Evelina Carlstein stood a few staircases above the grand ballroom, her figure draped in an elegant gown. The riches around her body shimmered in the dim light. A delicate ivory fan hid the lower half of her face, including the satisfied smirk that tugged at her lips.

From where she stood, she could see everything below. The opulence of the ballroom, the people who attended it and, most importantly, the unfolding of her and her son's meticulous plans.

Her sharp and calculating eyes settled on Nebula, the daughter of the Baron’s first wife. That whore, Evelina thought bitterly, feeling an old pang of hatred rise within her.

The woman had been everything Evelina despised—beautiful, adored by many, and worst of all, the original mistress of the estate. Even after her death, the legacy she left in Nebula had been a thorn in Evelina’s side, like a constant reminder of her own inferiority in the eyes of the Baron.

Evelina always felt worthless, particularly when the Baron would drink on rare occasions, and embrace her in bed. Those were the times when he’d call her Munera rather than her own name.

That was the worst experience a married woman could have.

Evelina’s bitterness built up over time until the hatred toward the deceased Munera shifted to her living daughter. She had bided her time, quietly undermining Nebula’s standing within the family, until the opportunity arose to strike where it would hurt the most. Forcing Nebula into an engagement with Iskandaar Romani—the infamous “trash” of the Romani family—had been nothing short of heavenly pleasure for her.

Evelina’s satisfaction at the memory of that arrangement was almost overwhelming. The humiliation of being tied to someone so far beneath her, someone addicted to whores’ embrace, was the perfect punishment for the daughter of that wretched woman.

Yet, Evelina was not satisfied. That could never be enough. The engagement was one thing, but she needed to see Nebula and her pitiful fiancé utterly disgraced. Tonight’s gathering was the perfect stage for that.

The room was filled with nobles, their eyes eager for gossip, their ears hungry for scandal. And Evelina had ensured they would get exactly what they wanted.

She watched as Iskandaar entered the ballroom, Nebula by his side. Even from a distance, Evelina could see the nobles' curiosity and disdain for the couple.

She smirked behind the fan, mumbling, "Good, let them whisper."

The Romani boy looked sharper than the rumors had suggested, but Evelina knew that appearances could only take him so far. His reputation preceded him, and she did not doubt that by the end of the night, it would be further tarnished.

There was, however, a small complication. Evelina had also considered that. Iskandaar might attempt to cancel the engagement after tonight’s events, especially after the humiliation she had planned for him. That would be inconvenient, to say the least.

While marrying Nebula off to Iskandaar was her plan to humiliate the girl, it wasn’t a lie that the Carlstein Barony was in a tight spot. The alliance with the Romani estate was still useful to the Carlstein Barony, and losing it could be detrimental. Fortunately, Evelina had taken precautions. The Baron had spoken with the Count, ensuring that such a cancellation would not be entertained, no matter how much Iskandaar pleaded.

The Count saw his third son as nothing more than a troublesome child—one who was expected to exaggerate stories. The Count would dismiss any claims of mistreatment as Iskandaar’s attempts to avoid this engagement.

Satisfied with the certainty of her schemes, Evelina turned her attention to the unfolding scene below. She felt a thrill of anticipation as she spotted her son, Luciel, making his way toward the stairs, after Iskandaar’s little scene with Edric, who was bought by them just for this job. Her heartbeat quickened slightly. She wasn’t scared, no, but from the excitement of seeing her plan come to fruition.

Luciel, my pride and joy, she noted as he was about to take center stage in the drama they had set in motion.

Luciel descended the stairs with the grace and poise that befitted a Carlstein, his blue eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. He was every bit the image of a nobleman, and Evelina couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He was so much like her—cunning, sharp-witted, and utterly ruthless when the situation called for it.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Luciel’s gaze locked onto Iskandaar’s, and Evelina watched with bated breath as her son made his move.

“Hey there,” Luciel called out, his voice carrying a note of mockery that could not be missed. “Brother-in-law.”

The room fell silent at his words, the tension thick in the air as all eyes turned to the two young men. Evelina’s smirk grew wider behind her fan, her eyes gleaming with triumph. This was it—the moment she had been waiting for. The stage was set, the players in place, and soon, the downfall of Iskandaar Romani would be complete.

Evelina allowed herself a moment of pure, unbridled satisfaction as she watched the scene unfold. She could barely wait to see Nebula’s face when the full weight of the evening’s events came crashing down on her. It was a perfect night, and Evelina intended to savor every moment of it.

“I apologize, brother-in-law, that you had to hear all that,” he began, his tone laced with faux concern. “You’re the son of a Count, so to hear about that stuff in front of such a gathering must be awkward.”

