The duel between Zerek and Narel had ended in a way as unexpected as it was unsettling. Deep within her memories, Elizabeth would have bet on Zerek's victory without hesitation. She knew him—or thought she did. His surgical coldness, his analytical mind, his unshakable composure. But Narel…
Narel had turned out to be an enigma wrapped in laziness.
Behind that sleepy gaze and his indifferent attitude hid a magician of terrifying precision, an alchemist of the senses capable of distorting reality with a simple snap of his fingers. He wasn't just powerful—he was unpredictable. The kind of threat Elizabeth didn't yet know how to handle… but that, if she could understand, might become an advantage.
Perhaps—she thought while absentmindedly fidgeting with the ring on her hand—Narel wouldn't be such a troublesome rival if she managed to pull him to her side.
He had potential.
He could be a tremendously valuable ally. Someone whose abilities could tip the scales of entire wars if sufficiently motivated. And if Elizabeth could convince him to step away from the Selection of his own will, without having to defeat him… without having to kill him…
The idea seemed as logical as it was comforting.
For the first time in the entire tournament, she felt a flicker of excitement at the thought that perhaps Narel would be the first prince she would spend time with. Someone worth talking to for more than five minutes.
But that thought vanished as quickly as it had come.
The next match was about to begin.
And unlike the previous duel, this one didn't stir any interest in her. Quite the opposite.
The last thing she wanted was to see Mayron writhing in pain again, screaming as Zerek unleashed his sadistic control over him. She had already seen that show once, and had no desire to watch it again.
"Mayron…" she thought, with a mix of pity and annoyance. Even his name sounded like someone easy to punch.
Hopefully, the boy would have the sense to surrender at the very start, saving himself from disgrace and holding on to a shred of dignity.
—Your Highness, —Sir Veldora's voice interrupted her thoughts, firm but respectful—, the match is about to begin.
—No… it's not that I'm particularly excited to watch it —Elizabeth replied with disinterest—. I don't enjoy one-sided torture.
—Young princess, —Vincent spoke this time, his tone grave—, a ruler does not have the privilege of looking away. One must learn to witness even public executions with composure… and without flinching.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. She knew this wasn't just a correction. It was a lesson. A warning cloaked in duty. Vincent was speaking of politics, of royalty, of what it meant to have power… and the responsibility of bearing its weight.
—Mayron is the grandson of my most formidable rival —he added, a spark of nostalgia in his voice—. And if he inherited even a sliver of that old fox's talent, he might not repeat the same mistakes as in the last match.
—Master, do you really think that poor boy has a chance against a trained killer? —Elizabeth asked, disbelief clear in her eyes.
—Your Highness, —Sir Veldora intervened again—, precisely because his opponent is a killer… Mayron has a chance.
—What do you mean?
—Because Zerek can't kill him. The tournament rules forbid it. If Mayron finally decides to take this seriously and forces Zerek to do the same, then the assassin will be restricted. He'll have to fight without killing. And that… could change everything.
Vincent slowly turned his head to look at the young knight who had spoken with such conviction. Veldora was prudent, shrewd, a soldier forged more by strategy than by sword. But deep inside, the old master couldn't help but doubt. He couldn't see a plausible scenario where both contenders would show all their cards.
This wouldn't be a true battle, but a carefully measured exhibition.
A simulation. A game of appearances.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" —the announcer's voice boomed across the arena with forced enthusiasm, trying to stir a crowd that had already made up its mind about which fight was worth watching— "The penultimate duel of the tournament is about to begin!"
Some spectators turned lazily toward the floating screens. Few cared to watch the losers battle for a meaningless third place. For most, this was merely a formality—an obligatory pause before the real spectacle: the final match. Conversations continued, accompanied by sips of wine and dismissive laughter. To them, this fight was nothing more than a procedural footnote.
But Elizabeth was not like the rest.
She was watching.
And in that moment, something caught her attention—something that made her narrow her eyes.
Zerek von Vireon looked exactly the same as he had in his previous duel: impassive, cold, his presence perfectly calculated, as if nothing could rattle him. But Mayron… Mayron was not the same beaten, humiliated boy from a few hours ago.
