The entire stadium was stunned into silence. Everyone knew the tournament rules did not prohibit killing, yet such deaths were meant to be rare accidents—incidents prevented almost without fail by Pinusal, who always intervened before a fatal blow could land. But even the millennia-old referee had not foreseen that this time a participant would choose to kill his opponent with is first strike—and succeed. The sight had been truly horrific, so much so that several sensitive spectators rushed from their seats to the bathrooms, where retching echoed down the corridors.
Yet one person in particular, when the Dark Knights' vice-captain's words reached him, clenched his fists so tightly that his palms split, crimson drops sliding down his fingers.
Once the initial shock broke, a deafening wave of boos and curses erupted, pouring down from the stands onto the dark elf.
Aislyra remained silent. But her ice-blue eyes burned with unfiltered hatred as she suddenly rose to her feet and strode toward the cabin's exit.
"Wait, Aislyra!" Lucas and Sequoria cried at the same time. But their calls were useless. The frost-eyed elf ignored them completely, her steps sharp and purposeful.
Just before she could leave, a figure entered the royal booth and planted himself firmly between Aislyra and the door.
"Move. I have to kill that worm," Aislyra said, her voice as cold as steel drawn in winter.
The man blocking her path was the Minister of Defense, Scuro. His dark gaze was heavy with fury, though his expression also carried something more—obvious guilt.
"I understand," he said gravely. "You don't know how much I understand. But as His Majesty and Lady Sequoria must have already told you, this is not the time."
"I said MOVE, Scuro!" Aislyra snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut stone. However, when her eyes dropped to his hands she halted,. Blood trickled freely from between Scuro's clenched fists, dripping onto the polished floor.
For Aislyra, that was enough. She understood instantly—Scuro's rage burned even deeper than her own, and its source was far more personal, considering the bond between him and Buio. She released a sharp snort and flung herself back into her seat with violent force.
"Damn it. Today is really not my day," she muttered bitterly.
Lucas and Sequoria both exhaled in relief. Without Scuro's intervention, neither of them was certain they could have restrained Aislyra. And they were equally certain that if she had stormed down into the arena, she would not have hesitated to kill Buio on the spot.
"Thank you, Scuro. Without your arrival, we never would have stopped her," Lucas said, his tone heavy with gratitude.
The Minister of Defense immediately bowed before her. "No, Your Majesty, there is no need to thank me. I did not intervene solely because her actions would have worsened our already fragile relations with Oscura. The truth is far more arrogant and selfish." His jaw tightened, his eyes full of anguish. "If fate grants me the chance, I intend to be the one to settle things with Buio. If Aislyra killed him now, my only opportunity to face him in this tournament would vanish completely."
The expression on Scuro's face was unlike anything Lucas had ever seen—an agonizing mix of sorrow, fury, and determination.
Lucas did not know how to respond. Sequoria had told him little about Scuro: only that he was a dark elf exiled from Oscuora when the new king took the throne, and that Alberia had taken him in afterward. She had refused to say more, claiming it was a story Scuro himself should tell. Of course, Lucas could demand it at any time, and the loyal minister would no doubt answer. But he hesitated. First, it would look strange—Alberia already knew such things, so asking again might appear suspicious. Second, it felt too much like abusing his authority as queen.
Even so, Scuro's demeanor, combined with Buio's venomous words, painted an unmistakable picture of the two men's relationship.
Before Lucas could decide on anything further, Scuro spoke again. "Now, if Your Majesty will excuse me. Knowing that Buio is among the competitors, I intend to use the time remaining before the second day of preliminaries to train. He is a vile man, but by no means a weak one."
With those final words, Scuro turned and departed the booth, the pained expression never leaving his face.
Once Scuro had left, Lucas exhaled a long, heavy sigh, his thoughts lingering uneasily. 'I just hope he doesn't overdo it with the training…'
Most of the spectators were still hurling insults at Buio, who, with infuriating calmness, walked out of the arena as if the outrage of thousands meant nothing to him. He ignored the storm of hatred completely. But then, the mood in the stands suddenly escalated—an enraged elf picked up a heavy stone and hurled it straight at the dark elf's back.
