Chapter 10
A heavy silence settled over the entire hall.
Then—
Footsteps.
Measured.
Firm.
Unhurried.
A single figure stepped through the opened doors.
Damnern.
He walked alone.
His posture was straight, his expression composed, but there was something different about him today—something sharper. More defined. As if the weight of every step he took was being acknowledged by the entire hall.
Whispers immediately broke out, though still restrained.
"That's him…"
"Lord Damnern…"
"The Fifth Strongest warrior…"
But those whispers were quickly swallowed by the rising atmosphere.
As Damnern advanced down the long aisle, every pair of eyes followed him.
Elyra didn't realize she had leaned forward slightly.
Her heart beat once.
Then again.
Thump… thump…
…He looks…
She stopped herself mid-thought, tightening her jaw.
Damnern didn't hesitate. He didn't look around. He didn't falter under the pressure of hundreds of nobles and the silent authority of the throne ahead.
He simply walked forward—as if the entire hall existed only to witness him reach the end.
Eldern's eyes narrowed slightly, tracking every step.
"…Impressive."
His voice was low, controlled—but there was genuine recognition in it.
Elina exhaled softly, almost in disbelief. "So this is… the moment."
Damnern reached the center of the hall.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to narrow down to him, the king, and the long stretch of marble between them.
Elyra's fingers tightened again on the armrest.
Annoying.
That was what she wanted to think.
But instead—
Her gaze remained locked on him.
Because for some reason she didn't fully understand yet…
Damnern looked extremely cool.
A faint tension stirred in her chest again.
But she didn't look away.
Neither did Eldern.
And in that vast, silent hall, as Damnern continued his walk toward the throne, it became clear that this moment was not just a ceremony—
It was a turning point that even they could feel, deep in their instincts.
At the main hall of the grand Neltan Palace, the atmosphere had become almost unreal—like time itself had slowed to honor the moment.
Arveth Neltan rose from the throne.
His presence alone was enough to silence the entire hall.
Step by step, he descended from the elevated throne platform, his royal robes flowing behind him like a dark tide embroidered with gold. His gaze was fixed forward—unyielding, absolute.
Ahead of him stood Damnern Solv.
Motionless.
Steady.
Not a trace of hesitation in his posture.
Along both sides of the central aisle, the royal guards remained perfectly aligned. Their spears were planted firmly against the marble floor, blades catching the morning light that streamed through the high stained-glass windows. The reflection shimmered across polished armor, creating a corridor of steel and discipline.
Not a single sound broke the silence.
Even breathing felt restrained.
King Arveth stopped at a measured distance from Damnern.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
He simply looked at him.
It was not the gaze of a man addressing a subordinate.
It was the gaze of a king weighing history itself.
Then, in a voice that carried effortlessly through the vast hall—heavy, commanding, undeniable—he spoke.
"Arveth Neltan declares."
The hall seemed to tighten.
Every noble, every guard, every observer instinctively straightened.
"For your services," the king continued, "your loyalty… and your sacrifices in protecting the Kingdom of Neltan…"
A brief pause.
The weight of those words lingered in the air.
"…I bestow upon you the title of Count."
A subtle shift passed through the hall—barely visible, but deeply felt. Whispers threatened to rise but were immediately suppressed by the presence of the king.
"And along with this title," Arveth continued, his voice unwavering, "I grant you the territory of Willowess, to be placed under your full administration."
The name Willowess echoed faintly among the nobles.
A territory of significance.
A responsibility that was not merely symbolic, but deeply political and strategic.
Damnern did not move.
He only lowered his head slightly—an acknowledgment, not submission, but acceptance.
King Arveth's gaze remained locked on him.
"However," the king said, his tone sharpening slightly, "with this new responsibility, the title you have long carried—the title of Strongest Warrior—shall no longer be your duty."
A ripple of tension moved through the hall.
That title had been more than recognition.
It had been a symbol.
A standard.
A name spoken with reverence and fear across the kingdom.
The king's voice did not waver.
"From today onward, you are no longer merely the kingdom's shield."
A pause.
"You are a pillar."
The king's eyes narrowed slightly, as if engraving the words into reality itself.
"A pillar that upholds peace and justice for the people of your territory."
For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
No applause.
No movement.
Only the weight of a new era settling over the hall like an unseen crown.
Damnern remained still.
But the meaning of the king's words had already begun to spread through the hall—through nobles, through guards, through those watching from afar.
This was not just an appointment.
It was a transformation.
And in that moment, the man known as the kingdom's strongest warrior was no longer defined by battle alone—
but by the burden of governing life itself.
Damnern bowed his head, accepting the king's decision with full respect. The hall fell into a heavy silence, as though even time itself had paused to witness the moment his destiny shifted—the end of one era, and the quiet beginning of another, as he stepped into his new role as Count of Willowess.
A low wave of whispers slowly spread through the hall, yet even those seemed restrained, careful not to disturb the weight of what had just taken place. Across the chamber, the warriors' attention gradually drifted away from Damnern and toward something far more significant in their minds—the empty seat that now remained among the Strongest Warriors.
To them, that seat was not merely a title.
It was the highest recognition a warrior in the Kingdom of Neltan could ever achieve.
Damnern had held the position of Strongest Warrior for only eight years, yet in that time, he had already carved his name into legend. His unmatched speed, precise tactical judgment, and fearless presence on the battlefield had made him one of the youngest individuals ever to reach such a rank. And now, just as remarkably, he had become the youngest to be and to leave it behind—leaving a vacancy that would not remain unchallenged for long.
A few of the younger warriors exchanged glances, their expressions shifting into subtle, knowing smirks.
"This year's Colosseum is going to be something else," one of them murmured, barely containing his excitement.
Another leaned slightly closer, his voice low but sharp with ambition. "Who's going to take the seat of Strongest Warrior now?"
Their words carried a deeper meaning than simple curiosity.
"Mama, what's Co-lo-see-um?" Elyra asked Elina, her gaze still drifting toward the murmuring warriors in the hall, curiosity flickering in her voice.
End of Chapter 10