They were heading back to the carriage when the city shifted.
Not all at once.
First, a murmur that tightened like a drawn string.
Then faster footsteps.
A shout.
And then—
the clean, unmistakable sound of steel being drawn.
Lusian stopped.
Not by choice.
By instinct.
Beside him, Emily turned as well.
In the adjacent square, people were beginning to gather. There was no panic. No one ran away.
They moved closer instead.
That was the first thing Lusian found… strange.
A small crowd surrounded several men dressed in fine clothing. At the center, a young man in simple attire stood his ground, his body slightly leaned back to shield the girl clinging to his back. Her fingers dug into his clothes as if letting go meant death.
In front of them stood a noble.
Straight-backed.
Immaculate.
Holding a drawn sword with unsettling ease, as if pointing it at another human being were as natural as breathing.
"You've stained my honor, commoner!" he spat, his voice carrying a fury that didn't need to be real to be dangerous. "I challenge you to a duel to the death!"
The air didn't break.
There were no cries of protest.
No intervention.
Only a faint rise in the murmur… as if the scene had fulfilled an expectation.
Emily frowned.
"Another ridiculous dispute…"
She said it quietly, almost to herself.
Not surprised.
Not alarmed.
Tired.
Lusian didn't look away.
"A duel…?" he murmured, more to organize the thought than out of ignorance. "They can do that in the middle of the street?"
One of the duke's knights answered immediately, without taking his eyes off the center of the conflict.
"No, young master. Public duels are forbidden."
His tone was firm. Certain.
Learned.
"They may only be held in the lesser coliseum, under royal supervision."
Lusian repeated softly:
"The lesser coliseum…"
Not disbelief.
Interest.
The knight nodded.
"Nobles have the right to defend their honor, but the kingdom enforces rules to prevent unnecessary deaths. Everything must be done under oath… and recorded."
Lusian took a second before responding.
He nodded.
Slowly.
As if fitting a piece into a place that didn't quite feel right.
Even violence… was organized.
Regulated.
Allowed.
A nearby murmur cut through his thoughts.
"It's Baron Joel Denisse Mofet."
The name passed through the crowd like something that was supposed to be recognized.
Lusian studied the noble more closely.
Proud.
Certain.
Unhurried.
There was no doubt in his posture.
No tension in his arm.
This wasn't a risk for him.
It was a procedure.
Then he looked at the young man.
Brown hair.
Simple clothes.
Rough hands.
Not from training.
From labor.
His grip on the sword was firm… but unrefined.
And yet, he didn't back down.
He couldn't.
Behind him, the girl trembled. Not silently—her breathing was uneven, forcibly restrained. But her eyes… weren't empty.
There was fear.
And something else.
Resolve.
That made Lusian narrow his eyes slightly.
"A noble abusing his title to humiliate someone weaker…"
The thought came naturally.
Instinctively.
"Typical."
But something didn't fit.
He looked at the crowd again.
No one intervened.
No one was outraged.
Some even watched with interest.
With curiosity.
With anticipation that didn't belong to a possible death.
And there—
something in his stomach tightened.
Not fear.
Rejection.
The crowd began to move.
Not chaotically.
Guided.
As if everyone already knew the next step.
"The coliseum…" someone murmured.
And then he understood.
It wasn't an interruption.
It was the beginning of an event.
Lusian and Emily were carried along with the flow of people.
Without resistance.
Without decision.
The lesser coliseum rose among the city's structures like an old scar: worn stone, eroded edges, architecture that didn't seek to impress… only to endure.
As they crossed the threshold, Lusian felt the change.
The sound.
The air.
Everything bounced differently.
Accumulated.
Voices, footsteps, breathing.
Expectation.
But that wasn't what made him frown.
It was something else.
Harder to name.
The feeling of entering a place where something… repeated.
Where this had already happened.
Many times.
Too many times.
It wasn't fear.
It was something worse.
The uncomfortable certainty that he was witnessing something that, in a world like his… should not exist.