Yet before it could reach its target, Pinusal stepped in and blocked it with his own body.
"Spectators!" he bellowed, his deep voice echoing through the arena. "I understand your anger. I understand that you are not happy with how this match ended. But know this: Mr. Buio has won according to the rules of this tournament. If you wish to cast blame, then blame me—for failing to stop the match in time!" His face twisted with pain as he declared the words.
His announcement froze the furious crowd into silence.
Then Pinusal turned toward Buio. His eyes locked onto the dark elf's with unshakable intensity, and his voice dropped to a tone so cold it seemed make the air itself vibrate.
"But hear me, Buio Raguidel. If you dare attempt that again, I will stop the fight immediately—even if I must use force."
For a fleeting moment, the atmosphere itself seemed to tremble beneath his words.
Buio's only reply was a simple, arrogant smile. Without a word, he turned his back on everyone and disappeared through one of the arena gates.
Meanwhile, the medical team had already covered the poor young knight's mangled body and carried it away.
A single minute of suffocating silence followed, before Chiacchera's voice cut through the tension. "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her tone noticeably unsteady, "I know many of you are shaken and not in the mood, but the scheduled break now begins. The next match will resume in two hours. Please take this time to relax and have lunch. Outside, you will find many stalls offering food from across our vast continent. I truly hope what happened in the last match will not cloud your enjoyment." Her voice trembled slightly by the end.
Gradually, the atmosphere loosened. After a couple of minutes, many spectators rose from their seats and began heading toward the exits to eat, as midday had now arrived.
Lucas was still lost in thought about Scuro and Buio when his rumbling stomach brought him back to reality.
With a teasing grin, Aislyra leaned toward him. "Hungry, Your Majesty?"
Lucas blushed faintly, replying in a quiet voice, "Yes…"
"In a little while, some of the palace waitresses will arrive with food prepared by the royal chefs…" Aislyra said.
Of course, the palace chefs were exceptionally talented, and their dishes would no doubt satisfy his hunger. But when Chiacchera had mentioned the stalls filled with food from different nations, a thought had sparked in Lucas's mind: 'I want to try them…' Still, he knew the reality of his position. As queen, slipping away to join the crowd was far from possible.
"But let me guess," Aislyra added slyly, "you want to taste food from other countries, don't you?"
"YES!" Lucas answered without hesitation, his eyes shining with excitement. Then, hesitantly, he added, "But… can I?"
"Well…" Aislyra began, her tone deliberately cautious. "Obviously, we can't just wander around the stalls. There are too many people. Even if we disguised ourselves like yesterday, the crowd is far too dense—someone would recognize us for sure." Lucas's face dimmed with disappointment at her words, but then Aislyra's lips curved into a playful smile. "However, there is another option. In the cafeteria for tournament participants, Katerina told me we've brought in chefs from all over the continent to cater to the competitors' diverse tastes. And technically speaking, you are a tournament participant. So if you're fine with it, we could go eat there, Your Majesty."
Lucas's entire expression lit up. "Of course I'm fine with that!" he exclaimed, leaping from his chair with sudden enthusiasm. But then, a troubling thought came to mind. His smile faltered. "But… what about the food they're bringing here?" he asked in a slightly dejected tone.
"Don't worry, son, leave that to me," Sequoria said confidently. "I know it doesn't look like it, since I usually hold back, but when I decide to eat seriously, no one in the palace can match me." Her proud smile radiated self-assurance.
"Really?!" Lucas blurted, half in disbelief.
"Yes, really," Aislyra said in an oddly serious voice. "There was once a palace contest to see who could eat the most cakes. Mom won by a landslide. Not even the biggest royal guards could compete with the number of cakes she devoured."
"I… I see…" Lucas muttered, still staring at Sequoria with shock. Then he straightened and said, "Well, in that case, we'll be going." He left the cabin with Aislyra, still dazed by what he had just heard.
But as the two exited the royal booth, they were met by an unexpected figure.
