Quent Wilthorne choked on Lyst's rejection.
For a moment, he was speechless.
But years of scheming beneath his father's shadow had taught him how to recover quickly.
His expression leveled out. No more feigned friendliness. No more admiration. Only a flash of irritation—and the subtle, quiet intent to punish.
Still, he didn't raise a hand.
Instead, he turned with a swirl of his cloak, vaulted the training yard wall again, and vanished into the streets of Willensreach.
Later That Morning – Day of the Duel
The capital of the Wilthorne Duchy had erupted like a festival.
Whether they lived in the paved upper rings of the inner city or the squalid alleys of the outer districts, everyone knew: a noble duel was happening today.
By mid-morning, the coliseum-style dueling grounds had already begun to fill. Spectators crowded every seat, every railing, even rooftops and balconies overlooking the square.
For the commoners, it wasn't about choosing sides.
It was bloodlust. Resentment.
A chance to see the highborn bleed.
To them, nobles were all the same—spoiled, arrogant, untouchable.
But today… today one of them might die.
It was as good as a holiday.
Melric Estate
Old Anco had been standing outside Lyst's chambers since dawn.
When his young master finally emerged, dressed and composed, Anco gave a low bow and immediately launched into the latest reports.
"My lord, the duel has become the event of the decade. Some say the crowds rival the battle where Duke Wilthorne himself dueled a traitor twenty years ago."
Lyst paused in the hallway, frowning.
That didn't make sense—not entirely.
"It's not just the public's interest," he muttered.
Anco blinked. "My lord?"
"This should've stayed among the nobles. The common folk shouldn't even know it's happening."
In the Wilthorne Duchy—and across most of the Lucien Kingdom—the lives of peasants and nobles were parallel roads. They didn't intersect. Especially not when it came to matters of honor and blood duels.
For the crowds to know... someone had made sure they did.
Someone like Duke Wilthorne.
"He wants a spectacle," Lyst said quietly. "He wants everyone to watch a Melric fall."
It wasn't about Anna. It never had been.
This was a show of force. A calculated humiliation.
A message to the seven old bloodlines:
Submit or suffer.
"Have lunch ready," Lyst said, brushing past Anco. "I won't go to battle on an empty stomach."
Elsewhere: Ambet Estate
Anna stood in her family's drawing room, dressed not in silk or finery, but in travel leathers.
Her bags were packed.
In the adjacent room, the painter Ruiz looked like he might faint.
"We're leaving with a trade caravan?" he whispered, wringing his hands. "I thought… wasn't this a private escape?"
"We don't have the coin for that," Anna said sharply. "Unless you happen to have a few thousand crowns stashed under your bed?"
Ruiz shook his head.
For all his talent, he was still a working artist. He barely made enough to survive, let alone run away with a noble's daughter.
Anna sighed.
"Then we do it my way. There's a caravan leaving for the southern provinces—Lias. It's low value cargo, mostly cloth and dried herbs. Perfect cover."
"We'll join as minor assistants. You'll be 'Irus'. I'll be 'Lina'. Once we're past the border, we disappear."
She had it all planned out—routes, names, stolen heirlooms from the family vault. She even knew the merchants by name.
The only thing she didn't know?
That the man leading the caravan had already reported to Quent Wilthorne.
Duel Arena – Half an Hour Before the Fight
Lyst arrived late, slipping through the second-floor corridor of the dueling coliseum.
The noise of the crowd echoed like waves off stone. He ignored it.
Anna, Ruiz, even Quent—they were already fading into the back of his mind.
This was no longer a personal matter.
This was a war.
"Lyst?"
A low, weathered voice came from behind him.
He turned.
An older gentleman approached—white hair, trim goatee, and dressed in a finely tailored blue coat adorned with green embroidery. Behind him trailed several men and women, all bearing the same noble bearing, the same white hair.
The elder smiled. "I haven't seen you since your father's funeral."
His tone was warm, familiar, even paternal.
Lyst studied him carefully.
Then he saw the green twig brooch pinned to the man's chest.
Connor family, Lyst realized. The most powerful of the seven old houses.
That meant this man was likely the head of the family—
"Earl Lyad Connor," Lyst said with a respectful nod.
The Earl beamed. "So you do remember."
Lyst didn't answer. Instead, he discreetly triggered a scan.
[Enemy Scanning…]
Target: Lyad Connor
Level: 39
Class: Nature Sage (Mage-type)
HP: 1,909 / 1,909
Attributes: ??? (Data obscured)
Skills: ??? (Insufficient access)
Combat Rating: C
Warning: Extremely Dangerous – Avoid Direct Conflict
Lyst's expression remained unchanged.
He had expected high-level nobles to exist, but seeing one up close confirmed it—this world capped out around level 40 for now.
That would change later.
But for now?
Lyad Connor was an apex predator.
Behind him, Lyst scanned the other Connor family members. The strongest of them, a stern-faced man in his thirties, stood at Level 27, with high intelligence and solid physical stats. A proper mage.
None of them, however, showed signs of passive skills.
Only the Wilthorne family, so far, seemed to have inherited those rare abilities.
And I need them, Lyst thought grimly. If I want to survive the next stage…
The path ahead was clearer than ever.
He would win today's duel.
He would protect the Melric name.
And then?
He would start preparing for the war no one else saw coming.