CHAPTER 130

  BECOMING A FULL-FLEDGED KNIGHT

  The roar had not died even after the dust settled. It clung to the stone walls of the arena, to the banners whipping under the high sun, to the very air that seemed unable to contain the uproar.

  “He won—he won.” Reina clenched Eleanor’s hand in pure joy. Something even rarer than elves accepting humans was better.

  “Are you that happy!” Eleanor almost didn’t believe what he was seeing. It was like he was back in his younger days. To the time when everything was simple, when Reina wore emotions right on her face.

  Meanwhile in the Arena, Theodred’s chest rose and fell in slow defiance. His sword arm trembled, but he held it aloft until the herald’s voice broke against the cheers.

  “The victor—Theodred of the Ateliers.”

  His name was a spark cast into oil. The audience thundered it back in waves— Theo-dred, Theo-dred, Theo-dred!—each repetition a hammer-beat against the pride of the Parvians. The youngest of the generation had entered the top ten. But the question remained hanging in the audience: Will he climb further?

  Theodred still breathing atop Dijkstra’s battered body. Looking at the skies. He rubbed the Eclipse medallion in his hand, hidden. Now it was the time he had been waiting for.

  Yet something refused to follow his will. “Fuck this.” He lowered his blade, sweat trickling down his jaw, and lifted his free hand instead. Palm open, not clenched, not boasting.

  “I, Theodred,” his voice rang, rough from dust and strain, “claim the right of ascent. I—challenge the ninth rank.”

  The declaration tore through the arena like lightning.

  For the first time in decades, the top ten no longer looked like a fortress. It looked like a ladder. And the upstart was looking to climb.

  Gasps sharpened into speculation. The gallery of nobles stirred, their jewelled hands twitching at abacus beads, servants already slipping off to place bets. Hawkers on the stands outside shouted numbers that changed by the heartbeat. Fifty to one. Forty-eight. Forty-five.

  “Another upset, I say!” a wine-soaked merchant bellowed, shaking his purse. “The boy will cut them all down, one by one!”

  “Don’t be daft,” spat a grizzled veteran, scar running from lip to collar. “Dijkstra was arrogance made from flesh. He left openings wide as gates just for amusement. Rudolf?” His voice sank to something like reverence. “Rudolf is thunder given form. Pride with no fracture. The boy won’t last a blink.”

  But the fever would not be quelled. To witness history twice in the same Knight convention was worth every coin squandered. Maybe, he’ll break the Parvian king’s record. Someone said aloud, but none objected, only calculated the odds.

  By dusk, taverns across the city spilled arguments into the streets. Bookkeepers could hardly keep up with demand—Theodred’s odds narrowing with every retelling of his phantom blades and invisible strikes.

  And in the high boxes, the committee whispered among themselves. Faces carved from marble masks, their verdict delivered before the crowd could bay for blood.

  “One day’s grace,” the herald announced. “To recover. To prepare.”

  Theodred bowed his head, sweat plastering hair to his brow, and said nothing. He was already a shadow retreating to the gates, vanishing before the crowd could decide if they loved him more for his courage or his insolence.

  Rudolf did not vanish.

  The Thunder Knight remained where he stood in the stands, a sharp claymore among the dull blades. His arms folded, his eyes—blue, pitiless—never leaving the youth’s retreating figure. His armour carried no dust, no tarnish. He had not yet raised his sword, but the audience was already leaning toward him like stalks bent by stormwind.

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  “He will not allow it,” whispered one courtier to another.

  “No,” came the reply. “Not Rudolf. He is the breakwater. This boy’s rise ends tomorrow.”

  And yet, the cheers did not falter. They only rose higher, chasing Theodred into the night.

  But that night was not calm for Parvians. Dijkstra still bled even with constant healing. “Just what the fuck that bastard injected me with.” Dijkstra, almost amused in pain, asked the healing high priest of Indu.

  “You dare smirk, Dijkstra— you were the right commander to our king. How dare you even smile when you lose?” Arat hissed, almost letting go of his anger.

  He turned to receive his guests. “Princess Ira—see yourself. That’s what your husband will be after tomorrow. If Rudolf didn’t stop him— then next will be someone we both care deeply about.”