He’s doing well, Evelina thought. He had always been sharp-tongued, a talent he inherited from her, and she felt a swell of pride as he subtly goaded Iskandaar.

“....” Iskandaar stayed silent. Then again, what could that boy even do?

“But really, you should tone down on things like that,” her son smirked, “I understand those are the only things you can enjoy, given your status as the third son, as well as being born without mana, but… it paints a bad picture. And don’t misunderstand, I am only caring because my sister will get married to you one day…”

Evelina’s gaze flicked to Nebula, who stood stiffly amid the crowd. She had been talking with a bunch of noble ladies when Edric and Iskandaar were talking, and so far, she hadn’t moved beside her fiance to help him save face. It made sense. She was ashamed.

The girl’s eyes narrowed at Luciel’s words, while the murmur of the crowd grew louder, whispers spreading like wildfire through the ballroom. She could hear snippets of their conversation—mocking pity for Nebula, calling her a “poor girl,” and even some more vicious voices questioning her judgment, accusing her of being a “dumb whore” for aligning herself with Iskandaar.

Luciel’s smirk widened, sensing the effect his words were having on both Iskandaar and the onlookers. The young Romani’s face was a mask of calm, but Evelina could see the slight tension in his posture. She knew what Luciel was doing—pushing Iskandaar to the edge, trying to provoke him into a rash action. If Iskandaar snapped, if he lost control, it would give Luciel the perfect excuse to humiliate him further.

And Luciel was more than capable of backing up his words with action. At just eighteen years old, he was already a formidable force, [Level 18] and rising fast. A living talent, destined for greatness, that’s what he was.

Iskandaar, however, remained composed. He finally responded. “It’s ironic, Luciel, that someone who’s yet to grow out of his sister’s shadow would think of lecturing me. What, aren’t you just Level 18? Your sister is merely a year older than you, and yet 10 levels higher. But go ahead, continue pretending that you’re more than just a reflection of your family name. Ah, I’ll even put my own family's name on this—you’ll never be able to catch up to her, you talentless little bastard.”

Luciel’s smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing as the not-so-subtle jab hit its mark. Evelina’s sharp eyes caught the twitch of her son’s eyelids, a sign of his rising irritation. That was not good, it’d be unwise to lose his temper here. Although, truthfully, Evelina’s own eyes were twitching in anger.

He dares to compare that whore’s daughter with my son? Her head heated up in rage.

Luciel’s voice dropped, colder now, as he spat, “Oh, brother-in-law, I’d have slapped you right now if you weren’t a cripple who’d die by my slap.” His words prompted a ripple of laughter from the surrounding nobles, their disdain for Iskandaar palpable.

“Whoa, someone’s popular. They didn’t laugh when I insulted your lack of talents,” Iskandaar said.

Before Luciel could reply, the maid, who had been standing just behind Iskandaar, stepped forward, her eyes flashing with anger. Evelina blinked, her interest piqued at the sight of the demi-human maid. But Iskandaar raised a hand, stopping her.

“Lilian, stay out of this.”

“But-”

“It’s okay,” he nodded at her.

That only seemed to amuse Luciel further. He burst out laughing, “Oh no, is your maid going to attack me? Aww, like master, like slave, no manners at all. How hard did you fuck her that she turned into a braindead little b—”

The words had barely left his lips when a sharp crack echoed throughout the ballroom, followed by a collective gasp. Evelina's eyes widened with surprise as she saw Luciel stagger back, a hand glove having struck him squarely in the face. The force of the impact made him fall back into the staircase as he landed hard on his back.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

For a brief moment, the entire room was stunned into silence.

N-no way… What the hell? Evelina’s mind raced, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Iskandaar—weak, insignificant Iskandaar—had actually struck her son.

It was impossible, unthinkable. How could he have caught Luciel off guard like that?

Her shock quickly turned to cold fury as she watched Luciel scramble to his feet, his face twisted in rage. His blue eyes blazed with hatred as he glared at Iskandaar, the room’s attention locked on the two young men. “How dare you, you weak, crippled son of a bitch!” Luciel spat, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

But Iskandaar did not even flinch. He met Luciel’s glare with a calm, almost dismissive expression. “Call me weak after you beat me,” he replied coolly, his gaze flicking to the glove now beside Luciel’s foot. “Pick up the glove. Accept the duel and let’s see who's the cripple. ”

Another shocked silence fell over the ballroom as the realization of Iskandaar’s words sank in. A duel—Iskandaar Romani, the supposed cripple, was challenging Luciel Carlstein to a duel?

The nobles around them exchanged incredulous looks, the whispers growing louder. This was insanity. How could someone so weak dare to challenge someone as powerful as Luciel?

