BOOOOM!
The arena erupted in a thunderous explosion as hammer and fist collided, shockwaves tearing across the stone floor. Dust billowed outward, rattling the audience in their seats.
"Whoa…" Lionel muttered, gritting his teeth, sweat rolling down his brow. "To think you've gained this much strength…"
Erickson's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with pride.
"That's right! This is proof—talent will always overwhelm hard wor—"
CRACK!
Before he could finish, Lionel's left fist shot up, slamming into Erickson's chin and snapping his head back. Blood sprayed from Erickson's lip, but instead of faltering, he staggered a step, then laughed through the pain.
"Hah… what's this?!" Erickson roared. "Is this the strength you can muster!?"
With a guttural shout, he forced his bulging arm harder against Lionel's hammer, his brown aura surging like a wildfire. Lionel's knees bent under the weight, his whole body vibrating from the pressure.
"Kkhhhh… damn…!" Lionel hissed, his arms trembling as Erickson bore down on him.
"Hey! Hey, where are you looking!?" Erickson barked, twisting his torso. His right fist rocketed forward, aimed squarely for Lionel's head.
Lionel's eyes sharpened. Instead of retreating, he threw his left fist up, slamming it into Erickson's oncoming punch.
THUUMM!
The clash of flesh against flesh cracked like thunder, the impact sending a brutal shockwave through the arena. Lionel skidded backward, boots carving deep lines in the ground—but he stood firm, his fist still locked against Erickson's.
The crowd gasped, some rising from their seats as the two fighters clashed—hammer and fists, steel and flesh, talent and hard work—deadlocked in raw force.
Erickson's chest heaved as he steadied himself, the brown aura that cloaked his body pulsing stronger with every breath. He drew his left fist back, knuckles tightening until his veins stood out, glowing faintly as if molten iron coursed through them. His forearm bulged with power, every muscle straining as though the very earth had lent him its strength.
With a sharp exhale, he lunged forward, the ground trembling beneath his steps. His voice rang clear, filled with youthful defiance:
"Here I come, Lionel!"
Lionel's gaze sharpened, following the swell of energy gathering in that single fist. A quiet thought flickered across his mind, This guy really...
Rather than recoil, Lionel inhaled deeply, then stamped his right foot into the stone with practiced precision. Crack! The arena floor split wide, jagged shards of rock erupting into the air like scattered jewels. Dust whirled upward in a gust, framing him in an almost regal light.
In a single motion, he passed his hammer into his left hand, twirling it with fluid grace before lowering it behind him. His now-free right hand swept through the cloud of rising stones, palm steady as though selecting the very ore for his forge. The fragments gathered into his grasp, trembling against his fingers as if awaiting judgment.
The familiar shimmer of azure runes sparked faintly along his skin.
[The Hammer that Grants Possibilities has been used.
Target: Rocks.]
The stones in his palm resonated, glowing faintly as their form bent to Lionel's will, no longer mere debris but material for something greater. His lips curved in the faintest of smirks, calm even in the storm.
"Strength alone is fleeting," he murmured, his voice carrying through the arena like steel drawn from its scabbard. "But with resolve and craft… possibilities become endless."
His right fist began to change, the shattered stones melding and hardening as if hammered into place, slowly shaping themselves into a rugged, stone-like gauntlet that fused seamlessly with his skin. Lionel flexed his hand, feeling the weight settle, and his lips curved into a confident smirk.
"I call this… Granite Knuckle."
A clear chime rang within his mind.
[Granite Knuckle has been created.]
[Rank: E — durability low due to crude material and insufficient quantity.]
Erickson barreled forward, his roar cutting through the arena, "Another petty trick of yours?!" He laughed, a sharp, defiant sound, and spat, "But that still won't work on me!" His left fist, veins bulging and glowing faintly with brown energy, shot toward Lionel like a battering ram.
Lionel's eyes narrowed, a faint smirk on his lips. He clenched his right fist and thrust it forward to meet Erickson's strike head-on. Just as their fists were about to collide, Lionel whispered, "Idiot."
