They were making their way back to the carriage when a nearby commotion interrupted the peaceful atmosphere of their walk. Shouts, hurried footsteps, and the metallic sound of a drawn sword filled the air. Both of them turned immediately.
In the adjacent plaza, a small crowd had gathered around a group of men dressed in elegant clothing. At the center, a young man wearing simple clothes stood protectively in front of a girl who clung to his back. Before them, a nobleman with an arrogant expression held his sword in a threatening manner.
—You have stained my honor, commoner! —the noble shouted—. I challenge you to a duel to the death!
Emily frowned.
—Another ridiculous dispute...
Lusian watched with interest. This was something new to him.
—A duel? Can they really do that in the middle of the street? —he asked one of the ducal knights in a low voice.
The man shook his head.
—No, young master. Public duels are forbidden. They can only be held in the minor coliseum, under the supervision of a royal official.
—The minor coliseum? —Lusian repeated, intrigued.
—Yes —the knight explained—. Nobles have the right to defend their honor, but the kingdom has established rules to prevent unnecessary deaths. Everything must be conducted under oath and official registration.
Lusian slowly nodded.
That said a lot about this kingdom: even violence had a protocol.
At that moment, one of the spectators whispered the nobleman's name.
—That's Baron Joel Denisse Mofet.
Lusian observed him more carefully.
His bearing was arrogant, the kind of man accustomed to no one ever opposing him. In contrast, the young man being challenged looked ordinary: brown hair, dark eyes, and hands hardened by labor. He could not have been older than twenty-one.
Behind him, the girl he was protecting trembled, but her eyes showed a mixture of fear and determination.
Lusian narrowed his eyes.
"A noble abusing his title to humiliate someone weaker... How typical."
The crowd moved forward amid shouts and whispers, driven by curiosity and the desire to witness the spectacle. Lusian and Emily followed along until they reached the minor coliseum, a circular stone building that carried an air of age rather than grandeur.
The sound of the crowd echoed against the walls, creating a mixture of anticipation and tension that made Lusian frown.
It was not fear that he felt.
It was something more unsettling.
The feeling of witnessing something that should not exist in a civilized kingdom.
When they entered, Lusian noticed that the coliseum was much smaller than he had imagined, but no less imposing. The stands were almost full, and in the center, dust rose from the ground with every step of the duelists as they prepared themselves.
To one side, Baron Joel Denisse Mofet was speaking with a man of firm bearing, dressed in the armor of the royal guard. It was Sir Alan Baldwin, the official responsible for supervising the duel.
Lusian felt a chill run down his spine.
This was not a simple spectacle.
This was about honor, rules, and potentially blood.
And he was right in the middle of it, watching every detail, learning with his eyes wide open.
—By royal decree —Baldwin announced in a strong and clear voice— duels are permitted only if the conditions established by the Crown are fulfilled.
The murmurs of the audience immediately died down. Every eye turned toward the knight, waiting for his next words.
Alan Baldwin stepped toward the center of the coliseum and raised a magical artifact that emitted a faint blue glow.
—According to royal decree, before every duel, the rank of the participants must be verified —he explained as the device began releasing a low, steady hum, measuring the mana flow of the contenders.
Lusian silently watched as the artifact completed its analysis.
It was not the first time he had seen one of those devices.
Within the Douglas Duchy, he had spent countless hours studying military records and combat documents. He had learned that, in this world, the difference between a soldier and a war monster was not measured solely by swordsmanship.
It was measured by mana.
The kingdom classified magical strength into seven ranks, from those who could barely sense the energy within their bodies to beings whose power could change the course of a battle.
The Initiates were only beginning to understand the flow of mana.
The Adepts formed the foundation of any military force: trained soldiers capable of reinforcing their bodies and using basic magic.
Starting with the Legionnaires, the true difference began to appear.
At that level, combat no longer depended solely on technique and experience. The amount of mana, its control, and the ability to maintain it throughout a battle could determine the difference between life and death.
Above them were the Lords and the Magisters.
People who had taken control of their energy to a level that most soldiers would never reach.
And above them...
The Champions.
