Amelia sat gracefully in the elevated gallery, hands folded in her lap, her eyes never straying far from the arena below where Iskandaar had just concluded his remarkable duel. He spread his arms as a showman, and she smiled. She enjoyed the boy’s antics a lot.
The Colosseum was bathed in crisp morning light. Its towering columns were draped in crimson and silver banners that snapped in the winter breeze. Though the most frenetic moments of the festival’s morning, the fights, had begun to settle, a pleasant hum of lingering excitement remained. It would only grow from here, reaching its peak tomorrow night.
From this high in the colosseum, she could see how merchants called for customers and hear the children’s laughter drifting through the air as they chased after paper dragons floating aimlessly overhead.
“Such a sight, Amelia,” beside her, Lady Vaelion Sylvenel leaned forward, the sunlight catching in her silver blonde hair, transforming each strand into a thread of polished metal. She observed the ring where Iskandaar acknowledged the crowd’s cheers. “You’ve raised quite the fine student,” she remarked, voice approving. “You undersold him earlier. I must say, even my nephew might have trouble defeating him.”
Amelia allowed herself a faint smile, pride warming her chest. “I told you I wasn’t just boasting. Iskandaar’s progress has been extraordinary. He’s not simply strong, he’s also disciplined about his training. He learns fast, adapts faster.”
Otherwise, he would still have remained a cripple. Then again, who knows what he actually is? I don’t think he’s a demon since he keeps denying it, but he’s not normal, either.
Vaelion inclined her head in agreement, eyes reflecting the arena’s glow. “True strength isn’t measured in raw Level alone. Class, Skill, and adaptability to that Skill, matter just as much. Speaking of, I’m curious, what is his Class? I can’t quite place it.”
“Lady Vaelion,” Amelia chided playfully, “it’s rude to pry into a student’s Class without reason. And if I’m honest, I don’t know it myself. Iskandaar keeps some things close to the chest.”
Vaelion’s lips quivered at the corners, amused rather than offended. “So secretive, are we? Intriguing. Maybe I should have a chat with him later…”
Nearby, Victor Seraph stood discreetly, having returned to the gallery after his own victory. He pretended not to have heard the compliments lavished upon Iskandaar, but Amelia’s keen eyes caught the subtle twitch of his jaw.
There’d been no such applause for him—no surprise since everyone expected strength from him at Level 97. Iskandaar’s show was more impactful since he defeated someone far higher level than himself. Yet, Victor maintained his polished veneer, smiling at Amelia when he caught her gaze. “Iskandaar Romani’s performance truly impressed me as well,” he said, projecting warmth. “Not just him, really. His entire circle of companions is noteworthy.”
The remark drew several curious gazes. A few well-dressed nobles leaned in, whispering, while Vaelion and Prince Rhydar directed their attention toward Victor. Prince Orion shifted somewhat stiffly and turned his head to listen. If the topic was Iskandaar, he couldn’t afford to be disinterested. Victor sensed their collective focus and seized it. If this conversation sparked the Elven Prince’s engagement, so much the better.
“One of my associates, my friend,” Victor continued, voice casual and cultured, “had an unfortunate misunderstanding with Iskandaar’s maid. Purely a mistake, of course. But it ended in a fight. My friend, Bastian Frostbane—the heir of North’s Glacier Hall, you might recognize—was, to put it bluntly, crushed. Bastian is no amateur; he’s a Level 88 fighter with a solid reputation.”
A ripple spread through the gathering. Vaelion’s brows lifted. “Glacier Hall? The one that’s been standing since before the empire’s formation?”
Amelia nodded slightly. “The very one.”
Vaelion’s gaze sharpened with interest. “And this maid… what’s her level?”
Victor’s posture stiffened for a heartbeat, then he offered a small, apologetic shrug. “I’m unsure. But she looked no older than twenty-two, according to the report.”
“She is indeed twenty-two,” Amelia interjected calmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Her name is Lilian. As for her family name, I’d rather keep that private. You’ll know her when you see her, Vaelion.”
Vaelion pressed her lips together, clearly wanting more details, but Amelia’s polite smile was unyielding. Victor’s eyes narrowed slightly—Amelia shielding the maid’s identity piqued his curiosity, but he knew better than to push the chancellor. Amelia liked that he knew his boundaries. If only he knew it enough. The gallery’s tension lifted into a curious hush, each person turning the new information over in their minds.
Sitting a few steps away, Prince Orion couldn’t hide his discomfort. His stiff shoulders, the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze—he’d obviously expected the spotlight, not for it to focus so intently on Iskandaar. Heck, he didn’t even get a chance to show off this time.
