Chapter 371 Conclusion

Back in the arena, the atmosphere was still charged with electricity.

The echoes of the last match had not yet faded.

Excited murmurs rippled through the massive crowd, their voices layered with awe, debate, and the lingering adrenaline of what they had witnessed.

All eyes kept drifting back to the shattered remains of the stage—deep cracks across its surface, broken tiles tossed like debris, and scorched patterns where spells had clashed with raw physical force.

Children pointed while adults spoke fervently, comparing Uga’s monstrous strikes to Michael’s uniqueness.

"Did you see that punch? I swear it made the entire barrier tremble!"

"I thought Uga had it. Who is that Sir Mic, really?"

Speculation ran wild. For most of them, that fight had eclipsed anything they’d seen in years.

It was the kind of duel that would be spoken about long after the tournament had ended—etched into the collective memory of all who witnessed it.

Then, the voice of the commentator boomed across the coliseum once more, silencing the rising chatter.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced dramatically. "I hope you’ve all caught your breath, because an important announcement has arrived!"

Murmurs returned, now tinged with curiosity.

"There are two things to relay," the commentator continued, pausing just long enough to stir anticipation. "First and foremost—Renn Noah, the finalist meant to challenge Mic Nor in the final match... has withdrawn."

Gasps rang out.

"What?!"

"No way!"

"He forfeited?"

The wave of disbelief was instant, cresting through the crowd like a crashing tide. Just as outrage began to brew, the commentator raised his hands for calm.

"We do not yet know the precise reasons," he added quickly, "but from what we’ve gathered, it seems Renn Noah is unable to continue the match for reasons he cannot ignore."

The vague phrasing sent speculation into overdrive.

"What kind of reason?"

"Was he injured during the fight with Prince Rui and hid it?"

"Maybe he realized he couldn’t win and just bowed out."

But among the more grounded, a sense of understanding began to form. Renn’s match may not have reached the visual spectacle of Michael versus Uga, but it had been impressive, and undeniably powerful.

Some even nodded thoughtfully. "He looked fine when he left the stage, but maybe... maybe he pushed himself harder than we thought."

"Yeah. Even that final clash with Prince Rui was no joke."

"A shame," another muttered. "I was starting to root for him."

Still, the overall sentiment remained largely respectful. Renn hadn’t left in disgrace. He had shown promise. And something about the commentator’s wording made it clear this wasn’t a normal forfeit.

"Regardless," the commentator said, his voice picking up again, "we still have something to do."

He smiled as if about to unveil a grand prize. "With no one else left to challenge him, Mic Nor is hereby declared the Champion of this Tournament!"

The moment the words dropped, a blast of horns sounded from above. Confetti-like lights sparked into the air from the mages positioned around the coliseum.

The crowd erupted into cheers—some for the conclusion, some in support of Mic Nor, and others simply celebrating the tournament’s end.

Far above in the noble balconies, several people had varying reactions.

The commentator’s voice boomed again, rising over the thunder of applause.

"But that’s not all," he announced. "With Renn Noah’s official withdrawal from the finals, the second-place position—by virtue of advancement and merit—goes to none other than... Uga!"

Another wave of noise rolled through the arena.

Even among the nobles, eyebrows rose.

The commoners were even louder, erupting into cheers, whistles, and open-mouthed laughter.

The commentator let the reactions settle for a breath, then continued.

"And in third place, following his loss to Renn Noah... is His Highness, Prince Rui!"

This time, the cheers were more polite, restrained, especially among the nobles.

They didn’t know him but the prince had fought exceptionally well, and despite his loss, he had not embarrassed his lineage. Still, the fact that he stood behind two unknowns—especially a commoner like Uga—left a bitter taste in many mouths.

Some of the nobles clapped half-heartedly. Others remained quiet.

The commentator, however, kept the energy alive.

"Now," he said, leaning forward slightly as if letting the crowd in on a secret. "This final announcement may shock some of you... but it is true, and confirmed."

A hush fell once more.

"All other participants in this tournament, regardless of where they placed, will receive a base reward of one hundred gold coins!"

Silence.

Then—

Boom.

The arena exploded with disbelief.

"One hundred gold?!"

"Impossible!"

"Is this real?!"

The commoners were the most affected. Most families survived on five silver coins a month—just enough to get by. A single gold coin was worth one hundred silver. For many, it was a year or two of comfortable living.

And now... the participants of the tournament, even those who didn’t reach the semifinals, would be walking away with a hundred?

"It must be a joke," a woman in the crowd muttered. "That’s enough to buy a house!"

"Nonsense! That’s enough to build one from the ground up and still have change!"

"This is life-changing..."

Tears welled in the eyes of some families and people whose children or friends participated.

"It’s the Duke’s will," the commentator continued, this time his voice carrying a solemn weight.

For a moment, the crowd was silent again. Not out of shock—but reverence.

Cheers rose again, thundering louder than ever.

Among the crowd, strangers clapped each other on the back. Children stared in awe. Nobles whispered behind fans and furrowed brows, and commoners... commoners dreamed.

Outside the arena, the streets of the capital were just as alive.

Though many had not secured a seat within the coliseum, it didn’t mean they had missed the event.

The Duke’s tournament was the grandest spectacle the city had seen in years—perhaps decades—and the people of the capital were not about to be left in the dark.

Across plazas, courtyards, rooftops, and balconies, the magic of illusion shimmered in the air.

Dozens of glowing projections hovered above buildings and open squares, each one showing a live illusionary feed of the tournament inside the arena.

The image quality was nothing short of remarkable—sharp and vivid, almost lifelike—and accompanied by amplified sound spells that carried the roar of the crowd, the explosive clangs of battle, and the thundering voice of the commentator with perfect clarity.