With the features of a young man, eyes gleaming with a hint of challenge, her appearance was completely transformed. Yet, behind this new mask, she didn't deceive herself.
"Tell me… does this look convincing enough?" she asked, tightening her tie firmly.
Damian, leaning against the window as usual, smiled softly.
"More than convincing."
Ophelia stepped toward the bag on the bed, opened it to inspect her sword, then said without looking at him,
"I'm not participating just to win… but to prove I'm not just a marquis's daughter, or a weak girl who needs protection."
Damian was silent for a few seconds, then said calmly,
"I know that. But don't forget… you're not alone."
She raised her eyes to him, then nodded confidently,
"I won't forget."
Ophelia quietly left the palace, disguised in her new clothes and altered voice, with Damian walking behind her unnoticed.
On her way to the registration arena, the city buzzed with life—vendors shouting, horses' hooves striking the stones, and the roar of crowds gathering around the dueling grounds built in the heart of the old city.
She approached the registration table. Without looking up, an official handed her a form:
"Name?"
She answered in a calm, deep voice, different from her usual one,
"Leo Astrival."
"Age?"
"Twenty-five."
"Your fencing school?"
She paused for a moment, then replied, "Private tuition."
The official finally looked up, studied her briefly as if trying to verify, then shrugged and handed over a sealed participation token.
"The first elimination round starts Saturday morning. Be sure to show up on time."
She took the token and left without another word. Reaching a quiet corner of the arena, she turned to Damian and whispered,
"So, Leo, huh?"
Damian smiled walking beside her,
"Nice name, but I prefer 'the angry beaver.'"
She shot him a sharp side glance, "I swear, if you say beaver one more time..."
Damian chuckled softly, "Got it, got it. Sir Leo Astrival."
But despite the teasing, nothing eased the tension tightening her chest. Just a few days left… and she would face the unknown. Defeat was not an option.
The seven days had passed, each filled with relentless training alongside Damian. The sessions were grueling, but she knew the real race would begin with the starting whistle on the fencing arena.
Finally, the awaited day arrived. In the crowded arena, Ophelia—or "Leo," as she was now known—stood among the competitors, glancing at the audience filling the stands. Emperor Leopold Mathiory sat in the front row beside Crown Prince Edmund Mathiory, while her father, Oscar Carter, sat nearby, his gaze cold and unreadable. He didn't believe women should compete in fencing, preferring they watch from the sidelines. But Ophelia cared little—she was here to prove something, first and foremost, to herself.
The starting shot rang out, and the duelists began exchanging strikes with force and skill. Ophelia stayed back at first, watching carefully, anxiety evident on her face.
When her turn came, she stepped forward steadily onto the piste, hearing whispers ripple through the crowd:
"Is that the fencer from the North? He has a strong build."
Her opponent was a member of the imperial guard, known for his skill and extensive combat experience. There was no turning back now.
As the opening burst echoed across the floor, her opponent lunged fiercely with his sword, but Ophelia chose to defend, parrying strike after strike. Damian's instructions echoed in her mind: make him attack first, wear him out, then launch your counterattack.
She studied his movements carefully, calculating each step, each swing. Fatigue began to show in her opponent's eyes, and he unleashed a powerful, experienced strike. Ophelia dodged with a swift lean, then spun lightly and landed a quick strike behind his back.
His sword clattered to the ground. The crowd fell silent for a moment before erupting into applause. The Emperor watched intently, while the Crown Prince whispered,
"Who is this fencer?"
Her father's eyes locked on Ophelia, a mixture of surprise and disbelief washing over his face.
Tension thickened in the arena as the next round approached. Ophelia, who had so far relied on quick reflexes, now felt the weight in her body. But Damian's voice rang in her ears:
"Trust yourself. Don't let fear take control."
Her opponent stood steady, cautiously reassessing. This time, he wasn't just fighting with his sword—he was trying to read and predict her moves. Ophelia surged forward, shifting fluidly between attack and defense with growing skill.
Suddenly, she remembered Damian's warning about draining her energy and felt her strength fading. But something inside her awoke—a power she had never known before. She looked around and saw the mana swirling around her hands like a glowing, invisible cord. She controlled it, delivering a final decisive strike that left no room for doubt.
Her opponent collapsed to the ground. Silence fell over the arena before the final shot rang out. The crowd stood stunned by the scene they had witnessed. Emperor Leopold Mathiory rose slowly toward the podium, holding the victory crown in his hands.
Leopold stepped forward to crown the winner, but Ophelia—under the identity of "Leo"—raised her hand sharply and shouted,
"I'm not Leo."
The emperor blinked in surprise, then turned toward her with a look mixing astonishment and confusion.
In an unexpected moment of courage, Ophelia revealed her true face, shedding her disguise. The air grew still for a heartbeat before erupting into gasps and cries of shock.
Her father, Oscar Carter, stood frozen, speechless, while the emperor said slowly, as if redefining the truth,
"So... it was a girl."
Whispering among the crowd came the question,
"Is she a witch?"
The emperor demanded an explanation in a firm voice. Ophelia looked at him confidently and said,
"I'm not a witch. I have contracted with a spirit."
The crowd whispered with surprise and suspicion:
"A contract with a spirit? That's impossible... only priests and saints can do that."
Ophelia raised her hand, and Damian appeared beside her, surrounded by a shimmering aura of light and water, a sight that stunned the audience.
The emperor smiled with visible admiration, but his words hid a darker intent:
"Oh, what an extraordinary power… Let us hold a victory celebration in honor of the winner, Ophelia Carter."
Amidst the applause and anticipation, lights began to glitter, yet Ophelia couldn't shake the feeling of looming shadows over this tribute.
The grand hall of the imperial palace sparkled with lights as nobles and guests gathered to celebrate Ophelia's triumph. Eyes exchanged glances—some admired her strength, while others bore suspicion they could not hide.
In the midst of the ceremony, Emperor Leopold stood beside Ophelia, speaking softly but with a heavy dose of cunning:
"You have shown the world what true power means, but we must remember, my lady, that power always comes with responsibility."
Ophelia met his gaze with eyes full of defiance, replying confidently:
"I am ready to bear that responsibility, no matter the challenges."
Damian stood calmly beside her, prepared for any threat that might come.
At one moment, her father, Oscar Carter, approached quietly, a clear seriousness in his eyes, and said hesitantly:
"Ophelia... what has drawn you into this world?"
She smiled, knowing the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but she was no longer alone. She replied firmly:
"I didn't choose this path, but it chose me... and now, I won't let anyone stop me."
As the ceremony ended, Ophelia felt the real struggle was only just beginning. Her alliances and powers would face relentless tests, but she was determined to step into the unknown without hesitation.