Evelina could see something move, flickers of mana around Iskandaar's body. While she wasn’t that high leveled, she had experience on the battlefield. She watched her husband defend against the Erebian Empire in the last war. The air Iskandaar had around him… was similar to what her husband and the other commanders possessed. Although not nearly on the same level, since her husband’s aura spread around and made his enemies slower, weaker, and sometimes even made them freeze in fear.

Iskandaar’s flickering mana didn’t appear to create the same effects. No, most of the children downstairs didn’t even seem to feel the mana. Was he holding it off? Or was he just that weak? Her first instinct was to call this whole thing off, Iskandaar Romani wasn’t supposed to have mana in the first place. What if something were to happen to Luciel, her precious?

Then her more rational side returned, calming her down. She looked back at Luciel. Well sure he has mana now, but Luciel had years of training. Luciel had talent, and Luciel was her son. There was no way a talentless pervert like that Romani boy could beat him. Luciel was cut from a different cloth.

In fact, this was a good thing. Iskandaar’s word benefited them. Luciel wouldn’t be punished even if he beat Iskandaar within an inch of his life. The initial plan was to just humiliate him, and hit him a few times if he were to attack Luciel. But now the scale of the battle could be higher.

As expected, her son, with a mind like her own, decided on the same thing. He flicked his foot and the glove came into his hands. His smirk grew wider. “Alright, don’t blame me if you end up in the grave, brother-in-law.”

The nobles around began to look at Luciel in awe and excitement. These people have heard what Edric Vayne said, to them Iskandaar didn’t even deserve to be a noble. They already knew who to support.

“I have a condition, of course,” Iskandaar continued, his voice cutting through the rising chatter, “you’d apologize to your sister if I win. For what? I am sure you know for what.”

“....”

“What, why’re you silent? Pussied out?”

Luciel’s eyes widened in shock at the audacity of the challenge, his mind racing as he processed the situation. Slowly, his mouth opened and he retorted. “In return, you have to publicly confess your crimes for all to see. Even if you’re my brother-in-law, I do not like criminals.” He said with his grin turning into a scowl.

Across from him, Evelina watched as Iskandaar Romani remained composed, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. While Luciel’s frown was spreading, Iskandaar’s smirk faded.

What’s he thinking? His poker face was excellent, she had to give him that. But what can he do with it against her son?

****

Nebula’s heart pounded in her chest, the beats echoing like a war drum as she watched the events unfold with mounting dread. The noble grand ballroom had transformed into an arena of tension and threats, filled with gossiping nobles, hungry for drama.

Chandeliers above cast a soft, flickering glow over the polished marble floors. But its warm light did nothing to soothe the cold grip of fear that clenched her heart.

She stared at Iskandaar, her fiancé, standing tall and resolute in the center of the room. This can't be happening… she thought, her mind racing. He’s not Luciel’s opponent.

Just a month ago, Iskandaar was a sickly, fragile young man with barely enough strength to hold a sword. The last time she had seen him, he was at Level 12—so now, he was maybe Level 15, at most. His only experience with fighting was likely limited to some brawls or spars. Nothing that could prepare him for what was to come.

In contrast, Luciel, her half-brother, was a prodigy. At the age of 18, he had already achieved Level 18, a remarkable feat even among the noble elite. She wished that was all. Luciel wasn’t just strong, he was a natural-born leader, having led a successful campaign against a band of rogue knights who had been terrorizing the borderlands.

His victories had earned him accolades and respect, and Nebula knew that his prowess with a sword was unmatched by anyone of his age. He was used to battles.

This isn’t a duel—it’s a death sentence, Nebula realized, dread filling every corner of her being. He’ll kill him… She looked around the room, hoping for someone to intervene, but instead, she saw only anticipation in the eyes of the gathered nobles. They were eager to see blood, to witness the spectacle of Luciel dismantling the "trash" of the Romani family.

None of them knew that Iskandaar had awakened mana and the system, and yet they wished to see him fight. Did they have a shred of humanity left in them? No, it makes sense. Iskandaar’s image has been tainted by the words thrown by that Baron’s son earlier. They would love to see him getting taught a lesson. To them, he was just a weakling, a cripple who needed to be reminded of his place.

Nebula herself was unsure how much of those words were true, so she didn’t know if she should defend him… No, if not for him, she should defend him for her own reputation. But…

Whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire. Some questioned whether Luciel should even accept the duel, given how lopsided it was. Wouldn’t such an easy win tarnish Luciel’s reputation as a rising star in the Carlstein family? But the facts still persisted, Iskandaar was the one who challenged Luciel to a duel.

None of them seemed to consider Iskandaar a legitimate threat. They were rather worried about how weak Iskandaar was.