Amelia felt a little bad, noticing the boy’s discomfort. He tried to remain poised, but the corner of his mouth tightened. He glanced between her, Vaelion, and Victor, as if searching for some reassurance. Instead, he found only more quiet admiration directed toward the young man who had surpassed him.
Just then, Prince Rhydar joined the conversation, his voice a pleasant, diplomatic tone. “Iskandaar Romani’s final move—the plum blossom technique—was not only powerful, but it had an artistry to it. Like a swordsman’s painting in motion. I’m very curious about it. Where did he learn such a thing, do you know, Chancellor?”
Amelia leaned back slightly, thoughtful. “I can’t say for certain. Iskandaar’s training is… eclectic. His fighting style is almost like a Spellsword, right? He’s combined martial mastery with magical finesse, somehow. Maybe it’s one of his Class skills or something. I’ve been to the eastern continent before, and the plum blossoms evoked traditions from there. Maybe someone from the East taught him? I don’t know the specifics.”
Vaelion nodded, intrigued. “Technique and tradition often travel far with wanderers and mercenaries. Perhaps Iskandaar picked it up from a passing master. In any case, it’s remarkable.”
Victor pretended to admire the distant banners, choosing not to comment. Orion managed a nod, quiet and reserved. Amelia hoped these two wouldn’t cause trouble for Iskandaar in the future because of cheap jealousy.
Amelia and Vaelion exchanged a few more words, speculating on Iskandaar’s style’s origins and his maid’s unusual prowess and then deriving into different topics while Rhydar listened closely. Two more matches moved by, but they weren’t as impactful. Prince Orion occasionally added a benign comment, trying to reassert his composure.
The gallery’s atmosphere was equal parts curiosity and admiration. The moment was cut short as the announcer’s voice soared over the low hum of the stands. “Now, everyone! Although only students of Waybound participate in this event, we have an exception this time. Prince Rhydar, the sole son of the Elven Queen, please step forward to demonstrate your skills!”
All eyes shifted. Vaelion gave Rhydar a gentle, encouraging smile. “Go on, dear,” she said softly. “Show them what you’re capable of.”
Rhydar inclined his head, determination flashing through his eyes. He rose, smoothing the fabric of his attire, and moved toward the stairs leading down to the arena. Amelia watched him, her expression poised but pensive.
The crowd's anticipation reawakened as Rhydar stepped into the ring’s open air.
The festival’s morning exuberance took on a new shade of suspense as the spectators wondered what the Elven Prince would show. Amelia folded her hands again, her gaze following Rhydar down below.
****
From my seat in the observer’s gallery, I watched Prince Rhydar step into the arena. The young man was a solitary figure framed by the high walls and the hush that had fallen over the crowd.
The announcer’s voice rang out, the words echoing, “Prince Rhydar! You have the honor of choosing your opponent for today’s exhibition match. Do you have anyone in mind?”
I leaned forward, elbows resting on the railing, my eyes fixed on the elven prince below. Solara shifted at my side, her wings neatly folded and her presence calm beside me. The arena’s sand seemed brighter now that the midday sun had advanced, illuminating each grain, every subtle contour. Rhydar hesitated, and I could practically taste the tension in the air. Everybody wanted to know who he’d choose.
He had options, of course—esteemed warriors from the academy’s older ranks, students and professors alike, and many high-level fighters who could display their prowess grandly to make the festival more fun.
Instead, his gaze drifted toward my seat, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.
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A sigh escaped him, barely audible from where I sat. I wouldn’t be surprised if he chose me after my performance earlier. Then, I sensed it in the subtle tilt of his shoulders. Something weighed heavily on him, making him forsake me as a choice.
He spoke clearly enough for all to hear, “I’d like to fight Solara Fenixia.”
I blinked, and a ripple of surprise swept through the stands. I caught a few muffled gasps and the rustle of fabric as spectators leaned in to see the reaction. Solara stiffened slightly beside me, but only for a heartbeat.
She looked up at me, her emerald eyes holding a question. “What should I do?” she asked, voice low.
I considered her for a moment. It wasn’t a common choice. There were far better options to choose from. Heck, I was sitting right beside her. There had to be a reason behind his choice. Maybe some old elven curiosity toward the Phoenix line? Was there some kind of grudge or story between the elves and phoenixes?
I looked at Solara.
[Solara Fenixia, Level 36]
I shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Accept it, of course. He’s singled you out for a reason. Show him what the last phoenix can do,” I patted her back.