As he crossed the threshold, Lusian paused for only an instant.
The coliseum was smaller than he had imagined… but no less imposing.
The stone bleachers, worn by time, were almost full. The murmur of the crowd was not cheerful; it was dense, expectant. In the center, the ground raised faint clouds of dust with every step the duelists took, as if the place had already absorbed too much blood to remain clean.
This wasn't a stage.
It was a place where people came to watch someone not walk out.
On one side, Baron Joel Denisse Mofet was speaking with a man of rigid posture, wrapped in the understated armor of the royal guard. He didn't raise his voice, didn't gesture… yet everything around him seemed to fall into order under his presence.
"That's the supervisor," one of the Douglas knights murmured. "Alan Baldwin."
Lusian nodded without taking his eyes off the field.
A faint chill ran down his spine.
Not fear.
Clarity.
This wasn't a dispute. Not an outburst of pride.
This was permitted.
Regulated.
Accepted.
"By royal decree," Baldwin announced as he stepped into the center with steady strides, "duels are only permitted under the conditions established by the Crown."
The effect was immediate.
The murmur died as if someone had smothered sound with a hand.
Silence.
Absolute attention.
No one argued.
No one protested.
Because everyone… already knew how this worked.
Baldwin raised a small object in his hand.
A metallic artifact with a blue core that pulsed like a restrained heart.
"Before we begin," he continued, "the category of the participants will be verified."
The object began to vibrate.
A low, constant hum.
It wasn't loud… but it was felt.
As if the air itself reacted.
Lusian tilted his head slightly, watching more closely.
Artifacts like that… were not common outside noble or military circles.
They measured more than strength.
They measured control.
Affinity.
Potential.
Mana flow.
And in this world… that was everything.
The device brightened as it approached the duelists.
The air seemed to tighten.
Then Lusian felt it.
Not saw it.
Felt it.
Two distinct presences.
One more stable.
The other… more irregular.
Interesting.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
That system…
He knew it.
Not through experience.
Through memory.
Through study.
Through obsession.
In this world, strength wasn't abstract. It wasn't a feeling.
It was a scale.
Cold. Measurable. Absolute.
Initiates… barely touched mana. They felt it like something distant, a whisper they couldn't answer. Levels one to nineteen.
Adepts… already used it. Sometimes clumsily, but with intent. Simple spells. Physical reinforcement. Real combat. Levels twenty to thirty-nine.
Legionnaires… another world. Sustained control. Prolonged combat. No easy exhaustion. Forty to fifty-nine.
Lusian didn't blink.
He continued.
Lords… full dominion over internal flow. Leaders. Presences that imposed order.
Magisters… altered the environment with their mere existence.
Champions… living legends.
And the Omicron…
…were no longer exactly human.
The artifact's hum stopped.
A sharp beep cut through the air.
"Edmon," Baldwin announced. "Level thirty-one. Adept rank."
A faint murmur passed through the stands.
Approval.
Respect.
Nothing extraordinary.
"Darren Acre. Level thirty-eight. Adept rank."
Another murmur.
Slightly louder.
Lusian didn't react.
But he thought.
Thirty-one.
Thirty-eight.
Adepts.
Adults.
Trained men.
Experienced fighters.
…
And him…
Fifteen years old.
Level forty-five.
Legionnaire.
His fingers tightened slightly.
Not from pride.
From something far more uncomfortable.
Imbalance.
The difference wasn't small.
It was absurd.
And it wasn't random.
Resources.
Access.
Training.
Time.
Nobility didn't just hold political power.
They held structural advantage.
They grew faster.
Stronger.
Higher.
Not because they were better…
but because the world was built to make them so.
Lusian exhaled slowly.
And for the first time since arriving in this world…
he understood something with uncomfortable clarity:
This wasn't a fair system.
It was a designed one.
And the people in the stands…
didn't question it.
They accepted it.
As if it had always been this way.
As if it was meant to be this way.
Beside him, Emily kept her gaze fixed on the center.
