At that moment, the circle blazed with intense brightness. From each of the lightning-shaped marks inscribed within it, powerful electric discharges surged forth, moving at a speed of three hundred thousand kilometers per second—all converging simultaneously on the center of the arena, where Scuro stood.
BOOM!
An explosion erupted at the heart of the battlefield, sending a towering column of smoke and dust into the air. Visibility was instantly lost—neither Larc nor the spectators could see what had become of Scuro. But for most onlookers, and certainly for the exhausted young adventurer, there was little doubt: the Minister of Defense had been hit head-on.
"I'd say I've proven that I have what it takes to defeat that bastard," Larc declared, panting but proud, his voice defiant despite his fatigue. He was certain he had secured victory.
No sound came from within the dense smoke. No movement. No response.
This silence was confirmation enough.
But then—a sudden gust of wind swept through the arena, scattering the smoke like scattered ashes. And there, in the cleared air, stood a small pyramid of stone, completely unscathed.
Larc's eyes widened in disbelief.
"That's not possible..." he muttered.
"With the power of the spell you just cast, what I assume is your strongest. Absolutely not!"
The voice came from behind him. Calm. Stern. Unshaken.
Larc spun around and there was Scuro, completely unharmed, his blazing black-and-red sword at the ready.
Fortunately, Larc hadn't deactivated Spark Road yet, so he managed to escape with a sudden burst of speed, placing several meters between himself and the minister. But in his panic, he stumbled into the very stone pyramid Scuro had created earlier landing right atop the groove carved into the arena floor at the start of the match by Scuro.
It was now glowing red.
"Fire Typhoon," Scuro uttered calmly.
Flames erupted from beneath Larc's feet, forming a spiraling inferno that twisted upward like a tornado of fire.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!"
Larc screamed in agony as the flames engulfed him, scorching his skin. Scuro had held back just enough to ensure that the damage could still be treated by the tournament's medical team, but the pain was very real.
After a few seconds, the fiery vortex faded, and Larc collapsed, barely conscious.
Scuro approached the fallen boy, his tone firm but not unkind.
"Your strategy was solid, Larc. Most people wouldn't have predicted it like I did. But you lack the power to defeat me… and the speed to best the one you're aiming to surpass in this tournament."
He paused, then added with measured clarity:
"I suggest you train further in your use of the physical enhancement spell and seek—or create—a stronger spell unique to your magic. Only then will you have any real chance of defeating the one you're so determined to surpass. But if your only reason for doing this is to restore your master's honor, I urge you to reconsider.
As I told you before the match—he isn't someone who cares about titles or status.
Even if he's no longer considered Leore's top adventurer, his honor hasn't been lost. His achievements remain, and those who know him still remember."
There was sternness in Scuro's voice, but beneath it—a quiet, unmistakable kindness.
"Dam..." Larc murmured faintly, before losing consciousness.
Pinusal approached immediately, kneeling to check on the boy. Once satisfied that his condition was stable, the ancient elf turned to Scuro, raised his right arm high, and announced in a booming voice:
"I declare Scuro the winner of this match!"
Thunderous applause rained down from the stands. While some elves continued to watch the dark elf with suspicion, many in the crowd could not deny the strength—and control—he had displayed.
Moments later, the medical team arrived, lifting Larc gently onto a stretcher and carrying him out of the arena.
Without a word, Scuro turned and quietly exited the stage through the gate he had entered from—the victor, but not a braggart.
"Scuro's strategies are always a fantastic sight to behold," said Sequoria, clapping her hands in admiration.
"He realized that Larc was preparing a powerful attack using the trail of sparks he left on the ground. After setting up the finishing spell, he stopped casting any others, fully focusing on charging the earth prison to its maximum so it could withstand whatever Larc was planning—especially considering Scuro's natural affinity is not earth magic. Then, after blocking Larc's spell, he manipulated the boy into exactly the position he wanted, making it possible to finish him off without worrying about his opponent's superior speed. Truly impressive."
"Mother, I didn't think you enjoyed watching people fight so much," said Lucas, genuinely surprised.
"I can understand why you'd think that," she replied with a smile. "Considering my reputation as a wise queen and my inability to fight myself, it's not the first assumption most make. But ever since I was little, I've been a huge fan of this tournament. There's something exiting about seeing two powerful individuals clash with everything they've got. Besides, it's important to understand the strength and capabilities of your people—especially for times of war."
Lucas nodded thoughtfully, pleased to discover yet another side of his adoptive mother.
The next two matches, while competent displays of combat, didn't captivate Lucas the way the Scuro vs. Larc fight had. The participants fought well, but the battles lacked the same level of spectacle and tension. Still, they served to highlight something important: Larc was no ordinary adventurer. Compared to the four fighters in these two matches, Larc could have likely defeated all of them at once—and without much difficulty.
But when the fourth match of the day was announced, a more familiar face took to the arena.
Chiacchera turned toward one of the right-side gates and announced with growing excitement,
"The elf now entering the arena is a well-known figure in our kingdom! A few months ago, she traveled to the kingdom of Leore to join the party of their new Hero, but has returned specifically to take part in this year's tournament—bringing the entire hero's party with her! She holds the record for the most Over Beast eliminations in a single year and is widely regarded as the best archer in our kingdom..."
The crowd roared.
From the gate emerged a petite elf with long hair in a striking combination of blonde and green, styled into twin ponytails that swung behind her as she walked. Slung across her back was a massive bow—taller than she was.
"EMERALDA VENTORA!" Chiacchera declared enthusiastically.
Emeralda reached the center of the arena in confident silence.
Chiacchera then gestured toward one of the left-side gates.
"Her opponent comes from a distant land known as Elefantore. According to his own account, he is a famous and renowned knight..."
