The entire coliseum remained wrapped in a thick, almost unreal silence.The crowd couldn't comprehend what they had just witnessed.
Dren hadn't used a wand. He hadn't spoken a single incantation. He wore no visible magic stones or enchanted gear. And yet—he had invoked not one, but two high-level gravity spells. The kind of magic that, according to traditional theory, required a mind as precise as a living calculator, able to trace vedic codes and arcane formulas with mathematical accuracy.
And Dren hadn't even opened his mouth.
He hadn't chanted a spell. Hadn't activated runes.
He had merely raised a hand.
Elizabeth slowly turned toward her mentor.
—Master Vincent... please, can you explain how he won?
Vincent narrowed his eyes and stroked his beard in deep thought. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Sir Veldora, who stood silently, as composed as ever.
—I believe the young knight might offer a more technical explanation —the old man finally said—. He's seen firsthand what happens when armor becomes overloaded. As for me... I can offer a theory about Dren himself.
Veldora nodded solemnly and stepped forward.
—Dren's relentless assault overloaded the spells embedded in the Bloodsteel —he explained—. When you enchant a gem, there must be a minimum delay between activations. But Dren struck with such speed, such unbroken pressure, that he forced the spells to trigger one after another with no pause. The result: overcharge... and collapse.
—That explains the chestplate... but what about the belt and the gauntlet? —Elizabeth asked, still staring at the battlefield.
—Those cases are a bit different —Veldora replied, unclasping part of his cloak to reveal the belt he wore—. This artifact is known as the Phoenix Girdle. It's a legendary item. If its bearer dies, it instantly casts a resurrection spell. But the magical cost is so immense that the gem shatters on the spot.
—Dren... knew he was going to kill Mayron?
—Undoubtedly. His strike was ruthless, but calculated. He knew Mayron had the belt and trusted it would bring him back. That's why his next attack didn't target the heart, but the arm. He overwhelmed the healing gem by forcing it to work beyond its limits. It was a surgical strategy.
A chill ran down Elizabeth's spine.
It wasn't just the brutality—it was the control. The precision.Dren wasn't a berserker without reason… he was a directed storm.
The princess swallowed hard. She felt small. Fragile. Exposed.
—Veldora... —she said, her voice slightly trembling, as beads of cold sweat formed on her brow—. Could you defeat Dren?
The knight didn't reply immediately. He lowered his gaze, as if analyzing a battle not yet fought. Then he spoke, without embellishment.
—I'm not sure we've even seen one percent of his real power. But Mayron was taken down before he could use his best spells. It's not that he lacked strength—he lacked combat experience. If I fought Mayron, I'd win. But I wouldn't walk away unscathed.
—And against Dren?
—I know my limits. I'd say I have a fifty percent chance. If I strike first… if I force him to take me seriously… I might win. But if I underestimate him, I wouldn't live to regret it.
—Then… you're that strong?
—I'm skilled. And experienced. But I still assume Dren showed only a fraction of what he's truly capable of.
That answer did not reassure her.
Elizabeth felt something inside her tighten.The world surrounding her was vast, filled with monsters who smiled while obliterating their enemies without blinking. She was a fragile spark among giants. And if power was the currency of this kingdom, then she didn't even have spare change.
She turned her eyes to her master. Vincent had listened to the entire conversation in silence. But his gaze wasn't one of pity—it was one of remembrance.
And then he spoke.
—I could be mistaken. But… during the War of a Thousand Years, I faced someone very much like him —his voice lowered—. A warrior who could withstand my spells… and hurl them back.
Elizabeth's head snapped toward him, stunned. Even Veldora tensed visibly.
—What…?
—He was a being with an altered body. His blood… was liquid Bloodsteel.
The princess fell silent. Veldora, who rarely showed any emotion, raised a single brow.
—How did you defeat someone like that? —asked the knight, almost in disbelief.
—By using what I had left —Vincent answered—. I am a Master-level mage. One of the strongest ever recorded. I used my highest-tier spell. It was enough. But… that attack sealed my fate. I lost the majority of my magical abilities. What I am now… is only a shadow of what I once was.
—Was it worth it? —Elizabeth whispered.
Vincent smiled.
—Because of that choice, I found my true calling: teaching.
Elizabeth looked at him as if she had just witnessed a falling star. A giant who sacrificed his power to protect something greater.How much would she be willing to give up?
And what would she need… to defeat someone like Dren?
The question hovered in her mind like sweet poison.
And for the first time… she had no answer.
—Ladies and gentlemen! —the announcer's voice rang out, vibrating through the amplification stones—. The next match is about to begin: Prince Narel Vhalen of the Kingdom of Vhalmir versus Prince Zerek von Vireon of the Kingdom of Vereon! We hope to witness a duel as thrilling as the last!
But the moment the magical cameras focused on the center of the arena, the contrast was striking.
Zerek adjusted his glasses with surgical precision. His movements were meticulous, calculated—like a clockmaker preparing to defuse a bomb.
Narel, meanwhile, yawned.
He wasn't even in a battle stance. He gazed lazily toward the royal viewing box, and for a moment, Elizabeth could've sworn he gave her a lazy little wave, as if the upcoming fight didn't concern him at all.
The signal sounded.
Zerek vanished instantly, leaving behind a trace of arcane shadow. He reappeared in front of Narel in a blink, his punch aimed squarely at the face, seeking a swift and clean knockout in the very first second.
But then, as if the air itself had crystallized, a translucent wall materialized from nothing.
