Arden Lunveyr.

  The noise in the stands didn’t die out at once.

  It settled slowly, as if the spectators didn’t immediately realize what they’d heard. A few voices kept talking—quieter, more uncertain.

  A pause.

  And only then did near-total silence fall.

  Arden rose.

  No sharpness. No pause for effect.

  The fabric of his ceremonial clothes slid softly over the bench. He squared his shoulders with a familiar motion—natural, without show.

  A step.

  The stone steps answered with a dull thud.

  Another step.

  The stares were easy to feel. Not pressure—focus.

  The branch family stayed calm. No extra gestures, no emotion.

  Among the vassals—anticipation. Some hoped for confirmation of the great clan’s strength. Others—for a crack.

  Beneath the empire’s banners, Lucaris smiled lazily.

  He turned his head slightly toward one of his attendants.

  “Well then,” he said quietly. “Now the interesting part begins.”

  There was no seriousness in his voice. Only excitement.

  Serael watched closely, not hiding her interest.

  Darion sat motionless. His gaze slid down briefly—as if he were merely noting another entrant.

  Corvin looked straight ahead.

  No challenge.

  No support.

  Deliberately.

  Arden stepped down onto the arena.

  The stone under his feet was cold and even. Traces of past fights had already been erased by the barrier.

  On the opposite side stood his opponent.

  A long spear. The metal reflected the light dully. His stance was confident—yet his fingers squeezed the shaft a touch harder than necessary.

  A bow.

  Arden returned it.

  A few paces of empty space remained between them.

  And the whole arena waited for the signal.

  It didn’t make them wait.

  The air inside the circle seemed to draw taut.

  The signal sounded—short.

  The metal cultivator moved first.

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  Not with a lunge—with a step forward, testing distance. The spear traced a short arc, the tip stopping a palm’s breadth from Arden’s chest.

  A probe.

  Arden didn’t retreat. He only shifted his torso half a step to the side. The tip slipped past the fabric without touching it.

  Stone scraped softly underfoot.

  The second thrust was faster. The spear came up from low to high, metal reinforced with qi—thinly, without any bright flare.

  Arden guided his blade aside and let the strike slide off. His sword met the shaft for an instant—just enough to change the trajectory.

  No sparks.

  No burst.

  Only a short click of contact.

  Whispers rose in the stands.

  “He’s not answering,” someone noted softly.

  “Waiting.”

  The metal cultivator stepped left, trying to catch an angle. His movements were confident, drilled. The spear moved cleanly.

  The third thrust reached longer.

  Arden stepped back.

  Then another half-step.

  He wasn’t running from the fight—he was reading the rhythm.

  Under the empire’s banners, Lucaris gave a quiet snort of amusement.

  “Careful,” he muttered under his breath. “Too careful.”

  Corvin didn’t look away.

  The metal cultivator felt the initiative. His breathing sped up slightly. The spear swept in a wide arc, forcing Arden closer to the edge of the circle.

  And that was when Arden took his first step forward.

  Not wide.

  Short.

  Cutting the distance.

  His blade ran along the shaft and slid toward the opponent’s wrist—not a strike, a warning.

  The metal cultivator jerked his hand back.

  Now he understood.

  This wasn’t evasion.

  It was patience.

  He reinforced the tip harder.

  The metal grew heavier.

  The next thrust was meant to decide it.

  He didn’t drag it out.

  The spear snapped forward.

  The metal cultivator put more force into it than before. The spearhead trembled in the air under the pressure. The blow was straight, brutal.

  Arden shifted at the last moment.

  The spear passed by his chest, catching the edge of his sleeve. The stone underfoot cracked from the excess impulse.

  The metal cultivator rolled the shaft and immediately followed with a second thrust—from low to high, reinforcing metal in his wrists.

  This time he spent more qi than he needed.

  Arden didn’t fully give ground.

  His blade rose.

  A short release—not to block, but to change the angle.

  Metal slid along the edge.

  The sound was sharp.

  The metal cultivator felt the recoil and took a half-step back, regripping the shaft.

  Arden was already moving.

  He stepped in.

  Too close for a long weapon.