From the gate stepped a towering man, easily two and a half meters tall and a full meter wide. He carried no visible weapons. His heavy armor was so worn and rusted it looked like it had not undergone any kind of maintenance in years. The sheer weight of his steps made it feel as though the very ground trembled beneath him. His helmet was missing, revealing a completely bald head and a brutish, intimidating expression.
"Gorgolia Pesanto!" Chiacchera bellowed.
When Gorgolia reached the center, he scanned the crowd as if searching for someone, then looked down to finally notice his opponent.
"What? The great Gorgolia's opponent is this tiny little girl?" he scoffed loudly.
"I was hoping for a more difficult challenge to mark my arrival and send a message to the audience—and my real opponents. But oh well, these are only the preliminaries. I suppose I'll meet my true competition later."
Emeralda fixed him with a piercing glare, but said nothing.
"Before we begin," said Pinusal calmly, "do either of you have anything to say to your opponent?"
Emeralda shook her head in silence. Gorgolia, on the other hand, smirked and added,
"Are you sure you don't want to surrender now, little girl? The result's already decided."
But the elf gave no response. She simply stared at him, cold and composed.
"Very well. We'll begin the match on my signal," said Pinusal, raising his hand.
After a few seconds, Pinusal raised his hand and shouted,
"Ready... set... GO!"
The match lasted little more than a moment.
Gorgolia swung his armored right fist in an attempt to punch Emeralda. But the elf nimbly avoided the attack with a backward leap, rising nearly three meters into the air. While still airborne, she pulled out her bow and fired what looked like a single arrow.
In an instant, the arrow pierced Gorgolia's shoulder—right through his armor—and embedded itself into the ground behind him. A large hole was now visible in his shoulder, rendering his arm completely useless.
"Bitch!" the massive man roared as Emeralda landed gracefully on the arena floor.
He tried to charge toward her, but the moment he took his first step, a sharp pain shot through his legs, and he collapsed with a heavy thud.
It wasn't just his right shoulder—his left shoulder had been pierced, and both his knees were now riddled with gaping wounds, each at least four centimeters wide.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Gorgolia screamed, struggling to rise, only to realize that Emeralda had disabled all four of his limbs.
Much of the audience stared in confused silence, unable to comprehend how she had managed to strike all four points using only one arrow. But Lucas, his perception honed through training with Aislyra, had seen everything with perfect clarity.
She hadn't fired a single arrow—she'd fired four.
While most spectators were focused on the result, behind Gorgolia, four arrows were clearly embedded in the ground. The method was simple: pure speed.
After launching the first arrow, Emeralda had fired the next three so quickly that neither Gorgolia nor the audience could register the motion. Each arrow was faster than the last, timed so that all four arrived at nearly the same instant.
With a cool expression, Emeralda began walking away.
"I didn't catch much of what you said," she said, her voice neutral but laced with sarcasm. "Your words didn't sound too different from a pig's grunts. But I think you said something about this match not being difficult enough…" She paused, then added with a faint, arrogant grin,
"I hope I managed to meet your expectations. I worked really hard to make this fight difficult for you, though I may have gone a little overboard. Be careful not to strain yourself—you might bleed out before the medics arrive."
With that, she turned her back and began walking slowly toward the gate through which she had entered.
"YOU BASTARD! YOU WHORE! GET BACK HERE!!!" Gorgolia screamed in rage and agony, trying once more to rise—in vain.
Seeing that Gorgolia was clearly incapacitated, Pinusal raised his voice and declared,
"The winner of this match is Emeralda Ventora!"
"WAIT! YOU DAMN REFEREE! IT'S NOT OVER! I HAVEN'T LOST!" Gorgolia bellowed in protest, but he was completely ignored.
Moments later, the medical team arrived with a large stretcher and carried the injured knight away, all while he continued his tirade.
"That was a really quick match—just as expected from Emeralda," said a familiar voice entering the royal box.
Lucas turned to see that the voice belonged to Luvrio, who had finally arrived, accompanied by his personal butler.
"Welcome, Uncle Luvrio," Lucas greeted him.
"Sorry I'm late," Luvrio said with a sheepish grin. "I was out in the forest testing the new deodorant Macro and I invented... and, well, I lost track of time." He chuckled, then added,
"But on my way here, I saw one of the two participants for the next match. And I think it's someone we've all been waiting to see."
At that, all eyes in the royal box shifted to the arena as the next fight was about to begin.
"The person about to enter from the right gate," Chiacchera announced, "was once a famous general of the Kingdom of Osidarap and the loyal right hand of the previous Demon King, Eleba. A regular participant in this tournament—and now a deserter from his kingdom…"
The gate opened, and out stepped a striking figure.
A man with obsidian-black skin clad in slightly worn white armor. On his back were two large bat-like wings, white on the inside. From his forehead, above his snow-white hair, rose two long horns—though one was missing its upper half. His eyes had blood-red sclera and pure white pupils, giving him a fearsome, almost spectral presence.
"ATIV!!!" Chiacchera bellowed with fervor.
As Ativ reached the center of the arena, Chiacchera turned to the gate on the left side.
"And now, entering from the left gate, the person we've all been waiting for—undoubtedly one of the stars of this year's tournament. The new hero summoned from the Kingdom of Leore…"
From the gate emerged a figure that immediately commanded attention.
He was no longer wearing his traditional tunic. Instead, he wore gleaming golden armor sculpted to replicate a muscular torso, with a laurel wreath engraved across the breastplate from shoulder to shoulder. A crimson cloak flowed behind him, stopping just above the knees.
"GAIUS JULIUS CAESAR!!!" Chiacchera shouted with electrifying excitement.