The punch landed with a metallic crack, like steel striking diamond. The crystal shattered, absorbing all the force of the blow. In one fluid, almost choreographed motion, Narel redirected Zerek's arm with a gesture so gentle it resembled a dance.
Zerek reacted instantly. He twisted his waist, pivoted on one foot, and launched an upward kick. This time, he made contact.
Narel's body collapsed.
But it wasn't him.
The impact dissolved the figure into a rain of shimmering shards—a crystal clone. Zerek spun, fully alert. Behind him, Narel stood, watching with a sleepy expression.
—Why don't you just surrender already? —he asked in a languid voice, as if mumbling in his sleep.
—And why would I do that? —Zerek snapped, clearly irritated.
—I'd rather not hurt you too much, —Narel replied, as though suggesting he change seats.
Suddenly, the sparkling dust left by the shattered clone began to move. It swirled around Zerek in an ascending spiral. A tornado of glittering particles enveloped him entirely.
—My crystal dust is quite harmful to mortals, —Narel explained, like a professor giving a routine lecture—. It's fine enough to slip through your pores, and sharp enough to shred your arteries, your organs... even your brain. For now, I'm just flaying your skin.
From within the swirling storm, a black smoke began to form. Dense. Unnatural.
And from that darkness... emerged skeletons.
Dozens of them, born from the cursed dust, charged toward Narel with corroded swords and bony claws. Without changing his expression, he raised his hand lazily and conjured a wall of crystal, rising like a divine curtain between him and the undead. The skeletons began to pound against it with frenzied strength—but they couldn't break through.
And then—flash.
Zerek appeared behind him, dagger in hand.
The blade swept cleanly across Narel's neck.
But no blood spilled.
Only a cloud of crystal dust escaped, once again clinging to Zerek's skin like a second, suffocating layer.
The real Narel stepped through the crystal wall as though emerging from a liquid portal. This time, he was smiling.
—Well now… you're the first mortal who's ever forced me to transmute my dust into a new state. That black smoke? Fascinating. You turned it into skeletal puppets just to distract me… and managed to cut my throat.
—Cut your throat? —Zerek looked up—. That was just the distraction.
Narel narrowed his eyes.
And then… he saw it.
From above, a lightning bolt shaped like a dragon descended. The strike hit with such force, such suddenness, that Narel had no time to react. He vanished beneath a whirlwind of electricity and blinding light.
Zerek seized the moment. He broke free from the dusty bindings and surged forward, preparing his next spell.
But then… everything started to spin.
The arena turned into a maze of reflections. A hall of mirrors with no logic, no direction. There was no up or down, no forward or back. The laws of space disintegrated.
—Remember how I said the crystal dust could affect the brain? —Narel's voice came from behind him now—. You're disoriented because I damaged your inner ear. Your balance is gone. But also… I'm manipulating the optical signals reaching your visual cortex. I call it the Mirror World. Do you like it?
Zerek gritted his teeth. Sweat streamed down his brow.
—Your ability is… undeniably terrifying, —he admitted—. You've been using the same spell all fight long. Just... reshaping it.
—And have you been taking me seriously? —Narel replied with a lazy half-smile—. Let me be clear: if I need to unleash my full power to beat you, I will. I don't care about hiding my cards. I don't care about the Council or the other kingdoms. I'm going to be the first to bring Elizabeth to my realm.
The words hit like a dagger.
Zerek understood he was trapped. Narel wasn't just powerful—he was immature, impulsive… and utterly unpredictable. Forcing him to continue would only lead to even more horrifying displays of magic. He was a spoiled child with centuries of power, and expecting him to surrender was as foolish as trying to reason with Dren.
Zerek exhaled slowly.
—Fine. You win.
The moment he said it, Narel snapped his fingers.
The Mirror World dissolved.
Zerek's wounds vanished as if they had never existed. His senses returned. His balance was restored.
Narel stepped off the platform with a radiant smile. He raised his hand in a charming wave toward Elizabeth, as if he had just finished performing a romantic ballad.
Elizabeth blinked, stunned.
She hadn't expected the boy in pajamas—the one who looked half-asleep and utterly detached from the world—to defeat one of the deadliest princes on the continent so effortlessly.
As Narel walked away with his crystalline smile, and Zerek disappeared into the shadows of the grandstand without looking back, Elizabeth realized something that sent a chill through her soul.
This tournament wasn't just a competition.
It was a silent battlefield, where every piece moved with care.
A strategic dance where everyone pretended to fight…
But no one was showing their true cards.
Just as Sir Veldora had predicted, none of the princes were fighting seriously. They revealed just enough to win. To impress. To study each other without exposing themselves.
It was all calculation. Containment. Anticipation.
And yet… there were two exceptions.
Narel, with his dreamer's gaze, had demonstrated a terrifying degree of magical precision.
Not because he wanted to impress, but because he simply didn't care to hide.
He was a capricious child with centuries of power—and not the slightest intention of pretending to be humble.
Dren, on the other hand, was a different kind of monster.
A hurricane with a surgeon's mind. A warrior who selected each strike like a doctor dissecting a body: without emotion. Without error. And most of all… without mercy.
Elizabeth couldn't imagine either of them surrendering.
She couldn't imagine either of them losing without burning every last spark of their essence.
Their clash wouldn't be a fight.
It would be a collision of worlds.
But not yet.Now came the tournament's tactical pause:
Mayron versus Zerek.
And Elizabeth… could only wait.Though she wouldn't admit it aloud, she was excited.Genuinely curious to see who would win the tournament—
Because that winner would be the first stop of her pilgrimage.