Chapter 63
Kaya was talking and laughing with Lucas when, not far away, Austin was looking intently toward Lucas himself.
He has become stronger than me. Seems like I haven't been working hard enough.
Austin could clearly feel the difference.
It wasn't huge, but it was enough to push him out of the position of being among the strongest of this generation.
Still, he didn't want to lower himself.
He needed to try.
Lucas noticed his gaze and waved with a smile.
Austin returned the gesture.
His heart was beating faster as he silently hoped they would fight.
There were fifty people here, but only three groups had been formed.
That meant only three people could win and become the elites among elites.
There was also a possibility of being promoted to Six Star, and if they broke through to the Silver Stage, they could even be promoted to Seven Star.
Kaya laughed as she looked at Lucas. "Ohh, Mr. Smart Guy, then tell me about our old traditional fighting style."
Lucas thought for a moment before speaking. "Don't take this personally, but the Flowing Water technique is, in most cases, interesting. I just started learning it myself. Still, it's very limiting. It has no power behind it and focuses only on speed. Speed is important, but for some opponents, speed alone isn't an issue. Even if I'm not powerful, your attacks become predictable."
"There are thirty-six points in the body, but only thirteen of them cause major damage when struck. Since the smaller points are close to those thirteen, I only need to defend those areas to win."
Kaya smiled. "I like you."
"That was sudden. You're beautiful, sexy, and interesting. How could I refuse?" Lucas replied jokingly, making Kaya chuckle.
"That's not what I meant, handsome boy," she said teasingly, pinching his cheeks. "I meant your point of view."
"Hm? I thought that because you study traditional arts so deeply, you'd be more defensive," Lucas said, confused.
"Nope. I study them because I see great potential in them, if only the clan were willing to change. The elders are too attached to the past, so change seems impossible. Look at other clans, even our great clan with Pure Eyes. Eyes that can see the flow of mana in others, especially at those difficult points that are hard to learn or target."
"We could use this to our advantage, but we don't. It saddens me how my own clan can't see how much we could grow," Kaya said, crossing her arms.
"Then maybe you should become the first to change that," Lucas replied. He then asked, "The Flowing Water technique shouldn't just be about closing someone's mana or blood flow. Others can recover from that quickly. What do you think the outcome of an improved version should be?"
Kaya's mind raced but before a single coherent thought could form, the air itself seemed to turn to stone.
A crushing, suffocating pressure descended without warning, flattening the very atmosphere of the arena.
It was not merely physical—it was an aura of absolute dominion, thick enough to taste, silencing breath and thought alike.
Then came the sound.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
Each footfall echoed with impossible clarity, not from the stone floor, but from the weight of the power that preceded it—heavy, deliberate, and resonant as a funeral drum.
They were footsteps that should have been swallowed by the vastness of the coliseum, yet instead they vibrated in every chest, commanding stillness, commanding dread.
As one, 50 heads lifted, eyes drawn unwillingly toward the high throne.
And there he was.
Arthur stood, a silhouette carved from light and authority, gazing down upon the assembled multitude as though surveying insects beneath a glass.
His power did not radiate—it imposed, an overwhelming tide that washed away all other presence.
His hair was a cascade of molten gold, his eyes twin suns, blazing with a cold, untouchable brilliance.
Clad in royal vestments of velvet and intricate silver thread, a mantle of ermine draped from his shoulders, he was less a man and more a monument to sovereignty itself.
With a slow, fluid grace, he swept a hand down the front of his robes, the gesture effortless, owning the very space around him.
Then, a smile touched his lips—not of warmth, but of serene, undisputed supremacy.
Like a field of wheat before a hurricane wind, the crowd bowed.
Bodies sank to knees, foreheads pressed to cold stone in a single, rustling wave of submission.
The roar that erupted was unified, terrified, reverent:
"GREETINGS TO THE KING!"
For every man who has ever drawn breath, the song of life never truly changes its tune.
Pride is not born from creation, but from comparison—the sweet, sharp proof that one stands taller, thinks sharper, commands more completely than another.
A man's existence is competition, endless and intrinsic: to be stronger in arm, keener in mind, heavier in authority.
This contest is the forge of his worth, the only hearth at which his pride can warm itself.
For women, the game is mirror and maze—similar, yet spun from different threads.
Here, currency is found in beauty and the illusion of innocence, in allure and untouchability.
A man's vanity is counted in conquests, in the number of hearts he claims.
A woman's, traditionally, in the fortress of her purity, in the power to choose or refuse.
These are the old, deep laws of the world, enforced by kings and custom, chains disguised as nature.
To shed them feels less like liberation and more like dissolution—to abandon the rules is to risk becoming no one at all.
To be the best.
To be the greatest.
To stand alone at the peak.
A woman's desire often bends toward the man just beyond her grasp, the one whose will she cannot quite tame.
A man's, so often, toward the woman he can hold within the compass of his control.
These are simple, brutal mechanics of the heart.
When the balance shifts—when she realizes the leash is in her hands—the result is often betrayal, or a quiet departure.
It is not a choice, this competitiveness; it is the pulse beneath the skin, the engine of our survival.
And so men play their games, generation upon generation, measuring and besting and falling, and in this endless, exhausting cycle, society thunders on, mistaking the struggle for life itself.
Arthur looked down upon their bent backs, their averted eyes, and he saw with perfect clarity what he was: the living embodiment of this final truth, the pinnacle of this ancient order.
He saw the chasm between himself and them, not just in power, but in essence.
His path was etched in diamond, his presence a law unto itself—a gravitational force that none could ignore, and from which none could escape.
"You may stand," his calm voice echoed as everyone rose.
Golden light surrounded him, shining even brighter.
"You may be wondering why this competition exists beyond simply showing who is the strongest," he said, taking a deep breath.
"This is a test. The fifty people standing here will be joining the elite task force known as Black Ops, which most of you have heard of."
"All of you will join this task force, but only four will join my personal unit. They will receive greater earnings, more resources, faster promotions, and higher status than the rest."
"You will take orders from me and me alone. Before leaving this place, you will sign a mana contract. Any information about this task force, your identities, or its missions will never be disclosed."
"Within your three groups, there will be a royal rumble. Each group will hold its own battle, and only one from each will win. I will personally choose the final member."
Arthur's voice rang out with absolute authority.