Names that appeared more often in history books than on battlefields.
The Omicron were different.
They were not a measure of power.
They were an exception.
Beings so extraordinary that many even doubted their existence.
A sharp sound interrupted his thoughts.
The artifact had finished its reading.
The device completed its reading with a brief beep, and Alan Baldwin announced in a solemn voice:
—Edmon: level thirty-one, Adept rank. Darren Acre: level thirty-eight, Adept rank.
Lusian nodded to himself.
Both of them were within the same rank, meaning the duel was considered legitimate under the law.
Even so, he could not shake off a strange feeling.
He knew that, compared to them, his own level was higher. His training with Albert had pushed him beyond the Adept rank.
He observed the combatants with calculating eyes. Every movement, every tension in their muscles, every controlled breath... everything revealed the difference between knowledge and experience, between the theory and the practice of magic and swordsmanship.
Beside him, Emily seemed to be holding her breath. Lusian noticed her uneasiness, and for a moment, he wished he could protect her—not only from the curious gazes around them, but from the violence that was about to unfold on the dusty floor of the coliseum.
The silence inside the arena was absolute, broken only by the echo of Baldwin's voice.
The seven-level difference between Edmon and Darren Acre was significant, but both remained within the same rank. According to the kingdom's laws, a duel between Adepts was permitted, as long as it was held under official supervision and within an authorized venue.
Edmon, his light armor already secured, felt a brief sense of relief.
Deep down, he had feared that Darren might have reached the threshold of forty, ascending to the Legionnaire rank. That would have completely changed the situation, granting his opponent far greater endurance and a much deeper mana reserve.
A level thirty-eight Adept, however, was a formidable challenge.
But not an impossible one.
From the opposite side of the arena, Darren Acre smiled arrogantly.
Seven levels separated him from Edmon, a gap that, in the world of mana, represented years of intensive training and real combat experience.
His aura, a rough crimson mist flickering around his body, seemed to mock Edmon's restraint.
—Do you see that, bastard? —Darren roared as he drew his longsword, the blade beginning to vibrate with a faint crimson glow—. The law protects you from dying without honor, but it won't allow you to win.
Alan Baldwin, the magical artifact now deactivated in his hand, stepped back and used his staff to draw a glowing circle on the packed earth floor.
—The duel is authorized —he declared, his voice amplified with magical authority—. It will begin at the sound of the horn. The rules are as established: surrender, incapacitation, or death.
May justice, or strength, prevail.
The battle horn echoed, a deep and prolonged sound that cut through the tension like a blade.
Darren moved first.
An explosion of earth erupted beneath his feet, launching him forward. His sword, drawing a scarlet arc through the air, descended upon Edmon with the force of a falling anvil. It was not a refined strike, but a brutal one, meant to break through guards and shatter bones from the very first moment.
Edmon did not block.
He pivoted on his heel, and Darren's blade passed within inches of his shoulder, cutting only through empty air. The efficiency of his movement was perfect; he had not wasted a single drop of mana.
As Darren, carried forward by his own momentum, passed him, Edmon counterattacked.
His own sword, a more modest and practical blade, lit up with a steady silver glow. It was not the flashy radiance of Darren's aura, but a concentrated light, like steel beneath the moon.
The strike was not aimed at Darren's body.
It was aimed at the back of his right knee—the point supporting his uncontrolled charge.
The silver blade struck with surgical precision.
It did not cut through the armor, but the impact, reinforced by Edmon's mana, was enough. Darren grunted in surprise and pain as his leg buckled. He nearly fell, barely regaining his balance with an awkward twist.
The first exchange was over.
Darren's powerful attack had crashed into nothing, while Edmon's precise counter had found its mark.
In the stands, the murmurs returned, this time filled with surprise. This was not the overwhelming dominance many had expected.
Darren straightened himself, his face twisted with anger and a hint of disbelief. The red aura surrounding him stirred, becoming denser and hotter.
—Beginner's luck —he spat.
Edmon did not respond.
He returned to his stance, his breathing calm, his eyes calculating.
The game of chess with steel and mana had just begun.
He had proven that the difference in levels was not an insurmountable chasm, but an obstacle.