In a fluid, disciplined motion befitting a noble warrior, Lionel's left hand—still gripping his polished hammer—swung outward. The hammer struck Erickson's cheek mid-charge, twisting his head and leaving him momentarily dazed. With a deft twirl, Lionel's hammer connected again, the rear end slamming into Erickson's shoulder, exploiting the brief disorientation.
Erickson grunted, "Gukh—such petty tri—", his voice cut off as Lionel's Granite Knuckle smashed into his face. The stone-like knuckle creaked under the force, yet endured long enough to crush the momentum of Erickson's Divine Blessing.
Erickson's body convulsed, knees buckling as the arena floor shuddered beneath him. He collapsed, unconscious, dust rising in ghostly wisps around him. Lionel stood over him, calm and composed, hammer gleaming in the sunlight, a figure of precision, strength, and noble authority, having turned his opponent's charge into a calculated defeat.
The Hammer that Grants Possibilities vanished from Lionel's hand in a soft shimmer, as if it had fulfilled its purpose. He stepped forward slowly toward the unconscious Erickson, eyes cool and calculating.
"Hey… you won't be standing again, right?" he murmured, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. "Well… that was a good fight. But let me leave you with this—even if you can't hear me now:
'A gifted man may shine, but the one who labors without pause can eclipse him entirely.'"
With that, Lionel turned and walked away from the center of the arena, each step measured, leaving a trail of quiet authority in his wake.
From the sidelines, Ruvia's gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing at the scene. "How… strange," she muttered under her breath. "Last time I saw him, he acted like a boy who didn't know his own worth… but now… it feels like he's become a completely different person. Just… Lionel. What happened to you?"
She let out a soft sigh, the wind catching a strand of her hair. "Don't worry," she whispered to herself, her voice tinged with determination, "I'll find out soon enough."
As Lionel walked out of the arena, Lilia suddenly dashed forward and threw her arms around him. "Myyyy lord! I'm so—so proud of you! Wahhh!" she exclaimed, pressing Lionel's head against her chest in a tight, joyful hug.
"Lilia…!" Lionel muttered, muffled, struggling to breathe under her embrace. "I… can't… breathe!"
"Oh! Ahhh, sorry, young lord!" Lilia finally released him, stepping back slightly, her face glowing with excitement. "But… you're just incredible! I can't believe my eyes. To think the scaredy-cat young lord has transformed into such a brilliant, dazzling kid! The Duchess will be over the moon when I tell her!"
"What?" Lionel asked, raising an eyebrow, still catching his breath.
"Oh, nothing!" Lilia replied quickly, tucking her hands neatly behind her back and straightening her posture, a mischievous yet respectful smile gracing her face.
Lionel straightened his posture, a proud glint in his eyes. "Hmph. Did you see how I struck my hammer in the final move? And how I used the rocks as a weapon? Did you notice that?" he asked, directing his question at Lilia.
Lilia paused, her cheeks pinking slightly. "Umm… nope, young lord. I was… cooking something for you," she replied, avoiding his gaze.
Lionel blinked, then tilted his head, a conflicted expression crossing his face. "Wow… I don't even know what expression to make. I feel happy… and sad… all at the same time. Like… I want to fart, but—poop came out instead," he muttered, his pride tangled with embarrassment.
Lilia let out a small squeak of surprise, covering her mouth as she tried not to laugh, while Lionel's shoulders stiffened in mock indignation.
Lilia beamed proudly as she held the dish forward. "Anyway, here's your favorite!" she announced, her eyes sparkling. "Tadaaaa! It's your favorite—chicken fricassee!"