Solara nodded, no fear flickering in her gaze, only a cool determination. I gave her a quick nod of encouragement. “By the way, he’s Level 50. That’s weak, so don’t lose. Remind people about the last phoenix.”
She stared at me and then nodded again. Watching Solara in action would be nice. I wanted to see where her limits lay. I knew from the game that the Elven Prince was stronger than what his level indicated, thanks to his Class, but Solara was the same.
It’d be interesting to see how this fight would go.
“Alright, watch me,” Solara said with a small smile. She looked a little nervous underneath. As she rose gracefully from her seat, I settled back, crossing my arms.
The crowd murmured, uncertain, intrigued. I tried to piece together what I knew of elven traditions and the Fenixia Family. Not much came to mind to suggest a connection. If Rhydar’s challenge was born from some folklore, I would see it reflected in how he fought. It'd also make sense if it was a political maneuver, with the elves trying to befriend a near-fallen Duke house. Either way, I’d have to see to know.
Down in the arena’s center, Rhydar took a measured breath, and the announcer repeated the prince’s choice as if to confirm that we’d all heard correctly. Solara descended the short flight of steps that led from the gallery to the sandy battlefield.
She moved with that fluid confidence I’d come to recognize, her wings shifting slightly as if testing the air. Her wings didn’t wear their armor right now, so nearby, some people whispered where her weapon was.
The audience quieted again as the two fighters stood at either side of the arena, staring at each other. Before them stood the last phoenix and the Elven prince—an unlikely pairing. I wondered how his [The Phantom Hawkeye] Class would react against Solara.
Rhydar reached out to his back, and a bow shimmered into existence. He grabbed it and raised it, a sleek weapon that hummed with energy. I watched as arrows formed from thin air at his command thanks to fine elven craftsmanship and magic entwined.
Solara, for her part, shrugged as her wings spread wide. A faint shimmer of heat ran along the edge of her feathers, like distant mirages dancing over desert dunes.
The announcer’s voice cut through the silence, calling for the match to begin. As Rhydar nocked his first arrow—its tip glowing faintly—and Solara took her stance, a current of anticipation rippled through the spectators.
The prince shot his first arrow, and the world held its breath.
****
The arrow pierced through the air, sending a cry across the arena. Solara stood at the edge, breathing in as the arrow reached her, a spinning tornado behind it.
Her wings shimmered for a moment, and metal appeared around it. The morning sun caught in her armored wings and turned their feathered contours into a dazzling tapestry of fire-touched metal. The arrow came rushing, and she spun, her wings slammed against it. A soft sound clinked across the air.
She heaved out a breath. From her vantage point on the sandy floor, the world seemed to hold its breath as the Prince stared at her, bow facing her. “...Impressive defense.”
The distant hum of the festival softened as her focus increased. All that remained was the gentle rustle of banners, the subtle shifts of spectators, and the measured sound of her own breath. “Thanks,” she said. Her wings hurt from blocking that.
She couldn’t deny it. He looked surprisingly formidable. “Let’s continue,” he said, and three more arrows flew toward her as he muttered skill names. The first one carried a sharp wind, but the second flew with ice. His arrows were coated in elements, and she frowned as she blocked them again, her wings allowing her to dance. A portion of her feathers froze when she tried to block the ice arrow.
“Careful,” he said, smiling a little.
She grumbled. She was surprised by the strength behind the arrows, and then there were the elements too. Yes, an elven prince, but she’d assumed he’d be easy to deal with. Perhaps a decent archer, maybe a cunning strategist, but nothing so impressive. She hadn’t expected him to conjure arrows of different elements.
He’d shown wind and ice so far, and maybe he could do the same with various other elements too? She narrowed her eyes, blocking another arrow that sped toward her with unnerving accuracy. It glanced off her wing armor, sparks showering harmlessly against the ground.
She’d have to be more cautious. Wings spread, Solara pivoted lightly, the flames at her bladed feather’s edge dancing with her movements. She felt the weight of his gaze, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he observed her response.
Each exchange revealed more of his capabilities and more questions. He didn’t rely solely on elemental mastery; he adapted, shifting his approach as if testing her limits. That air of calculation pricked at her instincts. She’d faced stronger foes but few as calmly resourceful as this prince.
Another arrow came—imbued with wind magic again—and Solara deflected it with a smooth arc of her wings, the blades that covered her feathers dispersing the wind in a graceful flourish as her wings let out a whiff of flames.
High above, the crowd gasped or murmured. They saw fire against arrows, but Solara sensed the deeper game. Rhydar’s careful escalation, the layering of forces. He was probing her defenses, searching for a gap in her timing or a falter in her flame.
