The arena was silent.
Not because the crowd wasn't roaring—but because, to Jin Argren, the outside world had faded into nothing. All he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat and the rhythmic breath that calmed his soul. Across the circular arena, his final opponent stood: Sylas Duskveil, the mysterious heir of Derval, wielding a blade that shimmered with an eerie, dark hue.
The same Sylas who had defeated Drake in the semifinals, not with brute force—but with ruthless calculation.
Jin rolled his shoulders slowly, his grip tightening around the hilt of his broken sword, Elthan. Its fractured blade hummed with faint mana, almost like it, too, was waiting for what was to come.
Sylas stepped forward, slow, deliberate.
"So… here we are," he said, his voice smooth, arrogant. "Crowned prince of Valmyr… or should I say, the disappointment?"
Jin didn't react—not outwardly.
He had learned silence could cut deeper than insults.
Sylas began pacing in a half-circle, his crimson cloak dragging behind him. "They say you're the prodigy," he said, "but all I saw in your previous fights was hesitation. A crack beneath the crown."
Jin's eyes stayed locked on him, calm yet sharp. Every movement Sylas made, every shift in his stance—Jin recorded it. This wasn't just a duel of swords. It was a test of minds.
Sylas stopped and raised his blade slightly. "Let's see if you're worth the blood I'm about to spill."
The horn sounded.
A blink—and Sylas lunged.
His sword came down in a heavy arc, glowing with shadowy mana, but Jin shifted sideways, narrowly dodging. The ground cracked beneath the strike. He countered with a short slash—aimed at the ribs—but Sylas twisted his wrist and parried with ease.
Blades clashed. Sparks flew.
The final had begun From now on.
Jin immediately noticed the difference between Sylas and the others. His form was precise, clinical. No wasted energy, no showmanship. And yet, he spoke—constantly.
"You're fast," Sylas said between strikes. "But not faster than your father, I bet."
Jin's brow twitched.
"You know, I read the battle reports," Sylas continued, locking blades with him. "Your father was a real monster on the battlefield. It's a shame you're… this."
Jin released a burst of mana through his foot, pushing himself backward. His chest heaved—not from exhaustion, but restraint.
Sylas smirked. "Struck a nerve, didn't I?"
Jin focused. Let him talk. Let him burn his own composure.
Then Sylas's tone shifted, quieter, venomous: "Do you know why I truly want to win this tournament? It's not the title. It's the message. That Valmyr's bloodline… is over."
He charged again, faster this time. Jin met him mid-strike, their swords locking in the center with a burst of mana. The ground shook.
"No more kings," Sylas hissed.
"No more tyrants."
Jin's gaze hardened. "And you think Derval will do better?"
Sylas's smile faded for the first time.
In that hesitation, Jin moved.
With a swift pivot, Jin twisted out of the blade lock and slashed upward. Sylas ducked—but not fast enough. A cut grazed his cheek.
Blood.
The crowd gasped.
Jin didn't pursue recklessly. He stepped back, letting the moment settle. It wasn't the strike that mattered—it was the shift in tempo. Sylas had been wounded, and his confidence—cracked.
Jin whispered, "I'm not my father. But I've learned from him."
Sylas's eyes narrowed.
He charged again—wilder this time.
Jin blocked, parried, dodged. His movements were controlled, almost meditative. Each breath aligned with each motion. He wasn't just fighting Sylas.
He was dissecting him.
The next exchange was brutal.
Sylas unleashed a flurry of strikes, dark mana trailing from his blade like smoke. Jin deflected two, sidestepped the third, and ducked the fourth—before retaliating with a downward strike that forced Sylas to block with both hands.
Their blades clashed again—and Sylas grinned.
"You really want this, huh?"
Jin's voice was low, firm. "Not for myself."
"For Valmyr."
"For every warrior who fell."
Sylas growled, pushing him back.
Mana exploded between them, creating a shockwave that knocked dust and stone into the air.
The crowd roared, but the two fighters didn't flinch.
Through the haze, Jin found clarity.
He could see Sylas tiring—his strikes more aggressive, but less precise. His breathing heavier. His arrogance, slowly, turning into frustration.
That's when Jin moved to end it.
He rushed in, mana surging through his body. Sylas struck—too late. Jin ducked low, spun, and drove his hilt into Sylas's gut, then twisted behind him and placed the blade's edge to his throat.
Silence.
The horn sounded.
Jin had won.
Sylas dropped his sword.
He stepped back, clutching his side. Blood trickled from his mouth—but he smiled.
"Well done… prince," he muttered, then turned and walked away without another word.
The arena erupted.
Cheers filled the air. The banners of Valmyr waved once more. Jin stood in the center, panting, battered—but victorious.
The shadow of his father loomed in his mind, but he didn't feel fear.
He felt… ready.
Then came the voice of the announcer, echoing across the coliseum: "Victory… to Jin Argren! The Champion of the Honor Tournament!"
Jin looked up to the sky, eyes narrowing.
This was just the beginning.
Done. Lujain was given the medal of honor and gained everyone's respect. The delegation proved with the broken sword that no one can defeat will and determination. Jin went to the family palace, but King Drake did not talk to him. Jin, who won the tournament, no one congratulated him in the tournament. Why? But his father, who trained and taught him and was an example of light in this journey, did not leave his son alone. He motivated him and taught him many things. At the end of the tournament, Jin learned many things, but what awaits him in the future?