Trevon’s nod lingered in my mind even as he stepped off the field, his bde lowered, his stance loose again—like he hadn’t just carved his name into the arena floor.

  He passed by without a word, but our eyes met for a second. I gave him the faintest incline of my head—just enough. We didn’t need more than that.

  The crowd, still riding the high of the st two matches, was practically vibrating with expectation. Cheers mounted again as the announcer’s voice rang out, amplified and electric.

  “Everybody—are you ready for the next battle?!”

  A deafening roar tore through the stands.

  I could feel it in the way they looked toward the ring, in the way the announcer’s voice rose like a drumbeat.

  “Our next match—please welcome His Highness, the Empire’s First Prince… Cassius Vinson Astravell!”

  The volume swelled.

  Not cheers. Not quite.

  It was a different kind of noise—tight, anticipatory, like the breath held before lightning strikes.

  I stepped forward from the edge of the waiting zone and ducked under the rope.

  No wave. No bow.

  Just a calm walk to the center of the ring, my boots crunching softly on the worn arena floor.

  Strapped across my back—a long, cloth-wrapped weapon.

  I felt the first ripple of confusion pass through the crowd.

  “That’s not a sword.”“Wait… is that a spear?”

  I pulled the bindings loose in one fluid motion, the cloth slipping away like falling silk.

  The spear emerged—ash wood, worn smooth from training. The bde caught the light just once. Not to show off.

  Just enough to make them look.

  Swords were for noble sons.Spears were for soldiers. Infantry lines. Peasant ranks.

  That’s what they thought.

  Good.

  Let them.

  I gave the weapon a light spin—measured, clean—and took my stance at the ready.

  “You’re not wild enough for the sword,” Master Ba had said one dusk, crouching beside me as I struggled through yet another form.

  “Too much thinking in those wrists. Swords want instinct. You calcute too much.”

  I’d looked down at my bde then—frustrated, exhausted—and he had handed me something else.

  A spear.

  Long. Steady. Patient.

  “Try this instead. A spear is distance. A spear is rhythm. A spear is a question you make the other fool answer.”

  I hadn’t understood it then.

  I did now.

  My opponent stepped into the ring.

  Kurt Brauer.

  Son of Marquis Brauer—an old ally of the Zonneveld family. Eastern aristocracy, polished and proud. He walked with the quiet confidence of someone told his whole life he was built for victory.

  He carried a longsword, eyes already fixed on me.

  Cold. Assessing.

  He didn’t look surprised by the spear.

  Of course he wasn’t.

  A chill pricked at the base of my neck.

  So this was why the Zonnevelds were here.It wasn’t just ambition.

  It was alignment.

  Coordination.

  Testing waters. Watching outcomes.

  I felt it then—not fear, but confirmation. The gnawing suspicion I’d had since the tournament began…

  This was more than sport.

  The announcer raised his voice.

  “Combatants—ready your weapons!”

  I didn’t move.

  I just watched.

  And waited.

  Because Master Ba had one more lesson.

  “Let them come to you. The storm only matters if they step into it.”

  For a moment, the arena held its breath.

  Kurt Brauer met my gaze from across the ring—his expression unreadable, all polish and discipline. Not a flicker of nerves. Not even arrogance. Just the quiet confidence of someone born into advantage and trained to wield it.

  And me?

  I held still, spear grounded lightly at my side, spine straight, face bnk. But inside, everything thrummed.

  This was the first time I’d stepped into a ring under my own name. No shadows to hide in. No mask to wear. No battlefield to bme.

  This wasn’t war. It wasn’t exile. It wasn’t revenge. It was something smaller. Something worse.

  It was public.

  My first match wasn’t just about skill. It was about proving I deserved the space I occupied. About showing the Empire—and everyone watching—that I wasn’t just the prince they whispered about in passing.

  This was the beginning of the version of me I wanted to build. Not the boy from the past. Not the ghost of failure. But someone new.

  The noise of the crowd faded to a low hum. The sun beat down on my shoulders. The sand under my boots stayed still.

  Kurt raised his sword. And I raised my spear.

  Let him come.

  Let this begin.

  ? 2025 baobaochong – All rights reserved.