Her hands were slightly tense.
She didn't speak.
But she breathed slower.
More controlled.
Like someone who already knew what was coming.
And hated it…
but couldn't change it.
Lusian looked back at the field.
The dust.
The swords.
The silence.
And then he understood it completely.
This wasn't a spectacle.
It was an execution…
with rules.
And everyone was here…
to watch it.
The device emitted a short beep.
Dry.
Final.
"Edmon: level thirty-one, Adept rank. — Darren Acre: level thirty-eight, Adept rank."
A murmur rippled through the stands.
Not surprise.
Evaluation.
As if the audience didn't see men… but probabilities.
Lusian gave a faint nod to himself.
Same rank.
Valid duel.
Legal.
Accepted.
…
That didn't make it fair.
His gaze stayed fixed on both fighters.
Thirty-one.
Thirty-eight.
Adults.
Years of training.
Real combat.
Experience.
And yet…
Lusian felt no pressure.
He felt distance.
Training with Albert had broken something in the way he perceived combat.
He no longer saw swords.
He saw errors.
Poor weight distribution.
Irregular breathing.
Stiff shoulders.
He thought, without emotion:
They're slow.
Not as criticism.
As fact.
Every movement felt… predictable.
Like watching a choreography that hadn't fully been performed yet.
Beside him, Emily didn't move.
Her hands were clasped, tense.
She didn't look away.
But she wasn't fascinated either.
She was… preparing.
Lusian noticed it.
And for a moment, something uncomfortable crossed his mind:
She had seen this before.
Many times.
Too many.
The fight began.
No shouting.
No impulsive charge.
Both advanced cautiously, measuring distance, testing rhythm, assessing intent.
Swords clashed.
Once.
Again.
Again.
The metallic sound wasn't sharp.
It was… rhythmic.
Like a dialogue neither side wanted to rush.
Each strike was a question.
Each defense, an answer.
Lusian followed every detail.
The twist of a wrist.
Tension in the legs.
The micro-pause before an attack.
Theory.
Practice.
That was the difference.
What he had read in books… here bled.
Darren was the first to break the balance.
Mana.
Lusian felt it before he saw it.
A quick concentration.
Acceptable control.
Not perfect.
Five water spears formed in the air.
Not large.
But precise.
They shot forward.
Fast.
Direct.
Edmon reacted well.
No panic.
His sword ignited.
Fire wrapped around steel.
The cuts were clean.
One.
Two.
Three.
Steam exploded into the air.
Heat.
Moisture.
Reduced visibility.
Four.
Five—
The final defense was too wide.
Lusian saw it instantly.
The arm lifted more than necessary.
Side exposed.
Mistake.
Darren saw it too.
He moved.
Without hesitation.
That was the moment.
The sword descended toward the opening.
Direct.
Decisive.
The crowd held its breath.
Lusian didn't.
He only thought:
Too obvious.
The fire sphere appeared before the impact.
Not improvised.
Prepared.
Stored.
Waiting for that mistake.
Darren was forced to retreat.
The pressure shifted.
The crowd erupted.
Noise.
Euphoria.
As if they had witnessed something brilliant.
Lusian didn't react.
To him… it was just a basic trap.
Darren blocked with water.
But poorly positioned.
The impact threw him off balance.
Edmon advanced.
Direct pressure.
Downward strike.
Block.
Rebound.
Distance.
Both men breathed.
Hard.
Irregular.
The air was thick now.
Steam.
Sweat.
Dispersing mana.
Time.
Fifteen minutes.
For the crowd, intensity.
For Lusian…
Exhaustion.
Each exchange consumed more than it produced.
Their reserves dropped.
Their precision too.
Darren was the first to give in.
Not immediately.
Subtly.
A slower step.
A lower guard.
His water aura… unstable.
Intermittent.
Lusian narrowed his eyes.
It's over.
Edmon advanced.
No rush.
But no doubt.
His sword burned again.
Weaker.
But enough.
The downward arc was clean.
Darren tried to block.
