The Saint and the Prince
After a few days of much-needed relaxation and intensive recovery, the moment the world had been waiting for finally arrived. George Lydia and Jett Lee were called to the arena stage, their forms paraded through the corridors as the eighty thousand spectators reached a fever pitch.
The announcer, his voice thick with infectious excitement, began to hype up the final match. "Ladies and gentlemen, the moment of crowning is upon us! Two extraordinary candidates, two legends in the making! From the Kyo-Shang Empire, the whirlwind prince, Jett Lee! And his opponent, the boy who has defied every gravity of expectation, George Lydia!"
The two stepped forward, the artificial suns of the arena glinting off George's unruly pale blond hair and Jett's focused, golden gaze. The match began not with a word, but with a sudden explosion of motion. They rushed each other—a blur of kinetic energy—exchanging a series of powerful, bone-shaking punches.
The air crackled with the friction of their raw strength. Jett, moving with a practiced, fluid grace, took a sharp step back. With a sudden tug, he finished unwrapping the aura-restricting linen from his arms. The transition was terrifying. His speed and attack potency increased exponentially; he became a sudden burst of golden power that rushed George before the latter could even blink. George was unable to defend against the blinding speed and the rapid-fire combinations. He found himself at a distinct disadvantage, his emerald eyes struggling to track Jett's afterimages.
In a desperate arc, George swung his Saint's Sword, trying to force a gap. Jett didn't just dodge; he moved with incredible dexterity, reaching into the path of the blade and grabbing the hilt directly out of George's hand.
Simultaneously, he delivered a spinning kick to George's chest, sending the blond mage tumbling across the obsidian stage. Jett, with a triumphant smirk, tossed the sword high out of the ring, where it vanished into the distant stands. George stood alone, completely weaponless.
"George, we may be friends, we may be allies," Jett said, his voice firm and carrying the weight of his royal blood. "But this is still a competition. I can't afford to lose to you today."
George pushed himself up slowly, spitting a spray of blood onto the black stone. "Yeah, I know. That's why I can't lose to you either. I'm going to become a legendary hero one day. I can't fall here."
"Legendary hero, huh?" Jett scoffed, a dark, heavy shadow passing over his eyes. "My father, the Emperor of Kyo-Shang, has twelve wives from twelve different clans. Each of them, including my mother, was born to rule. In our culture, the children must prove they are supreme. Most princes and princesses are killed off before they reach adulthood because of the secret succession war that plagues the palace."
George's brow furrowed in confusion. "Succession war? Killed off? Jett, what are you talking about?"
"There are only three ways to become the Emperor," Jett explained, his voice turning grim. "The first is to have all the other children crown you. I'm the tenth prince, a member of the Lee clan—that won't happen. The second is to have all the other siblings assassinated. It's the easiest way, the way most of my brothers choose. But I find it barbaric. I refuse to murder my own blood. The third way is to distinguish yourself as the strongest and most capable in the eyes of the reigning Emperor. That is why I must win today. I have to prove my worth through strength and skill, not treachery, or I won't survive the winter at home."
Before George could reply, Jett rushed him again—a whirlwind of fists and feet. He landed a powerful roundhouse kick that sent George sprawling across the arena floor. Standing over him, Jett's voice softened, turning almost pleading.
"I'm telling you this as a friend, George. Give up... or die."
George slowly got back up, coughing up more blood. His body was a map of bruises, but his spirit remained stubbornly unbroken. "Giving up is not an option. You have something to prove, and so do I. I promised my grandpa that I would one day become a legendary hero!"
In that moment of absolute resolve, George reached out his hand. A surge of pure, golden will radiated from his core. High in the stands, the Saint's Sword—the blade Ascalon—began to glow with a blinding, celestial light. Shimmering intensely, the sword tore through the air, flying directly toward its master. George caught it mid-air, the hilt vibrating with an immense, ancient power that hummed in sync with his own heartbeat.
"Saint's... SLASH!"
With one mighty, desperate swing, George unleashed an enormous, aura-infused wind slash. The wave of pure force roared across the stage like a hurricane. Jett, despite his incredible speed, was caught in the center of the vacuum. To protect the spectators, Grandmagi Gold-crest instantly manifested a formidable forcefield of barriers around the crowd behind Jett. However, the attack was so destructive that it completely shattered the magical barriers, sending fragments of energy flying and slightly injuring several onlookers.
As the dust and debris cleared, the arena fell into a vacuum of silence. Jett Lee lay on the ground, unconscious and utterly defeated. The crowd, which had been frozen in shock, suddenly erupted into a thunderous, earth-shaking roar.
The announcer's voice, filled with disbelief and elation, screamed over the noise, "I can't believe this, ladies and gentlemen! George Lydia, the underdog of the Harvest, is the final candidate standing! No one at the beginning of this festival thought a commoner student would be the one to claim the crown!"
Once the crowd had settled and the arena was magically restored, the remaining candidates returned to the stage. Grandmagi Gold-crest stood in the center, projecting his image onto the very sky. His silhouette radiated immense power and a deep, paternal pride as he looked down at the new champion.