“The victor—Sir Tolan Kael!”

  The herald’s proclamation thundered through the arena as trumpets blared.

  Tolan inclined his head with effortless grace, raising a blade in salute. The galleries shimmered with movement — fans fluttering, jewels catching sunlight — as applause rolled through the tiers. Some smiled, clearly charmed by the young knight’s poise. Others clapped without warmth, eyes narrowing in quiet assessment.

  For all his skill, the nobles knew this was only the prelude, and a very expected outcome.

  The herald lifted his staff again, and silence fell.

  “And now—House and Realm bear witness to the Final Match of the Great Barion Games!”

  The hush deepened, charged with expectation. Every gaze turned toward the gate below.

  “By right of blood, by name of House, the chosen champion steps forth. The Scion of Barion. The Heir of the Western Vale…”

  The gate began to rise.

  “…Lord Hope Barion!”

  Sunlight cut across the sand as Hope stepped into view, spear in hand.

  The stands stirred. A sharp intake of breath, a ripple of voices, a few scattered claps before decorum reclaimed the silence.

  Hope met their gaze only briefly before his eyes fixed on the arena’s centre, where Tolan waited with a radiant smile.

  The herald’s final words rang clear, echoing over marble and sand alike.

  “May courage find its measure… and may the greatest champion—emerge victorious!”

  The herald’s words faded, leaving only the whisper of wind over the sand.

  Hope studied the young man before him.

  Tolan’s stance was measured now — gone was the easy smile, the playful arrogance from earlier bouts. What stood in its place was composure, a quiet readiness that spoke of respect rather than pride. His twin blades hung low, angled inward, the posture of a duelist who knew both his limits and his worth.

  For a heartbeat, neither moved.

  Then Tolan inclined his head, voice calm but carrying across the stillness. “An honour long awaited, Lord Hope Barion,” he said. “I’ll give you everything I have — and I hope it’s enough to make you try.”

  The nobles stirred at the words — a few amused smiles, a murmur through the high balconies.

  Hope’s expression didn’t change. He watched Tolan’s eyes, noting the pulse of focus there — not arrogance, but genuine intent.

  Interesting.

  Since his fight with Hector — a battle that now felt years behind him — he hadn’t crossed blades with another human.

  He wondered just how wide the gulf had become between himself and one this realm called a champion — one who, like him, stood at Level 100.

  Hope tilted his head slightly, the faintest trace of a smile forming. “Then I’ll take you seriously, Sir Tolan,” he said, voice even, almost calm. “Don’t hold back—I'd hate to end this too quickly.”

  The words drew a quiet ripple through the balconies — a few raised brows, a soft laugh from somewhere high above.

  Tolan’s lips curved into a grin, equal parts respect and challenge. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The horn blared.

  BOOM!

  Sand exploded beneath Tolan’s boots, scattering like dust in a storm as his figure blurred forward.

  CLANG!

  Hope’s spear moved almost lazily, the shaft sliding into place just as both shortblades struck. The impact echoed sharp and clean through the arena, but he barely felt it. His eyes tracked Tolan’s form.

  CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

  Steel flashed. Sparks flew.

  Tolan pressed hard, twin blades darting from impossible angles, his form flickering between each strike like a mirage.

  Hope blocked them all. Each motion was efficient, unhurried—his spear turning aside the storm with casual precision.

  He studied the man through the clash. That speed… not Air Magika alone. The flow was different—more direct.

  Kinetic?

  Another strike scraped along the spearhead, sparks trailing in its wake.

  No doubt about it. He was accelerating not just his body, but the blades themselves.

  Hope almost smiled. Impressive. He’d tried the same once — and failed miserably. His affinity for Kinetic had always been poor, useful only for small, mundane tasks.

  Still, for someone with probably half his Magia stat, Tolan’s control was… admirable.

  The next strike came high. Hope twisted, knocking it wide with a short flick of his wrist, then drove his boot forward.

  THUD!

  The kick crashed into Tolan’s chest with a deep, resonant crack. The knight flew backward several paces, sand spraying as he landed hard.

  Hope lowered his spear, watching him cough blood and still manage a grin.

