The arena was silent. The crowd, moments before caught in the throes of riotous cheers, now watched in breathless awe. None could comprehend what they had just witnessed.
Varen, heir of the Silver Flame, stood at the epicenter of his own blazing might. His fiery aura had transformed into a primal force, raw and overwhelming, shaped by emotions he had buried for years. The dragon-shaped flames above him roared, no longer mere mana constructs but extensions of his very being, wild and alive. The ground beneath his feet was scorched and cracked, a testament to the pressure of his unleashed power.
Across from him, Lucavion stood amidst the aftermath of his own chaotic storm. His estoc, wreathed in the chaotic black fire of [Flame of Equinox], hung at his side. The flames had not subsided; instead, they seemed to pulse with a life of their own, weaving through the air like untamed spirits. His smirk, ever-present, held a different edge now—less of arrogance, more of acknowledgment. Blood trickled from a shallow cut on his cheek, but he seemed entirely unbothered, his eyes alight with unbridled exhilaration.
The fight had transcended the physical.
The black flames that sent shivers through every spine in the arena defied comprehension, their chill biting deeper than any winter’s breath. The silvery-red inferno of Varen’s power, refined by his years of discipline, had grown to unimaginable heights. Yet it wasn’t the power itself that left the crowd stunned—it was the clash of ideologies, of emotions laid bare.
How could a swordsman not even affiliated with any sect push Varen, the peak 4-star prodigy, to such a precipice? Varen, a figure who at his age had surpassed even the most prodigious in their records, now found himself forced to confront the core of his identity. His flames, once the emblem of his discipline, had turned into a reflection of something far deeper—a release of the grief, anger, and betrayal he had carried.
Lucavion, the so-called Phantom Blade to some and Sword Demon to others, had shown the crowd something else entirely. He was chaos incarnate, a force that didn’t fit into the structured world of sects and cultivation. Where Varen sought control, Lucavion thrived in the unpredictable, using it as both a weapon and a philosophy. His every move was a conversation—a challenge not just to his opponent’s strength but to their very beliefs.
The energy in the arena hung thick, the air charged with the remnants of their exchange. Protective enchantments shimmered, their runes strained from the unprecedented power they had contained. Even the Marquis Aldrich Ventor sat motionless in his elevated box, his usual composed satisfaction replaced with wide-eyed disbelief.
Then, slowly, the spell was broken. Whispers rippled through the crowd like the first drops of rain before a storm, growing louder until they erupted into a cacophony of cheers, gasps, and frantic discussions.
“This… is impossible!” someone shouted. “Varen—at the peak of 4-star—should have crushed him!”
“But look at Lucavion!” another voice replied. “He’s… he’s still standing!”
In the center of it all, Varen straightened, planting his greatsword into the cracked earth for support. His chest heaved, his silvery-red aura flickering with the last vestiges of his mana. Yet, despite the toll the battle had taken on him, his expression wasn’t one of defeat. It was something closer to peace. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com
Across from him, Lucavion chuckled softly, wiping the blood from his cheek with a gloved hand. “Now that,” he said, his voice carrying through the stunned silence of the arena, “was worth every moment.”
Varen’s lips curved into a faint, tired smile. “You… you fight like a demon.”
“Hehe…” Lucavion’s smile widened, though his breaths were labored. “Stand proud,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of respect. “You were strong.”
Varen’s grip on his greatsword faltered. His knees buckled as his body, pushed far beyond its limits, refused to carry him any longer. He fell forward, the mighty weapon slipping from his grasp as he collapsed onto the scorched earth. The dragon flames above him flickered, then dissipated into the air, their brilliance replaced by the faint glow of embers.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, their collective disbelief mounting as the scene unfolded before them. Varen Drakov, the Ferocious Flame, had fallen.
Lucavion remained standing, though his frame swayed as he struggled to steady himself. The black flames around him receded, their once-chaotic dance fading to faint wisps. His estoc hung limply at his side, and a pained grimace crossed his face as he shifted his weight. But even in his exhaustion, the smirk returned, defiant and proud.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then, it erupted.
The chants started faintly, scattered among the crowd, but they grew louder, swelling into a roar that shook the very arena.
“Sword Demon! Sword Demon! Sword Demon!”
The name carried like a battle hymn, a declaration that would cement Lucavion’s legend in the annals of the Ventor Martial Tournament. It was a name born not just of his victory but of the overwhelming presence he had shown—a force of nature that couldn’t be tamed.
The announcer hesitated, his gaze flitting between the two warriors. His voice, when it finally emerged, trembled with the weight of the moment. “The winner… of the Ventor Martial Tournament… is Lucavion!”
The arena erupted into deafening cheers, a tidal wave of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of Andelheim. Nobles and commoners alike leapt to their feet, their voices merging in celebration of the enigmatic swordsman who had defied all expectations.