The plate itself was a work of art. Golden-brown, tender chicken thighs sat atop a creamy bed of lightly sautéed mushrooms and onions, bathed in a rich, velvety white sauce that glistened under the light of the arena's sidelines. Sprigs of fresh thyme and parsley adorned the top, adding a touch of green against the soft ivory sauce. Around the edges, a delicate drizzle of clarified butter shimmered, making the entire dish look almost too beautiful to eat. Steam curled lazily upward, carrying the scent of roasted chicken, garlic, and a hint of nutmeg, teasing Lionel's senses.
Lionel's eyes widened as he took in every detail. "Wow… this… this looks amazing," he muttered, a mix of awe and hunger in his voice.
"Wow… you really put too much into it," Lionel said, his voice a mix of admiration and amusement as he looked at the plate.
"Of course!" Lilia replied, her eyes sparkling with determination. "Just by seeing how much you've changed, it only feels right to do my best for you. I want you to feel energized for the upcoming fights." Her gaze flared with intensity, full of sincerity.
Then, with a mischievous smile, Lilia stepped closer. "If you're not interested in the food…" she teased, pulling slightly at the hem of her maid outfit and leaning forward just enough to reveal a hint of skin. "How about… eating me instead?"
Lionel blinked, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "No thanks."
"Instant decision!" Lilia exclaimed, puffing her cheeks and crossing her arms, clearly both impressed and amused by his prompt refusal.
Lionel picked up the chicken fricassee, savoring each bite carefully. Between bites, he muttered, "Just… stop teasing me and focus on the last fight."
From behind him, Lilia's soft voice whispered, "But… I'm serious, though."
"Hmm? You're saying something?" Lionel asked, raising an eyebrow without turning around.
"Nopeee," Lilia replied quickly, sticking out her tongue and making a comically exaggerated silly face. "I didn't say anything!"
Lionel shook his head slightly, letting out a small sigh, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Cairos' voice rang throughout the grand arena, each word carrying the weight of authority and ceremony. "The final contest of the Ceremonial of Swords shall now commence!"
From the left, a figure stepped forward with measured poise. "The son of the Patriarch and the Third Duchess—Ronald!" The young noble's movements were precise, each step deliberate. His sword, gripped firmly in his left hand, gleamed under the sun, while his shield on the right radiated an unspoken assurance of defense and discipline. A subtle aura of nobility clung to him; he was the epitome of a trained scion, calm yet imposing.
From the right, a figure appeared with a predatory grace. "And from the son of the Patriarch and the Fifth Duchess—Percival!" His stance was far from conventional. Steel claws adorned each finger, sharp and menacing, while a polished steel mask concealed his lower face, leaving only his piercing dark blue eyes visible. His purple hair shifted with the breeze, framing his gaze, which burned with calculated intensity. There was a quiet menace to him, the kind that spoke of raw talent honed into deadly precision.
The arena fell into a hushed anticipation. The sun glinted off polished steel and noble crests, shadows stretching across the sand as both scions measured each other. Ronald's grip tightened on his sword, shield angled just so, a faint glimmer of his disciplined training evident in his stance. Percival's fingers flexed against the steel claws, his muscles taut beneath finely tailored armor, ready to strike with lethal elegance.
The air between them seemed to thrum with expectation, every spectator holding their breath, sensing that this duel would not be merely a test of skill—but a clash of heritage, training, and raw potential.
"Better to step aside before I leave a scar on that handsome face of yours, brother," Percival's voice cut through the tense air, calm yet laced with a challenge, the steel mask hiding any subtle smirk that might have played on his lips.
Ronald's shoulders relaxed slightly, a faint, shy chuckle escaping him. "Hah… only if you can reach me," he replied, his tone light yet carrying the confidence of disciplined training, eyes flicking to Percival's poised stance.
Percival's dark blue eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating, a dangerous glint surfacing between seriousness and sneering amusement. "Oh, I will," he said, voice low but resolute. "And I shall."
A hush fell over the arena. Sand stirred lightly under the wind, the sun glinting off their polished steel and finely crafted weapons, as the two brothers assessed one another. Each movement, each glance, radiated a tension that promised not just a duel, but a spectacle of noble skill and raw, inherited power.