  “Not bad… heir of Barion,” Tolan rasped, wiping his mouth. “Let’s see how you handle this.”

  Then he blurred again.

  Faster. The air snapping with each step. A spiral of dust rose around him as Kinetic energy pulsed outward in waves.

  Hope’s eyes narrowed. The ground at his feet shifted. Not from weight—but from pull.

  Tch. External application? Clever.

  The air warped. His center of gravity jerked as unseen force tugged at him mid-stance.

  He moved instantly, spear tracing a tight arc through the distortion—

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  WHOOSH!

  A blade cut through where his neck had been a heartbeat before, slicing a few strands of hair that drifted weightless through the air.

  Hope exhaled slowly, steady, his gaze locked on Tolan’s afterimage as the knight slid to a stop across the sand, dust spiralling in his wake.

  “That was a nice trick, Sir Tolan,” he said, lowering his stance, spear angled forward. “Why don’t you show it to me again.”

  Tolan’s grin returned. “Gladly.”

  BOOM!

  He vanished.

  The sand erupted in twin plumes as he closed the distance in a blink, blades flashing from opposite arcs. Hope’s body moved before thought—spear rotating, deflecting left, sliding under, twisting to meet the second strike.

  CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

  The rhythm quickened. Sparks scattered in every direction. Each strike came faster than the last—Tolan accelerating mid-motion, each swing packed with compressed bursts of Kinetic force.

  Hope’s expression didn’t waver. He moved through the storm with effortless precision, every block tight, every turn efficient. The spearhead sliced through the air with a clean whistle, cutting so fast it seemed to tear the sound apart.

  Tolan tried again to shift his rhythm, pushing and pulling his momentum with Kinetic bursts, but Hope’s footing didn’t budge. His stance held steady, anchored by sheer physical power and control, each counter solid as stone.

  Sand sprayed with every impact, waves of dust rippling outward as the crowd leaned forward, breathless.

  Then—an opening.

  Hope caught both blades on the shaft, twisted, and shoved hard.

  CRACK!

  Tolan flew back again, landing in a slide that gouged a deep scar through the arena floor. But this time, he didn’t stop. He let the momentum carry him, hands flicking.

  The air shimmered—pressure coiling.

  Four stone fragments from Cedric’s earlier spell rose from the sand, orbiting him like bullets.

  They shot forward in unison. Hope pivoted, spear sweeping through the air in a blur.

  THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

  Each fragment shattered mid-flight, dust exploding around him like smoke. Through the haze, Tolan charged, blades glinting white.

  Hope stepped in.

  For a fraction of a second, they crossed.

  BOOM!

  The collision sent a shockwave rippling through the arena, sand lifting in a circular wave. Nobles leaned from their balconies, shielding their eyes as the blast rolled toward them—only to break harmlessly against the shimmering barrier cast by the Wind Mages.

  When the dust settled—

  Both stood motionless.

  Hope’s spear rested against Tolan’s throat. Tolan’s blades hung frozen mid-swing, steel trembling inches from his armour.

  Hope’s voice was calm, quiet—almost respectful.

  “Good control,” he said. “But you’re still too slow.”

  Tolan exhaled, shoulders heaving as he stepped back. A tired smile crept onto his face, his breath ragged, sweat tracing clean lines through the dust on his brow.

  “Couldn’t even force you to use your Magika,” he said, chuckling softly. “It felt like fighting a Tier 2 Knight. Truly… impressive.”

  Hope tilted his head slightly, studying him. The man had grace, even in loss.

  Truth be told, he was a bit impressed too. The gap in Physis between them was massive, yet he had been forced to use his full physical strength just to counter that speed and the subtle kinetic interference. Tolan was better than expected. Stronger than Hector would have been at the same level.

  However…

  The difference was still vast. His build leaned toward Magia, not Physis, and even without using it, the outcome had never truly been in doubt.

  He retracted his spear and extended a hand. “It was a good fight,” he said sincerely.

  Tolan blinked, then laughed — a warm, genuine sound. He clasped the offered hand firmly. “An honour, Hope Barion. May we cross blades again someday.”

  Trumpets blared, sharp and exultant, echoing through the marble walls of the arena. The herald strode to the platform, voice booming with ceremony and pride.