And obstacles, as he knew well, could be overcome with ingenuity, precision, and the cold determination of a man who was not fighting for glory...
but for something infinitely more valuable.
The battle continued with measured movements.
Both contenders studied each other cautiously, exchanging controlled slashes and thrusts without revealing any openings. Their swords clashed again and again, echoing like metallic bells through the mana-filled air. Each strike felt like a test, a search for the slightest weakness in their opponent.
Darren was the first to break the balance.
With a quick gesture, he channeled mana into his sword and whispered an incantation. Five spears of water formed before him and shot toward Edmon.
The young man reacted instantly.
His sword, wrapped in flames, traced brilliant arcs through the air, evaporating the spears one by one in bursts of steam.
But when he deflected the final spear, his defense opened.
He had raised his arm too high while blocking, leaving his left side exposed. Darren noticed immediately and lunged forward, his sword cutting through the air in a direct arc toward the opening.
The crowd held its breath.
It looked like certain death.
Then, a sphere of fire crossed the space between them, forcing Darren to retreat immediately.
Edmon had prepared the spell beforehand, setting it as a trap for a counterattack. The audience roared at the sudden reversal.
Darren managed to block the spell with a water barrier, but the impact destabilized him. Edmon seized the opportunity and brought his sword down with force, though the strike was stopped by his opponent's blade.
Both men stepped back, breathing heavily, surrounded by steam and sweat, as if the air itself had grown heavier.
From the stands, Lusian watched them carefully.
Although the battle appeared intense to the audience, to him, their movements were slow and predictable.
"Their strikes lack weight," he thought, fully aware that his training with Albert had taken him far beyond the level of these Adepts.
Fifteen minutes passed in a tense exchange.
Every spell, every thrust, drained the combatants' mana.
Finally, Darren began to stagger. His magical flow was fading, and his water aura barely flickered around his sword.
Edmon, still standing, advanced with determination.
His blade, engulfed in flames, traced a descending arc.
Darren attempted to block, but his strength betrayed him.
The burning edge broke through his defense and then pierced his chest, leaving behind a trail of steam...
and silence.
Baldwin did not intervene.
In a duel of honor, as long as a combatant did not surrender, the law recognized the outcome.
For several seconds, no one in the coliseum moved.
Then the knight Alan raised his hand and announced the result with solemn authority:
—The winner: Edmon, Adept class, level thirty-one!
The crowd erupted into cheers, applauding and celebrating.
Lusian, however, did not feel well.
Watching the life leave Darren's body was something he had never experienced before. The sound of metal hitting the ground, the dark blood mixing with the dust, and the heavy silence that followed struck him with unexpected force.
He had to look away and fight back the nausea rising in his stomach.
Unlike the others, who cheered or whispered with excitement, Lusian felt a deep sense of discomfort.
That cultural difference unsettled him.
To the people of this world, death seemed like a spectacle.
To him, it was something far too real.
Far too human.
Beside him, Emily gently took his arm with an almost imperceptible gesture, noticing his discomfort.
Lusian took a deep breath and tried to compose himself, fully aware that this duel was not a game.
Baron Joel Denisse Mofet, who only moments ago had radiated confidence, had gone pale upon seeing the outcome.
The knight Alan Baldwin approached the body and, after a brief examination, nodded solemnly.
—The duel has ended. Darren Acre is dead. The winner: Edmon, Adept class, level thirty-one.
A murmur spread throughout the stands.
Edmon, gasping for breath and covered in sweat, raised his sword, still wrapped in a faint crimson glow, and spoke with a trembling voice:
—Baron Joel... I don't want you to ever come near my fiancée again.
The baron clenched his teeth.
His expression, a mixture of rage and humiliation, twisted into something ugly.
—How dare you, you bastard? —he roared—. Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who you're speaking to?
The restrained laughter and whispers of the audience spread like wildfire.
Lusian quickly caught the rumors circulating through the stands: Baron Joel had attempted to take Edmon's fiancée as his concubine. And when the young man refused, the baron had searched for an excuse to legally eliminate him through a duel.