He no longer carried his usual wand. Instead, he held a long staff made of dark ebony with a golden core, as though a fragment of the stars had been forged into a weapon. His light armor was gone, and his face… his face radiated something he had never shown before: determination. Not fear. Not arrogance. Fierce determination.
He looked angry.
He looked serious.
"Who will claim victory in this match? Who will walk away with the bitter fourth place?" the announcer continued, pushing his voice harder than needed. "Prepare yourselves for the duel between the Sorcerer Prince Mayron of Lunethra… and the Scientific Prince Zerek von Vireon!"
A nervous murmur rippled through the stands. For the first time, some spectators stopped talking and paid attention. There was something different in the air. A subtle tension, like a violin string stretched to the breaking point.
And then, without further prelude… the duel began.
"Mayron," Zerek growled, his brow furrowed, "surrender immediately and salvage what's left of your dignity."
"Surrender…?" Mayron replied, his voice carrying an unfamiliar steel. Around him, the stones of the coliseum began to float, drawn by an unseen force. His magical energy grew so dense it became visible—a swirling blue mist that coiled around his body like a storm held in place.
"And let Lunethra be underestimated again?""No, Zerek. Not this time."
Mayron's eyes blazed with a deep, hypnotic blue light. And for the first time in the entire tournament… Zerek felt something unexpected:
Danger.
That brat… he wasn't using enchanted gear to mask his abilities, like last time. He wasn't hiding his strength.
This time… he was using his true power.
Mayron began chanting in an ancient tongue. The words, heavy with mystical resonance, weren't common spells. Zerek's eyes narrowed. This wasn't ordinary magic. From the phonetic structure and echoes of the Vedic Code, he recognized it as gravitational magic… but something felt wrong.
This wasn't simple gravity manipulation.
This was the abyss.
No matter. He'd knock him out in a single blow and end the match before things spiraled out of control.
Assuming he could hold back enough not to kill him.
Zerek activated his temporal step. In a blink, he vanished and reappeared behind Mayron. Or… he tried to.
Something stopped him.
His whole body locked up, immobilized. A monstrous force dragged him backward. He glanced over his shoulder—and saw it: a small corner of his shirt was pulled taut, pointing toward a tiny black dot suspended in the air. It was drawing everything into it.
A black point.
A… hole.
Vincent stood up abruptly. His staff struck the floor with a thunderous crack.
"What in the blazes is that brat doing?!"
His normally composed face had gone pale. The last time he'd seen something like that… the First Wall had fallen. Hundreds of thousands had perished. A spell like that wasn't a mere invocation—it was a weapon of mass destruction.
A Death Hole.
A gravitational singularity summoned by magic, capable of swallowing entire cities if left unchecked. A spell of absolute master-level sorcery.
And that boy—That child—Shouldn't even know it exists.
Chaos erupted in the command balconies. Magical alarms flared to life. Emergency evacuation protocols were activated. Within seconds, the Royal Guard had reached the royal box where Elizabeth sat, their expressions grim.
"Princess, you must evacuate immediately."
Elizabeth didn't move.
She zoomed in on the magical panel, focusing on the black point that threatened to devour Zerek. At first, she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
Then panic flooded her like a frozen tide.
"No… it can't be…"
By all that was sacred in this world and the next…
That was a miniature black hole.
"Zerek, you have two options," said Mayron, his voice as cold as death itself, his staff glowing with an unnatural light."Surrender… or die. You decide."
The threat wasn't bravado.It was a sentence.
A chill ran down Zerek's spine.
He had never seen a Death Hole before, but he knew the stories. It was one of the forbidden spells—the kind of magic that had no place in a tournament. A spell so dangerous that even Archmages refused to teach it. A singularity of pure void. A wound in the fabric of the world.
And now, he stood mere meters from being devoured by one.
The battlefield trembled. The ground cracked as if about to give way.
The coliseum's pillars groaned, and the spectators fell silent. Some froze in terror. Others fled. Many wept in place, unable to look away.