  Sierra had refused to come before, but the fact that Rudolf had to face those unknown variables tomorrow. She wanted to turn as many as variables into constants. That’s the only reason she had even started treating Dijkstra.

  “That’s—” she paused. “It’s Reina’s maximacre—no, not even her control goes this microscopic—” she turned to Rudolf. “You can’t treat him as a young knight, Husband. He is a full-fledged challenger.”

  “I don’t plan to half-ass anything, dear. Losing would be detrimental to my reputation. Tomorrow, that boy—no. Theodred Atelier will know what my monicker—Alastor means.”

  As soon as her mana repaired, Dijkstra. He started stating his experience— how raw power of a warlord didn’t work—how his deep steps were matched by the skill called Wings of Freedom. “It almost turned that despicable thing into light. I’m telling you, Alastor. His speed will outmatch yours—and what was with him coming back to life?”

  This was a question for Arat, and he responded to curious gazes. “You noticed—Reina didn’t use her prized sword—I’ve read a speculated report saying she melted it down to hand it over to him—that sword replenishes the aura it feeds on— I don’t know how he had the divine aura in it.”

  Sierra was confused herself. “There shouldn't be another divine mana user—and it was way faster than mine.” She mumbled. “Way pure too.”

  “And what of Atelier— I think I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t pinpoint it.” Rudolf asked the group while the rest stared at Arat for the answer.

  “It was a clan of old world. Barely documented. The only thing I know was they were the sinners of that time.”

  “So is he the survivor—”

  “I don’t know, Rudolf. I only know this: if you don’t do something tomorrow. That spawn will grow up and devour Prince Hans. Even if this fool lost. It also brought us intelligence to counter him. We had to analyse his every move—including those hidden strikes. Kill him tomorrow.”

  “That is beneath me, Arat. I won’t hunt a child for what he hasn’t done yet. But I’ll hear you out.”

  As they discussed, the strategy of how Rudolf would face this fearsome upstart.

  Hans struggled in his bed. “I challenge the ninth rank—where the heck was my mind, man? I should’ve just called Eclipse and let the whole thing turn to mess—stealing Father’s body back to Aadya.”

  He stared at the ceiling and felt the comfortable bed. The perks of being the tenth rank were in full swing. The warlord stood guard. No disturbance ensured.

  He shifted his eyes to the sword. The one he named Kindness. “I’m out of restoration. My ace is already down—tomorrow Grandpa will come at me with mean business. Fuck it—let’s see whatever happens.”

  After several cycles of regeneration and feeding it to the sword. He slept till tomorrow.

  The next day dawned iron-gray, the sun smothered in a lid of cloud. Even the air seemed charged, thick with expectation.

  Even the weather was on Rudolf’s side by noon. Dark clouds hung as if mocking Hans.

  The arena was swollen past its measure. Strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder on the outer steps, clambered onto roofs, even hung from scaffold beams to glimpse the sand. The bookkeepers had to climb on tables, shouting odds over the din as purses spilled and debts were inked into ledgers thicker than tomes.

  Fifty to one had collapsed to fifteen. Some whispered ten.

  “The gods favour the bold, him,” a farmer muttered, clutching a carved amulet.

  “The gods are cruel,” said his wife. “They’ll favour thunder.”

  At last, the trumpets split the air.

  Theodred stepped into the arena. His stride was measured, but the tight set of his jaw betrayed the situation pressing down on him: the expectations of strangers, the hunger for another miracle.

  Opposite him, Rudolf descended the stone stairs like the thunder god himself. He did not need to speak. The hush that followed his arrival was its own proclamation. His title, Alastor, already murmured like thunder rolling behind mountains.

  The two knights stood across the scorched earth; the location had changed to hot and humid. The aura trembled in the air between them.

  The herald lifted the standard, his voice ringing to every corner of the world.

  “By the witness of this Convention—Warlord Rudolf, the Alastor, Ninth rank holder. Theodred of the Atelier, Challenger and of grade 62. And the current tenth rank holder. The following duel will be for Ninth rank. If you have any qualms, speak before me.

  None.

  Both spoke in unison. And the sky commenced the duel with a thunder.