"Hello, Your Majesty. Headed to the cafeteria?" Katerina asked, her usual calm expression and half-closed eyes giving away little. "Allow me to guide you."
Lucas blinked in surprise. He hadn't seen Katerina at all that morning—she hadn't been present when she usually came to wake him and help him dress. Until now, she had been waiting in one of the dressing rooms for her turn to assist, but with the break beginning, she had clearly been permitted to leave.
"Hello Katerian, welcome back! But… how did you know that we wanted to go to the cafeteria?" Lucas greeted her, his curiosity slipping out immediately afterward.
"As your personal maid, it is my duty to know what my master desires before he even speaks or acts," Katerina replied in her soft, beautiful monotone.
"I… see," Lucas muttered under his breath. Yet inside his head he was screaming 'First Sequoria, now Katerina… is it really that easy to read my mind?! It's not that everyone already know I'm not the real Alberia, and they're just pretending not to so they won't hurt my pride, Right?!'
But these thoughts scattered at once when his stomach gave another loud rumble.
With a mischievous grin stretching across her face, Aislyra teased, "Hurry up, Katerina. His Majesty is starving."
"It would appear so," Katerina added calmly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
Lucas's cheeks turned crimson, but the three set off toward the cafeteria regardless.
It didn't take long before they arrived. The hall was packed—row after row of fighters in mismatched gear, weapons propped against walls, accents from every corner of the continent echoing in the air. The sheer variety of faces and outfits once again drove home the fact that many of the competitors were not from this kingdom, though elves still made up a sizeable number.
The moment Lucas, Aislyra, and Katerina entered, conversations faltered. Countless eyes fixed on "Alberia", and soon murmurs spread like wildfire.
"My gods, who is that blonde elf? She's stunning," whispered a knight from a foreign land.
"Forget her face—did you see her chest? Those things are enormous," muttered an adventurer to his companion.
His friend whistled low. "And that outfit… she's practically naked. Actually, that's even better than naked!"
Across from them, a woman adventurer slammed her cup on the table. "How can she parade around dressed like that? Doesn't she feel the slightest bit of shame?!"
Lucas's thoughts exploded. 'Yes, I'm embarrassed right now! But you've got no right to judge, considering you're strutting around in bikini armor!'
Before Lucas could stew further, another voice rang out—sharp, indignant, and filled with reverence.
"You ignorant fools! Do you even realize who stands before you? That is Her Majesty Alberia, queen of this very kingdom! And the sacred dress she wears is no ordinary garment—it is a divine gift bestowed by the great goddess Elfidora herself, the holy creator of all elves!" shouted an elf from one of the nearby tables, his voice booming across the mess hall.
Instantly, silence fell. The three adventurers who had spoken so crudely turned pale, trembling as though death itself stood before them.
Lucas, however, fought to soften the tension. He forced the kindest, most reassuring smile he could muster, silently hoping it would ease their fear. Yes, you were rude… but I'm not going to do anything to you. With that, he turned toward what looked to be the counter where food could be ordered.
There, a familiar maid—one of the palace staff who often delivered meals with Katerina—bowed elegantly.
"Welcome to the canteen, Your Majesty. From which kingdom would you like your meal?" she asked with polished grace.
Lucas paused to consider. Ever since his arrival in this world, he had heard so much about the Kingdom of Leore. Finally, he answered, "If possible, I would like to try traditional dishes from Leore."
"Of course. Any specific plates in mind?" she asked.
"No, nothing particular. Just ask the chef to prepare his best specialties," Lucas replied.
"Perfect."
Aislyra then ordered a vegetable-based dish from a nation called Cretosse, while Katerina insisted she had already eaten earlier and would not be ordering anything.
"Very well, your meals will be prepared and brought to you shortly. Please find a table while you wait," the maid said respectfully.
"Thank you," Lucas replied warmly. With that, the three began weaving between crowded tables in search of a free spot.
After only a few moments, they came upon a curious scene: Emeralda herself was seated at one of the tables, carefully feeding Larc—Scuro opponent from the very first match of the tournament—who was covered in bandages from head to toe.