“[Slicing Gale]!’” he called, his voice resonating in the hush. He pulled his bowstring, and the arrow multiplied.
A dozen arrows infused with sharp wind spun through the air, a shimmering spiral that forced Solara’s hand. She ignited her wings fully, flapping them in front of her and forging a barrier of intense heat that warped the projectiles’ path. The arrows curved away, half-melted or flung off course. She soared upward, beating her wings until she hovered above him, scanning his stance.
If he expected her to remain grounded, he’d be disappointed. She’d never limit herself that way. But Rhydar didn’t hesitate. He reached deeper, manifesting arrows wreathed in flames this time—her element.
She almost scoffed at the irony. “Hey, do you think fire arrows would rattle me?” A hint of amusement tugged at her lips, even as she dodged sharply. She showed arrogance, but she wouldn’t face those flaming arrows head-on. He fired with unnerving speed, forcing her to weave through the barrage. Her bladed wings lashed out, carving through arrows that blazed and crackled. With each parry, sparks cascaded like fleeting fireflies.
Still, something about him unsettled her. He wasn’t just hurling random powers because he couldn’t have that many affinities alone. It wasn’t impossible, but he didn’t seem like he had them. Every elemental shift felt deliberate as if guided by hands unseen. Solara’s gaze flicked briefly toward the gallery where Amelia, Vaelion, and others watched. No doubt they were intrigued by the prince’s capabilities.
Could he be channeling spirits of different domains? Spirit Affinity, was it? Elves were known for it. That would explain his ability to borrow elements that were not his own. A rare talent, if that was indeed the truth.
Frowning slightly, she dove back down, unleashing a volley of flame bursts from her wings. The crowd’s cheers and gasps blurred into a distant hum.
She executed a maneuver Iskandaar taught her—a half-twist that combined her innate fire control with a sword technique’s precision, except it was her wings she used instead of a sword. The flames swirled around her bladed feathers, forging a fiery pattern in the air.
Rhydar responded by invoking something stronger. “[Flaming Tempest]!” he cried, and a storm of arrows fanned out, each one imbued with elemental force that sparked and crackled. Then he escalated even further, calling upon a heavier, more potent skill.
“[Spirit Magic: Cleansing Lances of Destruction]!” The name alone made her tense as he shot arrows that turned into lances. These arrows seemed to gain strength with each passing second, stacking power onto power until they hummed with dangerous intensity.
Solara had no intention of letting him corner her. She shifted her stance, calling upon her newly learned techniques from Iskandaar, honed through practice. If he would bring spirits, she would bring refined steel and flame.
[Flame Demon Blade Technique]! She invoked quietly, her voice lost beneath the roar of flames and the crowd. It was a Demonic Technique, but since she had no demonic energy, it was fine to use it here safely.
Her feathers seemed to explode, energy spreading out of them, shaped like feathers themselves, as they danced like a whirlwind, slamming into the arrows.
The collision of their abilities in the center of the arena created a tapestry of pure light and heat. The prince’s brilliant arrows collided with her swirling inferno, sparks dancing wildly as if possessed by restless spirits. For a moment, neither yielded; nobody could tell which technique was stronger. The arena’s shield flared to life, protecting spectators from the shockwaves of their clash.
When the smoke finally thinned, Solara hovered, chest rising and falling, sweat beading along her brow. Rhydar faced her, posture slightly less rigid, breathing a bit heavier. Both recognized that pressing further risked true harm. Neither side would claim victory easily.
The understanding passed between them in a single exchange of glances. She lowered her wings first, allowing them to fade back from armor to their natural fiery plumage. He, in turn, eased the tension on his bowstring, lowering it.
Quickly reading the mood, the announcer declared, “It’s- it’s a draw!!”
The crowd’s thunderous applause surrounded them, a swirling ocean of sound. Solara didn’t bother to land back in the arena; rather, she landed softly beside Iskandaar, her heart still pounding as she looked at him.
“Sorry,” she said, “I couldn’t win.”
She could almost feel his silent questions—what had she learned from this dance of flame and arrow? He smiled, “I said don’t lose. You didn’t lose.”
She looked at him and then nodded imperceptibly to herself, smiling back. She then looked at the elven prince again. He was dangerous, resourceful. She’d expected raw skill, but not this layered complexity, not the capacity to call upon a myriad spirits.
Rhydar, though clearly frustrated by the stalemate, managed a respectful bow in her direction. “Well fought,” he said, voice steady. She inclined her head in return, acknowledging his skill, if not fully understanding his methods.