But he had nothing left.
No strength.
No mana.
No time.
The impact was dry.
No real resistance.
The blade went through.
Steel.
Flesh.
Silence.
Steam rose slowly.
As if the world needed a few seconds to accept what had just happened.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Darren's body trembled slightly…
and then stopped.
The sound of his sword hitting the ground—
was the only thing that broke the moment.
Metal.
Hollow.
Final.
"The winner, Edmon of Adept class, level thirty-one!"
Baldwin's voice returned to the world.
And then—
applause.
Cheers.
Excitement.
As if something admirable had occurred.
Lusian didn't hear it at first.
He was looking at the body.
The blood.
Dark.
Too real.
Not like in the game.
It didn't disappear.
It didn't fade.
It mixed with the dust.
It clung.
It smelled.
That was the moment.
The real blow.
His stomach tightened.
A sudden emptiness.
Irregular breathing.
Heat.
Cold.
Nausea came without warning.
He looked away.
Too late.
Far too late.
That man…
had been alive seconds ago.
Thinking.
Breathing.
Fighting.
Now—
nothing.
And the people…
were applauding.
Lusian swallowed.
Hard.
This… isn't normal.
But for them it was.
That was the worst part.
Not death.
Habit.
Beside him, Emily shifted slightly.
She didn't speak.
Didn't make a dramatic gesture.
She simply—
took his arm.
Gentle.
Firm.
As if she understood exactly what he was feeling.
Lusian closed his eyes for a moment.
Inhaled.
Once.
Again.
Forced stability.
But something had already changed.
This wasn't a game.
There was no reset.
No second chance.
Here…
people died.
And the world kept going.
As if nothing had happened.
Baron Joel Denisse Mofet no looked like the same man anymore.
Only minutes earlier, his posture had been haughty, confident, almost bored.Now… his face had lost its color.
Not because of the death.Because of the outcome.
Knight Alan Baldwin approached the body without haste. He knelt, examined the wound, the absence of breath… and nodded.
There was no surprise in his expression.Only confirmation.
—The duel is over. Darren Acre is dead. The winner: Edmon, Adept rank, level thirty-one.
The murmur returned.
But it was no longer excitement.
It was something else.
Curiosity.
Expectation.
Because the duel… was never truly the end.
Edmon could barely stand.
His chest rose and fell violently. Sweat ran down his face, mixing with small patches of blood that weren't his.
Even so—
he raised his sword.
Not like a victor.
But like someone still fighting.
—Baron Joel… —his voice trembled, but he didn't back down— I don't want you to ever approach my fiancée again.
Silence.
One second.
Two.
And then—
the baron's expression twisted.
Rage.
Humiliation.
Something darker.
—How dare you… —his voice came out low at first, almost disbelieving— How dare you, damn you?
He stepped forward.
—Do you know who I am? Do you know who you're speaking to?
The stands reacted.
Contained laughter.
Whispers.
No one intervened.
No one was outraged.
Because this…
was also part of the spectacle.
Lusian listened to the murmurs.
Scattered pieces.
A story assembling itself.
The baron had tried to take the girl's fiancée.
As a concubine.
The refusal wasn't a moral offense.
It was an offense of status.
And this duel…
was never about honor.
It had been a failed execution.
A cold weight settled in Lusian's chest.
So this is how this world works.
The baron didn't argue further.
He pulled out a scroll.
Sealed.
Heavy.
He unfolded it with deliberate calm, as if regaining control simply by holding it.
—Here is the contract.
His smile returned.
But it was no longer arrogant.
It was… poisonous.
—The girl's father owes me one thousand gold coins. The deadline has passed.
He paused.
Looked around.
Made sure everyone was listening.
—By the laws of the kingdom… I am entitled to take the daughter as payment.
Another pause.
Slower.
Crueler.
—And if I choose to make her my slave… I have every right to do so.
Silence fell like a blow.
Not uncomfortable.
Not outraged.
Accepted.
Normal.
