The Academy of Crowns' training arena was carved from white stone, its walls inlaid with wards that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Rows of benches curved around the dueling floor, already packed with students hungry for entertainment.
The air was sharp with anticipation — and the unspoken promise of blood.
Edran stepped into the arena to a murmur of disbelief. His uniform was plain, his only weapon a short practice blade. Across from him, Darius stood like a wolf about to tear into a lamb. He wore light dueling armor and carried a long, curved sword that caught the sunlight like a fang.
Headmaster Veylan's voice cut through the chatter."Standard rules. First to yield, incapacitation, or ring-out. No lethal strikes. Begin on my mark."
Edran's mind was calm. He had no delusions about winning in the traditional sense — Darius was faster, stronger, and had years of training on him. But there was more than one way to claim victory.
"Begin!"
Darius moved first, his blade flashing in a diagonal cut meant to test Edran's reflexes. Edran sidestepped, the tip of the blade passing so close he felt the air split. His body was still weak, but his cultivation practice had improved his coordination — just enough to avoid the opening strike.
The crowd jeered. "Run faster, little prince!"
Darius pressed harder, his strikes coming faster, each one meant to drive Edran back toward the arena's edge.
Edran let him.
With each retreat, he studied Darius's movements — the slight overextension in his right arm when he struck high, the fraction of a second he took to reset his footing after a heavy swing.
And more importantly… the way his mana flared with every strike. Darius relied on brute-force augmentation magic, pumping power into his muscles until each swing was almost inhumanly fast. It was impressive. It was also wasteful.
By the third minute, Darius was grinning."Come on, Edran, at least try to hit me."
Edran smiled faintly. "You seem tired already."
That earned him a snarl — and another flurry of strikes, faster now but sloppier. Darius was feeding the crowd, not thinking about efficiency.
Edran's mind raced. His own mana pool was too small for a drawn-out fight… but that also meant he wasn't wasting it. He'd used only small bursts to strengthen his legs for dodging, keeping his reserves intact.
It was time.
As Darius lunged for what he clearly intended as the finishing blow, Edran sidestepped again — but instead of retreating, he stepped in. His practice blade shot forward, not toward Darius's chest or head, but toward the guard of his sword.
The dull wood smacked against the metal just as Edran pushed a compressed burst of mana through his arm. The impact wasn't enough to break the blade, but it sent a jarring shock up Darius's arm.
The long sword slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor.
The crowd gasped.
Before Darius could recover, Edran stepped back, deliberately leaving the weapon within reach — but now, the older prince had to stoop to retrieve it. The movement exposed his neck and shoulders for a fraction of a second.
Edran raised his blade and tapped Darius's shoulder lightly."Point."
The rules didn't allow for multiple resets in a public challenge duel. A clean strike, even one as light as that, counted as a decisive blow if the opponent was disarmed.
The crowd erupted — half in shock, half in laughter.
Headmaster Veylan stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Winner: Prince Edran Valerius."
Darius froze, his jaw tight. He looked as though he might lunge for Edran regardless of the result, but the roar of the crowd and the headmaster's presence kept him in check.
"You got lucky," Darius said under his breath as they passed each other.
Edran's voice was low, calm. "No. I just didn't waste my strength swinging at air."
Back in the benches, whispers spread like wildfire. The third prince hadn't just survived the duel — he'd outsmarted his stronger brother in front of the entire House of Crowns.
Lyra was waiting at the edge of the arena when Edran stepped out."That," she said, "was beautiful. You didn't just win — you made him look foolish."
"It won't last," Edran replied. "Darius will be looking for a rematch. Next time, he'll be ready."
"Then," Lyra said, grinning, "we'll just have to make sure you're more ready."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of sidelong glances, whispered conversations, and the occasional outright stare. Edran knew the attention was dangerous — visibility always was. But a small display of competence was necessary to change the way people treated him.
The academy was full of predators. A weakling drew contempt; a clever opponent drew caution. Caution was a shield.
That evening, Edran returned to the library. His duel had drained more mana than he'd expected, and his channels ached faintly. But the strain also meant progress — his body was adapting to holding and releasing energy more efficiently.
He found an old tome tucked between two more popular manuals: The Harmonious Path: A Theory on Mana-Aether Fusion. Most of the pages were missing, the surviving text faded, but the fragments spoke of a practice that mirrored his own experiments.
It described using steady, low-level aether circulation to reinforce the body's channels, while simultaneously condensing mana in small bursts to prevent leakage — essentially weaving the two energies together.
It wasn't proof. But it was validation.
If he could master this, he wouldn't just repair his Spirit Root. He'd transform it into something entirely new.
In another corner of the academy, Darius sat in his private quarters, a goblet of wine untouched before him. The humiliation burned hotter than the drink ever could.
A knock came at his door."Enter," he growled.
A tall, lean boy stepped inside — a viscount's son and one of Darius's more loyal hangers-on."I've been thinking," the boy said. "If you want to break Edran, don't fight him in the arena. Fight him where he's weakest — outside the rules."
Darius's expression darkened into something predatory."Go on."
That night, Edran's cultivation session was interrupted again — not by an assassin this time, but by a scrap of folded paper slid under his door.
It contained only six words, written in a flowing, unfamiliar hand:
"You embarrassed the wrong prince, boy."
Edran smiled faintly. They still underestimated him.