Practices like this were common among nobles whenever they became obsessed with a woman.
Still furious, the baron pulled out a scroll sealed with golden wax and unfolded it before the crowd.
—Here is the contract —he declared with a venomous smile—. Samantha's father, Edmon's fiancée, owes me one thousand gold coins. The deadline has passed. According to the laws of the kingdom, I can claim his daughter as payment. The law does not care about feelings. A debt is a debt.
Silence fell over the coliseum like a heavy veil.
Even the murmurs disappeared.
—However —he continued with feigned generosity—, I am a fair man. I will give him a chance. If Edmon wins another duel, this time against my next knight, the debt will be considered settled. If he loses...
The girl will belong to me.
Edmon's eyes widened in desperation.
He was exhausted. His body trembled, and his mana had been almost completely depleted.
Another battle would mean his death.
Dying at twenty-one years old or abandoning his fiancée.
That was the choice before him.
The tension became unbearable.
Then, a female voice broke the silence with unexpected force:
—How despicable!
Everyone turned toward the stands.
It was Emily, standing with her face burning with indignation. Her voice echoed through the coliseum with such clarity that even Sir Alan lifted his gaze in surprise.
Baron Joel looked at her, first irritated.
Then, upon noticing her beauty, his expression changed.
His gaze became filled with greed.
—Miss —he said in a provocative tone—, are you insulting me? If so, step forward right now. You will have to take responsibility for your disrespect.
He did not get the chance to finish.
Charles Grell, commander of the Douglas escort, stood up, and his voice thundered throughout the coliseum:
—Knights, protect Miss Emily!
Twenty swords were drawn simultaneously.
The sound of steel echoed as the Douglas guards descended from the stands, forming an impenetrable line around Lusian and Emily.
Baron Joel froze.
He recognized the emblem on their shields:
Two wolves.
The symbol of the Douglas Duchy.
All color drained from his face.
And then he saw him.
Beside Emily, sitting with icy calm, was Lusian.
That gaze was unmistakable.
There was only one punishment for those who offended a Douglas:
Death.
Lusian slowly stood up, still shaken by what he had just witnessed. The blood, the metallic smell in the air, and the tense silence of the coliseum weighed heavily on his stomach. He had seen death for the first time, and yet his mind refused to rest.
If I manage to ignite a conflict between the Denisse family and the Douglas family, he thought, I could weaken the structure of the empire. A blow to one of its main sources of influence and manpower.
Baron Joel remained pale, unable to form a single word.
Lusian looked at the baron.
A part of him expected to feel the same coldness he had felt before.
Eliminate a threat.
Solve a problem.
But then he heard Emily's voice.
And he remembered something.
She had not asked for revenge.
She had asked for justice.
— I will take responsibility for any disrespect my fiancée may have shown — Lusian said, his voice calm, every word carefully measured. — If you desire a duel... or something else, I accept.
The silence was absolute. Baron Joel, understanding the gravity of those words, immediately fell to his knees.
— Mercy! — he begged, trembling. — I had no intention of offending you... please, Young Master Douglas, show us your compassion...
Emily, who had been holding her breath until that moment, stepped forward and whispered to Lusian:
— Lusian... please, ask him for a formal apology. And have him hand over the debt contract. That will be enough.
Her eyes reflected genuine compassion. Not only for Edmon and Samantha, but also for the baron himself, who was crawling before them like a frightened animal.
Lusian stared at her silently for several seconds.
Part of him wanted to reject her request, to let the baron pay with his blood for his arrogance.
But Emily's sincerity disarmed even his coldest instincts.
— Very well — he finally replied. — Let it be done this way.
Baron Joel hurriedly handed over the scroll, trembling, and lowered his head until it nearly touched the ground.
Emily took the document and extended it toward Samantha, who was still crying beside Edmon's body.
— Take it — she said gently. — Your debt has been settled.
The young woman looked at her with tears in her eyes.
— Thank you... thank you so much, my lady.
With a single gesture, Emily had saved two lives.
Lusian noticed it.
Power does not exist only in strength, he thought. It also exists in mercy. And both can destroy or save, depending on who wields them.