouds, bathing him in golden rays. For a fleeting moment, even unconscious, he looked serene—like a warrior who had finally touched the essence of his spirit.
And so, with that single victory, the tides of the grand competition shifted. The name Blaise Dean—once insignificant—would echo across the Nazare Blade Empire for years to come.
Elsewhere in the arena, the twin girls, Ouake and Ouale, returned to the betting booth where they had placed their wagers and signed the contract.
The booth owner, once full of arrogance and bravado, now looked as though someone had smashed an egg on his face—his pride dripping away with his lost fortune. His lips trembled, and his eyes darted toward the exits, but he quickly remembered the crimson seal etched into his chest—the mark of the blood oath.
Had this been in the old days, he would have simply fled with the winnings and vanished into the crowd. But not now. Not with that binding sigil glowing faintly beneath his skin, reminding him that escape meant death.
Ouake smirked. "Looks like fortune didn't favour your tongue today, old man."
Ouale folded her arms, her voice low and amused. "Next time, think twice before mocking our bets."
The man said nothing. The laughter and cheers from the crowd celebrating Blaise Dean's victory echoed all around him—but to him, they sounded like funeral bells.