Day of the Duel
The arena trembled beneath the roar of ten thousand voices. The Colosseum of Drosmere, ancient and vast, was filled to its very edge. Nobles, warriors, peasants—they had all come to witness history.
Among them sat the great figures of the age: the envoys from the Holy Kingdom, the Pope himself, and King Andreas of Seravia. With their presence, the result of this sacred duel would be beyond dispute. This was no mere battle.
This was judgment.
A herald stepped forward, his voice ringing with ceremonial gravity.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen... to the Duel of Honor!"
The crowd erupted. Some cheered. Others wept. Many clasped their hands in silent prayer.
For the people of Drosmere, this was more than a duel—it was their queen's final stand. A selfless act of defiance. A sacrifice.
"Today, we will witness a clash that's happened once in centuries.A duel between a Six-Star Aura Master… and the only Starless Aura Master in the world!"
A hush fell over the audience. Confusion stirred among the commoners. Everyone knew the star-rank system. But Starless?
Even Isla, seated between Pope and King, raised an eyebrow.
King Andreas leaned over, curious.
"Starless, huh?"
Isla smirked.
"Starless. Classless. She walks a path unidentified by others."
He sipped his wine.
"They say she can even cut aura itself."
Even the Pope turned, interest glimmering in his ancient eyes.
The crowd may not have understood the depth of that power—but the elites did.
She was no ordinary monarch.
Her legend stretched back twenty-six years, when she fought beside the Empire against the Demon Tide. Though she looked no older than thirty, she was over sixty, her aura preserving her youth. Like the Winter Sovereign before her, she had earned the title of Sovereign through blood and valor.
"From the left corner… I present Lucas de Kustoria, the Flame Emperor—champion of the Empire!"
Lucas emerged from the gates, clad in silver-red armor that shimmered like embers. The cheers were deafening. Some jeered. Most stood in awe.
He walked slowly, every step deliberate. He didn't intend to kill quickly.
This was not just conquest—it was theater.
Let the people see the duel. Let them see the fairness. Let them believe their queen died a noble death, not a political one.
Fear could win wars—but faith won nations.
He would give them that.
"And from the right corner… the White Sovereign!"
A wave of thunderous cries tore through the stands.
She stepped forward, blade in hand, her form graceful yet unyielding. Her snowy hair danced with the wind, and her icy eyes swept across the crowd—her people.
Even the coldest hearts stirred.
Somewhere in the stands, half-hidden beneath a cloak, Prince Ian clenched his fists, watching silently.
This was a moment to gauge his future allies abilities.
The herald raised his hand, voice trembling with the weight of history.
"With the count of three… the Duel of Honor shall begin."
"One…"
A hush fell across the colosseum.
"Two…"
Lucas exhaled slowly. The queen's blade lowered into stance.
"Three…"
"Begin!"
Lucas moved first.
With a single forward step, he unsheathed his blade—and in that instant, his aura ignited. A torrent of flames surged from the swing, hurtling across the arena like a firestorm unleashed.
The White Sovereign remained still.
Eyes closed, her breath calm, she widened her stance and raised her sword. With a fluid, effortless motion, she cut through the flame, splitting the inferno down the middle. What remained was caught and deflected by the aura-shielded knights standing at the arena's perimeter, shielding the onlookers.
Gasps and cheers followed—mercenaries and citizens alike enthralled.
But to the queen, this wasn't a spectacle. It was survival.
She moved. Swift and elegant as falling snow, she dashed forward, blade glinting. Just before she reached Lucas, her form pivoted, spinning past his right side. The strike came from behind—a piercing stab aimed cleanly at his back.
Clink.
Without even looking, Lucas raised his sword behind him and blocked the attack with his sword. Effortless. Almost dismissive.
She scowled—but adapted quickly.
Dropping low, she swept her leg in a spinning kick, hoping to unbalance him from below. Their feet clashed.
Lucas didn't move an inch.
He smiled. Rarely did he face opponents with such precision. Not brute force—but technique.
Then came the fire.
His body erupted in flame, a living inferno wrapped in crimson light. The sheer pressure forced the queen to leap back, shielding her face. The ground beneath him began to crack.
"Heavenly Flame Art—First Form: Ember's Path."
With a gesture, he sent the flames forward—a tide of fire, roaring toward the queen. Even the crowd could feel the heat. Knights leapt to reinforce the aura barrier, struggling to contain the collateral.
She did not flinch.
Once more, her eyes closed. Her breath slowed. And with a single motion, she raised her sword—
—and split the firestorm in half.
The flames parted.
But this time, she didn't stop there. With another twist of her blade, she redirected the fire—back at Lucas.
He grinned.
"Interesting."
The sea of flames came roaring back. Lucas raised his palm, bracing himself. Fire clashed with fire.
Then he moved again—this time, with a different rhythm.
From both hands, he conjured two streams of fire, splitting left and right. A pincer attack. Twin seas of flame surged to trap her from both sides.
The queen ran straight at him.
The crowd roared.
The flames followed her, inching closer. She reached Lucas—strike after strike met with flawless parries. Her blade clashed with his. Sparks and heat filled the air. The flames were nearly upon her.
She spun.
In a split-second maneuver, she turned away from Lucas and sliced through the oncoming fire, just narrowly avoiding the searing heat. The redirected blast struck Lucas head-on.
Boom.
Smoke engulfed the battlefield.
For a moment, the audience dared to hope.
But when the haze cleared—Lucas stood. Slightly scorched, but smiling wider.
The Queen's strategy had worked—but it wasn't enough.
In the stands, Drosmere citizens clutched their hearts. Some began to believe again. There was hope. Perhaps—
"Heavenly Flame Art—Third Form: Blazing Tempest."
Lucas raised his sword to the sky. Above, the clouds churned. Then—fire began to rain down.
Not sparks.
Meteors.
Flaming pillars crashed toward the earth in swirling torrents. The sight was apocalyptic. The crowd screamed. Knights rushed to raise barriers.
It was terror—controlled terror. Lucas could stop it at any time.
But that wasn't the point.
The point was spectacle.
"Let them see it," he thought.
The White Sovereign's face tensed. Her blade trembled slightly in her grip.
"Damn it…"
Then she closed her eyes.
A single step forward.
One breath.
One slash.
Starless Art: Null.
A wave of silence spread.
Her sword sliced the sky.
The inferno collapsed—shrinking, unraveling, its destruction reduced to nothing. The meteor-fire shrank into harmless embers, scattering like ash in the wind.
A thousand breaths were held in awe.
Even Lucas took a step back. Even Isla raised his brows.
The crowd was stunned.
She had cut the concept of aura itself.