  “Behold! The Final Trial concludes!”

  “Esteemed lords and ladies, scions of noble blood — bear witness! The Champion of the Great Barion Games… Lord Hope Barion!”

  Applause surged like a tide, rolling across the stands in layered waves of sound. Nobles rose from their seats, attendants followed in disciplined rhythm. Some clapped with admiration, others with measured grace — yet the air itself thrummed with recognition.

  Banners bearing the sigil of House Barion unfurled in the wind, crimson and gold blazing under the light.

  Hope stood at the centre of it all — spear tilted at his side, the dust of battle still drifting around his boots. Then, with quiet composure, he bowed toward the high dais where his ‘father’ and ‘mother’ sat.

  When he straightened, a faint smile crossed his lips. He lifted a hand, waving briefly toward the crowd.

  Despite it all… the Games had been more enjoyable than he had expected.

  Hope stood before the mirror, staring at the prim, polished face staring back.

  After checking there was no maid lurking inside, he ran both hands through his hair, wrecking the ‘carefully sculpted pastry’ he’d been forced to wear all day. A few quick rakes and flicks later, it looked more like him — messy, alive, real.

  Next came the clothes. He stripped the pompous layers off one by one and tossed them onto the bed with zero ceremony. Then he pulled open the closet and found the outfit Selera had given him. Not exactly his thing — a touch too refined — but compared to the other frilly torture devices, it was practically a blessing.

  He checked himself in the mirror, turned sideways, grinned. Much better.

  Then, a quick beat of his heart hit.

  A faint heat crept up his neck. “Shit… why am I nervous? It’s just a tour… right?” he muttered, but his reflection didn’t look convinced.

  He gave himself one last once-over, nodded, and moved fast. The discarded clothes were shoved under the blanket, puffed up into a perfect “sleeping noble” decoy.

  “I’ll be taking a nap! Do not disturb me until the Ball — no exceptions!” he called out.

  “As you wish, my lord,” came the reply through the door.

  “Good,” he whispered, smirking.

  He unlatched the window, pushed it open, and eyed the drop — three floors to the garden below. Easy.

  Stepping onto the ledge, he shut the window behind him with a flick of Kinetic pressure, then slipped into the air. The faint hum of Air Magika lifted him gently down.

  He touched the grass without a sound, boots sinking softly into the green.

  He glanced around, mapping the usual knight patrols in his head. Timing it between shifts, he slipped through the gaps, Air Gear humming faintly as he moved — barely a whisper against the night air.

  He was just vaulting over the outer wall by the training fields when a voice, clear and teasing, drifted from behind him.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry, dear brother?”

  He froze mid-motion. You’ve got to be kidding me. For the Void’s sake… come on!

  Turning slowly, he forced the most charming smile he could manage. “Well, if it isn’t my sweet sister. I was merely… going for some fresh air. The Games have been rather stressful, as you can imagine.”

  Elira stood there in her crimson dress, posture poised but her eyes dancing with amusement. “Oh? That’s strange. I don’t recall seeing you sweat even once,” she said lightly, folding her hands behind her back. “Very well then — enjoy your ‘fresh air’ with the graceful Lady Elayne. But do be sure to return before the Ball begins. If you make me wait…”

  She let the threat hang, her smirk far too satisfied for someone her age.

  This brat… since when did she—

  Hope exhaled through his nose, half amused, half defeated. He had a sinking feeling this was one of those mysterious ‘girl things’ he’d heard about — best left unexplored.

  Whatever. Probably safer not to ask.

  He gave her a lazy wave, already turning toward the wall again. “Well then, Elira, wish me luck. Or better yet, pretend you never saw me.”

  Elira giggled softly behind her hand. “There’s really no need for all this sneaking about, you know,” she said, tone dripping with amusement. “Half the court already knows where you’re going — and with whom.”

  He froze mid-step, hand still half-raised. “...You’re kidding.”

  She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Oh, Hope. You truly underestimate how fast gossip travels among nobles. By supper, I imagine even the gardeners will be whispering about your little tour with Lady Elayne.”

  “...”

  Fuck.

  Patreon— 50 chapters ahead!