The moment the officiator raised his hand, the enchanted arena ignited with a golden hum, ancient runes flaring to life beneath the dueling ring. The spectators held their breath. Magic buzzed in the air—heavy, volatile, and sacred.
Maximilian Voclain and Charles Trévér stepped forward into the circle. No words passed between them. They didn't need them. This was no mere grudge—it was centuries of blood and vengeance clashing in one final, sanctioned explosion.
They were ready to tear each other apart.
Just movement.
Maximilian's wand moved with fluid precision, and a whip of emerald light spiraled from his tip, curving like a serpent. Charles countered without a chant, twisting his fingers as Portico activated, warping space momentarily and displacing the light midair. It slammed into the barrier wall behind him, cracking the stone with a deafening crack!
Charles struck back instantly, conjuring spectral wolves through silent Animus Exoriri, their translucent forms sprinting toward Maximilian with hungry growls.
Maximilian didn't blink. His wand circled once, and the cobbled ground beneath him surged upward—Terramentum—as a spike of earth skewered the first wolf. The others leapt through, but a quick slash of his wand conjured Splare Moss, a sheet of acidic light that burned through their translucent bodies.
Eira watched from the gallery, heart pounding, hands clenched tightly—not from fear, but from the thrill of it. Below, magic clashed like thunder.
Beside her, Emma leaned in slightly and murmured, "They're using high-level spells—ones unique to their bloodlines. This isn't just a duel… it's legacy on display."
The wolves turned to mist, and Charles emerged behind them, his wand pointed directly at Maximilian. He transfigured a loose rock into a massive obsidian golem, which roared and lunged.
Maximilian didn't flinch. A flick of his wrist and his shadow erupted upward, transforming into a dark knight in charred armor. The two constructs clashed violently—stone fists versus cursed blade.
The crowd could hardly track the duelists themselves, who blurred through the ring, teleporting short distances using Verto Pax, their robes trailing sparks, their spells leaving scorch marks and craters behind.
Maximilian thrust his wand downward. A chain of gold erupted from the ground, snaking toward Charles. It wrapped around his leg.
Charles waved his hand with force. Finite Suprema.
The chain disintegrated mid-constriction.
Charles shot upward with a high jump charm, and mid-air, he twisted his wand toward Maximilian. A silent casting of Fulguris Fissura split the sky as a beam of blue-white light slammed into Maximilian's conjured knight, annihilating it.
But Maximilian used the debris—he transfigured the shrapnel midair into steel daggers and hurled them at Charles. Charles spun, flicking his wand in a wide arc—Fracta Flux—and shattered the weapons into dust before landing gracefully.
Maximilian was already in motion.
He sprinted and Apparated behind Charles, releasing a wave of wind magic laced with razor-thin air blades. Aeris Incisum.
Blood appeared along Charles's cheek.
He turned sharply, transfiguring nearby sand into a mirror and reflecting the light above into Maximilian's eyes.
Maximilian roared and retaliated with a silent Caligo Tenebris—a cloud of living shadows swarmed the mirror, cracking it into shards.
Then came a terrifying escalation.
Charles stomped the ground. With no chant, his aura surged. Stone beneath them turned to molten lava.
"Lava transmutation," Emma whispered, eyes wide. "That's… illegal without special clearance. And it's not a common spell—far from it. These aren't spells you'll find in any textbook. They're family-forged, centuries old, and fiercely guarded. I've never seen anything like this before."
Maximilian's boots began to burn. But instead of retreating, he summoned Cryon Crucio, a freezing pulse that collided with the lava, turning it into obsidian in seconds.
Steam erupted around them.
Charles and Maximilian both used Finite Maxima, clearing the fog.
Maximilian's face was twisted now. Furious. One hand burned, his sleeve tattered.
He turned the obsidian ground into mirrored tiles.
A trap.
Charles realized too late—dozens of illusions exploded from the mirrors, all Maximilian, all casting deadly spells.
Charles twirled his wand—Omnireflecto!
A circular barrier of mirror-like light erupted around him, bouncing the illusion spells back. Three of the clones vaporized.
Then the real Maximilian burst through—fire coiled in his left palm.
He cast Draconis Pyra, and a massive dragon head of flame emerged, jaws wide, aiming to swallow Charles whole.
Charles formed a crescent shield of diamond-like ice. The flame dragon shattered it—but not before Charles dove, rolled, and came up swinging.
He silently cast Tecton Lux, tearing up the battlefield.
The dueling ring exploded.
Chunks of earth hovered midair as anti-gravity zones formed. Both men stood atop floating stones, breathing hard, bleeding.
They launched at each other.
Midair.
Spells crashed.
Fire met shadow.
Wind met steel.
Charles transfigured air into razor chains. Maximilian deflected with a shield of platinum.
Then Maximilian's wand hand began to glow.
He was gathering energy.
The crowd fell silent.
He pointed his wand to the sky.
"Corona Mortem."
No words spoken, but everyone felt the spell's name.
A ring of deadly light burst from above and slammed toward Charles.
Charles stared up at it, then whispered his defense. Vita Requiem.
A barrier of golden glyphs formed around him.
The ring struck it.
And shattered it.
Charles was blown backward.
He landed hard.
Blood pooled beneath him.
Maximilian limped forward. His hand shook. The skin on his right hand was nearly gone now—just exposed bone with crushed flesh wrapped around his wand.
He kept casting.
Statues emerged from the ground—armored warriors who charged.
Charles, coughing blood, lifted his wand. He turned the statues into swans.
They soared upward and exploded into blinding feathers.
Maximilian was blinded.
Charles lunged.
His spell formed a crescent blade of hardened air. It sliced across Maximilian's side.
Maximilian gasped, dropped to one knee.
Then with a final breath, he raised his wand with his destroyed hand.
Ultima Vindicta.
A silent, high-level curse. Gold and green light erupted and spiraled directly into Charles's chest.
Charles froze.
His eyes glazed over.
Then he collapsed.
His heart had stopped.
⸻
Silence fell.
No one moved.
Not even the officiator.
The protective wards around the ring flickered.
Then came the announcement.
"Victor… Maximilian Voclain."
The words echoed through the arena.
Maximilian lowered his wand.
It dropped from his fingers.
His hand was no longer usable.
Blood dripped from his elbow to the floor.
He stood alone.
The victor.
But broken.
From the stands, Eira gazed at the arena where the duel had just ended. Her eyes lingered on the scorched earth, the fading embers of magic still crackling in the air. The sheer level of power displayed had left her breathless—not just the strength, but the precision, the elegance.
So many of the spells used had been unfamiliar—chantless casting, ancient transfigurations, magic woven so seamlessly it felt more like art than combat. That's when it struck her.
Every noble family here wielded this kind of power. They had honed their bloodlines not just in politics or wealth, but in spellwork passed down like sacred inheritance. It wasn't just tradition—it was dominance. And she, for all her victories, had never truly relied on that kind of raw force.
Up to now, she had won through strategy—manipulation, schemes, careful politics. But if she wanted to not just stand among them, but rise above them, she would need more than wit. She would need power. Real, overwhelming, undeniable power.
Emma gritted her teeth and muttered. "It should've been both of them dead."
Fleur's hand slipped into Eira's quietly.
And Isabella, after a long breath, turned her back to the ring and murmured,
"Victory means nothing if you burn your soul to get it."