“This is not good,” Nebula muttered under her breath as her hands clenched into fists. She should do something—say something—otherwise, things could go terribly wrong. But the words wouldn’t come. She was paralyzed, caught between her fear for Iskandaar’s life and the knowledge that any interference could make things worse.

They’d call her a harlot, drowning in the love of a trash, among many worse things.

“Hey-” still, she opened her mouth to shout. But her voice was drowned by the cough of a lady walking down the stairs.

“Ahem,” Evelina Carlstein, her stepmother, descended the staircase with a fan covering her mouth. Her eyes, however, gleamed with malicious delight. Shit, Nebula’s heart sank as Evelina spoke, her voice carrying across the ballroom like a dark melody.

“What are you guys waiting for? Since two young men with boiling blood want to have a go, let the duel proceed,” Evelina said, her tone sweet and dripping with honeyed poison.

The gathered nobles parted respectfully, acknowledging her authority. Luciel looked up at her, a grin spreading across his face as she nodded approvingly. If he wasn’t sure so far, he was sure now. It was all the encouragement he needed.

…..

Nebula’s heart wavered as she watched Luciel’s grin toward Iskandaar. They were now facing each other in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by dozens of nobles in a circle whose eyes gleamed with morbid curiosity. The atmosphere was charged with tension, the kind that crackled in the air before a storm. Nebula could barely breathe.

Two servants approached, carrying a pair of wooden swords. They were meant for training, blunt enough to avoid killing. Nebula knew how dangerous a blunt weapon could be in the hands of someone who knew how to use it. It could still kill, if one intended for it. Nebula’s dread deepened. Were they trying to cripple Iskandaar?

But then, something unexpected happened.

As the servant handed him the wooden sword, Iskandaar looked at it for a moment before letting it drop to the floor. Nebula blinked. The sound of the sword clattering against the marble echoed through the room, drawing gasps and shocked murmurs from the crowd.

One noble couldn’t contain his laughter. “Is he giving up already?!” he mocked, his voice dripping with disdain.

Lilian, standing among the crowd now, near Nebula, let out a scoff, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Why would he give up, you dumbass? They haven't even started. He doesn’t need a sword, that’s why he dropped it.”

The nobles exchanged confused glances, and even Nebula was taken aback by the maid’s confidence. What does she mean? Nebula wondered, her fear mixing with curiosity. Why would he not need a sword?

The overseer of the duel, a young noble who served in the military, frowned at that. He was a noble who worked as a soldier in the border wall, and he had stepped ahead to volunteer as the overseer. He looked at Luciel and spoke with a formal tone. “Are you comfortable with your opponent using his hands, my lord?”

Luciel’s smirk didn’t waver. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice oozing arrogance. “If he’s too weak for the sword, I can always switch to fighting with my hands too.”

The overseer nodded, then began outlining the rules of the duel. “The duel will continue until one party is incapacitated or yields. The victor will have the right to demand one concession from the loser, and they’ve both revealed what they want.”

As the overseer spoke, Iskandaar calmly rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms that were far more muscular than Nebula remembered. Not only that, the veins on his arms were pumped, as if he was already warmed up. His movements were deliberate, almost relaxed as if this were just another chore for him. The contrast between his calm demeanor and Luciel’s overconfidence was stark.

What was going on? Does he have some tricks up his sleeves?

With the rules set, the overseer stepped back and raised a hand. Nebula watched with sweat dripping from her brows, as the man brought his hand down. “The duel starts now!”

Luciel wasted no time. He surged forward with a burst of speed, and his wooden sword sliced through the air like a whistle. He executed a textbook-perfect move, the swordsmanship skill of the Carlstein nobility. A dangerous stab aimed for Iskandaar’s neck, he fully expected to destroy his vocals in one swift motion.

But instead of the satisfying sound of wood against flesh, Luciel’s sword met something far more unyielding.

Iskandaar had caught the sword with his bare hand.

The ballroom fell deathly silent as everyone watched in disbelief. Luciel’s eyes widened in shock as he realized what had just happened. Iskandaar stood there, unflinching, as golden eyes dug into Luciel’s skull. His hand gripped the wooden blade with such force that it began to splinter. The pressure increased, and with a sharp crack, the sword shattered, pieces of wood scattering across the floor.

“Level 18?”

Nebula’s breath caught in her throat. What… what’s happening?

“What a disgrace.”

The moment those words left his mouth, the air got heavy as Iskandaar’s mana suffocated the room. Mana invaded the room and surrounded Iskandaar’s body.

A loud sound deafened the room. No one dared to talk as Iskandaar’s fist slammed into Luciel.