That was the moment something inside Lusian tightened.
Not death.
Not blood.
This.
Legality.
Order.
The structure that made something like this possible.
The baron continued, with a false generosity that felt worse than the threat.
—But I am a reasonable man.
His eyes returned to Edmon.
—I will give you another chance.
A smile.
—If you win another duel… against my next knight… the debt is erased.
A brief pause.
—If you lose… the girl will be mine.
Edmon didn't respond.
He couldn't.
His body trembled.
His mana was empty.
His hands could barely hold the sword.
It wasn't a choice.
It was a delayed sentence.
Die now.
Or die in a few minutes.
And still—
he hesitated.
Because the other option…
was worse.
The tension became unbearable.
Heavy.
Silent.
And then—
—How despicable!
The voice cut through the air.
Clear.
Firm.
Unmistakable.
Every gaze rose.
Emily.
Standing.
Her hands trembled slightly… but her voice did not.
She had crossed a line.
And she knew it.
The baron looked at her.
At first with irritation.
Then—
he really saw her.
And his expression changed.
Slowly.
—Lady… —his tone lowered, heavier— Are you insulting me?
A pause.
—If so… introduce yourself properly.
He smiled.
—You'll have to take responsibility for it.
He didn't finish.
He couldn't.
—Knights, protect Lady Emily!
Charles Grell's voice wasn't a shout.
It was an order.
And it was obeyed instantly.
Twenty swords.
In unison.
The sound of steel wasn't loud.
But it was enough.
Douglas knights descended.
Closed formation.
Precise.
Trained.
They weren't protecting.
They were enclosing.
The baron understood in that instant.
He saw the shields.
The wolves.
And all the color drained from his face.
Then—
he saw him.
Lusian.
Standing.
Still.
Watching.
There was no anger in his gaze.
No emotion.
And that…
was the worst part.
Because in this world, everyone knew what that meant.
It wasn't a discussion.
It wasn't punishment.
It was the end.
Lusian rose slowly.
The world still weighed on his body.
The blood.
The smell.
The recent death.
His stomach remained tight.
But his mind…
was already elsewhere.
Denisse.
Empire.
Influence.
If I provoke them… they'll react.
And when they react… they'll expose themselves.
It wasn't impulse.
It was calculation.
He lifted his gaze.
Smiled.
Barely.
And the baron felt something inside him break.
—I will take responsibility —Lusian said calmly— for any disrespect shown by my fiancée.
Each word fell like a stone.
—If you desire a duel…
A pause.
—or something more, I agree.
Absolute silence.
Not theatrical.
Real.
Because everyone understood.
That wasn't a proposal.
It was a disguised sentence.
The baron collapsed to his knees.
Not slowly.
Not with dignity.
He fell.
—Mercy! —his voice cracked— It wasn't my intention… please… young master Douglas…
He was no longer a noble.
He was a man begging.
Emily stepped forward.
Her voice was low.
But firm.
—Lusian… please.
He didn't look at her immediately.
—Apologize.
—And hand over the scroll.
—That is enough.
Enough.
For her.
Lusian turned his head.
Looked at her.
And for a moment—
he didn't see fear.
He didn't see weakness.
He saw something harder to hold:
Compassion.
Even now.
Even here.
Even after seeing someone die.
Part of him rejected it.
Another part…
couldn't.
He exhaled.
—Very well.
The baron didn't hesitate.
He extended the scroll with trembling hands.
And bowed.
Until his forehead touched the ground.
Emily walked.
Slowly.
To the girl.
Samantha.
Still kneeling.
Still holding onto the body.
—Here —she said softly— Your debt is settled.
The girl looked up.
Crying.
Broken.
—Thank you… my lady… thank you…
It wasn't elegant gratitude.
It was desperate relief.
And Lusian…
watched.
Silently.
Two lives.
Saved.
Not by force.
By choice.
He lowered his gaze slightly.
And thought:
Power is not only destruction.
It is deciding when not to use it.
And in this world…
that could be even more dangerous.