But then, as the echoes of his name continued to resound, Lucavion staggered. The strain of the fight, the sheer amount of mana he had expended, caught up to him. His knees gave way, and he dropped to the ground, catching himself on one hand as his estoc clattered beside him.
“Looks like… I overdid it,” Lucavion murmured, a weak chuckle escaping his lips before his body slumped onto the cracked earth. The crowd’s cheers faltered for a moment as they watched the victorious warrior succumb to his exhaustion.
Despite their collapse, the image of the two warriors lying amidst the ruins of their battle burned into the memories of everyone present. It was a fight that transcended strength and skill—a clash of wills, philosophies, and hearts laid bare.
As the medics rushed to the arena floor, the chants resumed, even louder than before.
“Sword Demon! Sword Demon!”
Lucavion’s victory wasn’t just over Varen. It was over expectations, over the rigid structures of power and discipline that the world believed to be absolute. And in that victory, he had claimed not only the title but the hearts of those who had witnessed the unforgettable duel.
*******
Valeria stood silently in the shadowed archway of the arena, her eyes fixed on the battlefield where the embers of Lucavion’s victory still smoldered. The crowd’s chants of “Sword Demon” roared around her like an unending tide, but she was caught in a storm of her own thoughts, her gaze unblinking as she watched the medics tend to his unconscious form.
‘He fought like that… as a 3-star.’ The realization struck her anew, carrying with it a mixture of admiration and disbelief. She had reached the 4-star level only recently, yet Lucavion, with the strength of his core still firmly at the 3-star rank, had stood toe-to-toe with Varen. No—it wasn’t just that. He hadn’t merely fought Varen; he had challenged him, pushed him, and ultimately, defeated him.
‘That shouldn’t be possible.’ Her hand clenched around the edge of her cloak, a habit born from years of training to ground herself. ‘But he did it. He broke every rule I thought I understood about power and cultivation.’
Her thoughts drifted to the moments of the fight: the way Lucavion moved, his strikes imbued with calculated chaos. Every swing of his estoc had been purposeful, not just aimed at his opponent’s defenses but at his very core—his beliefs, his confidence, his identity.
‘Just what kind of person are you?’ Her lips parted slightly as the question echoed in her mind. She had seen many warriors fight, but none like him. Lucavion didn’t seek control like Varen, nor did he rely on sheer might like so many others. He thrived in unpredictability, wielding it as both shield and sword.
The dragon-shaped flames of Varen’s final, desperate assault still burned in her memory, a display of mana mastery and emotional release that should have overwhelmed any opponent. And yet, Lucavion had faced it without faltering, his own chaotic flames defying the odds.
‘What did you experience to have such a sword?’ Her gaze flicked down to her own hands, remembering the countless hours spent perfecting her blade. Hers was an art born of discipline and tradition, a weapon forged to embody the ideals of knighthood. Lucavion’s estoc, however, was something else entirely—a weapon born from a life she couldn’t begin to fathom, honed not through structure but through survival, rebellion, and instinct.
The crowd’s cheers began to die down, replaced by the murmurs of spectators trying to process the impossible. Valeria leaned against the cold stone wall, closing her eyes for a brief moment. In the silence of her thoughts, she felt a strange pang—a yearning to understand.
‘Maybe it wasn’t just the fight,’ she admitted to herself, the truth settling like a weight in her chest. ‘Maybe it’s him. The way he carries himself, the way he speaks, as if the rules of the world don’t apply to him. As if he’s already lived through things the rest of us can’t even imagine.’
Her eyes opened again, and she found herself stepping forward, moving closer to the arena’s edge. The medics were carrying Lucavion’s unconscious form from the battlefield now, his face still bearing that maddening smirk even in repose. She stared after him, her thoughts a whirl of curiosity, frustration, and… something else.
Valeria’s footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor as she descended into the inner halls of the arena, following the medics who carried Lucavion’s unconscious form. Despite the chaos outside, the corridors were eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of residual energy lingering from the battle. Her mind was a tempest of thoughts, but her purpose was singular.
‘I need to see him,’ she told herself, the words carrying a surprising intensity. She wasn’t sure if it was to confirm his condition, to glean more about the man who had left her—and the entire arena—in awe, or simply because she couldn’t turn away.
But as she reached the entrance to the medical wing, her path was abruptly blocked. Two guards, clad in polished armor bearing the insignia of Marquis Ventor, stepped forward with practiced precision, their spears crossing to form an impassable barrier.
“Halt,” one of them said, his voice firm but measured. “No one is permitted beyond this point.”
Valeria’s eyes narrowed as she straightened her posture. “I’m here to see Lucavion,” she stated, her voice calm yet unyielding. “I’m with him.”
She was not going to let this matter go.