  His blade ran along the shaft, climbing toward the hand. The metal cultivator snapped his wrist away, but the edge still caught the cloth at his forearm. A thin line of a cut.

  His breathing grew louder.

  He changed his grip.

  The spear traced a short circle, clearing space.

  Arden didn’t retreat.

  He held the distance one step closer than the spear wielder liked.

  The metal cultivator realized it.

  And decided to change the fight.

  He broke the distance sharply.

  A step back. The spear drew a wide circle, reclaiming space. He lowered his stance—more stable.

  Qi gathered at the tip.

  The metal darkened.

  He attacked in an arc, forcing Arden left, then instantly turned it into a thrust. A double rhythm built to punish a mistake.

  Arden slipped the first arc.

  The second thrust met him closer than expected.

  Arden raised his blade.

  A thin sheen of frost appeared along the edge.

  No flare.

  No harsh burst.

  Ice Blade formed as a dense, almost invisible film along the steel.

  Spear met sword.

  Metal slid.

  Frost ran a short line along the shaft.

  The metal cultivator felt cold seep into his palm. His fingers clenched harder for an instant.

  He reinforced the tip, trying to crush through the clash.

  Arden turned his wrist.

  The ice didn’t spread.

  It only sank deeper at the point of contact.

  The shaft grew heavier.

  His opponent’s movement slowed for a fraction of a heartbeat.

  Arden shifted right, cutting the distance again.

  His blade traced the outer side of the spear and slid toward the shoulder.

  The metal cultivator managed to lean away.

  The cut went through clothing.

  A thin layer of frost remained on the fabric.

  A muffled whisper rolled down from the stands.

  Under the empire’s banners, Lucaris leaned forward slightly.

  “Finally,” he murmured.

  The metal cultivator exhaled sharply and stepped back, shaking the spear free of the cold sheen.

  He regripped the shaft with both hands.

  Qi began to gather more densely.

  The spearhead grew heavier.

  He was preparing to commit more.

  And this time—without caution.

  The metal cultivator stopped stalling.

  He took a sharp step forward and poured almost all his remaining qi into the tip. The metal darkened; the air before the spear rippled.

  The strike went in a straight line.

  No feint.

  No test.

  With the intent to pierce.

  Arden shifted aside at the very last moment.

  The spearhead passed a palm’s breadth from his shoulder; the cold of the metal could be felt even through cloth.

  The metal cultivator tried to change the line, turning the shaft, but the motion was heavier than he’d expected.

  Arden stepped inside.

  Too close for a spear.

  Ice Blade slid along the shaft with a short, sharp motion, knocking the line off.

  Frost ran over the metal.

  The spear jerked sideways.

  The metal cultivator tried to wrench it back, but his arm trembled—there was almost no reserve left.

  Arden took one short step.

  A turn of his torso.

  His blade settled at his opponent’s throat.

  Cold steel touched skin.

  The barrier flared.

  The metal cultivator froze.

  The shaft lowered slowly.

  Arden withdrew his sword and stepped back.

  The stands fell silent for a beat.

  Then the noise returned.

  The fight was over.

  But the tension wasn’t.

  The branch family didn’t leap up. A few elders only nodded to each other. The anticipation didn’t vanish—it turned calmer.

  Among the vassals, whispers sped up. Someone shook their head in displeasure. Someone watched far too intently.

  Corvin didn’t clap.

  He watched the arena.

  Watched Arden withdraw his blade.

  How he broke the distance.

  How he didn’t say a single word.

  Under the empire’s banners, Lucaris chuckled softly.

  “Better,” he drawled. “Still careful, though.”

  One of his attendants leaned toward him.

  “He’s conserving.”

  “Then he’s afraid to spend,” Lucaris waved it off.

  But his gaze remained fixed on the circle.

  On the elders’ platform, Serael smiled faintly.

  Darion sat motionless. His eyes lingered on the arena a moment longer than before.

  Arden bowed to his opponent.

  The metal cultivator returned it, avoiding his gaze.

  The stone underfoot became just stone again.

  They were already preparing to announce the next pair.

  Arden turned and headed back to the contestants’ seats.

  And halfway there, his eyes met Corvin’s.

  The arena was already getting ready for the next name.