But for Zerek, none of that mattered.Only that black point.That vortex.That promised death.
"Damn it!" he cursed inwardly, gritting his teeth, powerless against the gravitational pull dragging him toward oblivion.
With each passing second, the suction grew stronger. His cloak whipped forward toward the singularity. His body felt like it was being torn apart thread by thread. Every fiber trembled.
There was no escape.No machine.No device that could counter that abyss.
"He's going to kill me. That bastard's really going to kill me."
"I SURRENDER!" Zerek screamed, his voice hoarse with fury."Shut this damned thing down NOW!"
"Of course," Mayron replied with sinister politeness.
He raised his staff and spun it once in the air. The Death Hole flickered… then shrank… and vanished, as if it had never been there at all.
A silence deeper than fear settled over the stadium.
Not a whisper. Not a cry. Only the distant echo of hurried footsteps from those still evacuating.
Many had already fled through emergency portals. Others clung to their seats, skin pale as marble. Even the nobles in the highest balconies—usually detached and condescending—sat motionless, stunned.
On the platform, Zerek collapsed to his knees.Not from pain…But from humiliation.
The Prince of Science, defeated.Not by invention.Not by calculation.But by a force he could neither understand nor replicate.A void that had almost devoured him—and the entire world had seen it.
"Th-The p-penultimate duel h-has concluded…" stammered the announcer, his voice still shaking."The winner, claiming third place in the tournament… is the Sorcerer Prince Mayron of Lunethra!"
Mayron walked toward the exit with calm, solemn steps. His cloak billowed behind him, and his staff still pulsed with remnants of the spell that had restrained the gravitational collapse.
There was no smile on his face.No arrogance.Only resolve… and simmering rage.
Zerek watched him go, eyes bloodshot.
His pride shattered.His soul scarred by terror.And yet… his will had crystallized into something darker.
"I'll kill you," he whispered through clenched teeth, so low only he could hear it."I swear I'll kill you, Mayron. You won't utter a single spell when I find you. I'll rip out your tongue. I'll make you beg for your life."
Vengeance had taken root in his heart.Not because of defeat…But because of humiliation.And he would not rest until it blossomed.
Meanwhile, Mayron disappeared down the dark corridor, like a shadow that had just shown the world what it was made of.
But no one would forget.
Not that day.Not that spell.Not that name.
High above, in the box reserved for the finalists, Dren didn't look away for a second.
He said nothing.
Not when the Death Hole formed.Not when Zerek was dragged toward the impossible force.Not even when he surrendered, screaming like a frightened child.
He simply remained silent.
And in his chest… something heavy had taken root.
Not fear.Not guilt.
A brutal, inescapable realization.
"If he had used that against me…"
He clenched his fists.
During his own match against Mayron, he had won without needing to unleash his full power.He had thought the young prince was gifted—yes—but predictable. Contained.
Now he knew the truth.
Mayron had never fought seriously.
That defeat… had been chosen.A strategy.A deliberate restraint.
And Dren, like everyone else, had fallen for the illusion of weakness.
"A Death Hole…"
As far as he knew, only one had ever been documented in history.During the fall of the outer wall of the kingdom of Aurelthane.Hundreds of thousands had perished in the blink of an eye.From every faction.Enemies and allies alike, annihilated indiscriminately.
It had been banned by every magical academy.An historical catastrophe.A living taboo.
And Mayron… had cast it as if it were just another tool in his arsenal.
"He would've forced me to surrender.There was no escaping that.Not with my strength.Not with my speed.Nothing… nothing could stop it."
For the first time, Dren felt genuine respect for his opponent.
Not for his title.Not for his lineage.But for the dormant darkness the young prince kept caged within.
He had underestimated him.They all had.
And now, the whole world knew:
Mayron of Lunethra was more than a prince.
He was a threat.
Dren closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, then murmured to himself:
"Maybe I was the winner of our match…But he's the one who chose not to obliterate me."
When he opened them again, his gaze had changed.
He no longer saw Mayron as a rival.
Now… he saw him as an equal.
Or worse…
As someone who, one day, might have to be stopped.