Chapter 30

“He’s not even wearing armor,” a noblewoman sniffs, clutching her fan so tightly her knuckles go pale.

“Look at that scrawny frame,” a merchant’s son snickers, leaning forward until his voice carries like poison. “If he survives five seconds against a Level 20 with Water Mastery he’ll have earned my respect, I’ll tell you that.”

Laughter ripples through the stands. A boy in the front row shouts, “Better call for a fire brigade when he bursts into flames!”

I tighten my grip on Hell’s Sword and watch Julius raise his off-hand, tracing a rune in the air. Before he can speak the incantation, the gallery’s laughter swells.

“Look alive, he’s about to drown in his own sweat!” someone calls.

“Did you see that scrawny elbow weave?” another mocks, though they’re too far to help if I die here.

Julius’s eyes narrow and he thrusts his palm forward. A thin shaft of water arcs through the air like a lethal bolt—Water Arrow, Silver Rank. It whistles with enough force to punch through my ribs.

The Grimoire shows me the trajectory and the point of impact. It also has a slight curve that would follow a movement to the side.

I don’t need to dodge,

I smile.

I ride the momentum of Fire Walk to a halt and let the heat from Furnace Core swell in my chest.

The longer I’m using the Fire-based Skills, the more powerful the Skill becomes. There’s also a strange synergy with Veins of Fire. When I have both active at the same time, I can feel Furnace Core insufflating mana inside of Veins of Fire. You can actually see the swelling magma, as if it’s becoming hotter, right through the markings on my skin.

With a thought, I activate Flameform Blueprint. Its surface hums with compressed golden-like flame. I flick my wrist and send the shield on the trajectory of the Julius’s Water Arrow that barrels toward me.

The bolt slams into the fiery plate with a hiss and sputter, steam geysering around us. The arrow shatters on impact, droplets scattering like shattered glass.

“Did you see that?” someone in the front row gasps.

“Must’ve been a trick of the light!” a nobleman calls, shaking his head.

“Fluke!” another sneers.

They’ve got no idea what just happened.

Fire Shield’s usually a broad hemispherical ward, but I compressed its mana lattice into a dense plate to concentrate its defensive strength. Add that Infernal Thread is boosting the power of the fire-based Skills I’m using.

This way, it’s essentially impossible to punch through it with just a Water Arrow

, I smile to myself.

Julius is strong. He

is

stronger than me. Ten levels at our power level make a big difference in Attributes. Sure, my Skills are very high-level, but they’re mostly Silver Skills. Hell’s Sword is my most powerful weapon but the guy is clearly intending on keeping his distance.

Not that it’s going to be a problem

.

Three more runes flare on Julius’s bracer in rapid succession—he’s firing a volley of Water Arrows, Silver Rank, one after the other.

“Can’t block every one of those!” someone shouts.

I let Furnace Core surge through me, veins burning hotter, and I condense Fire Shield three times in a heartbeat—three fist-sized plates shimmering in midair. Each bolt of water smashes into flame, erupting into steam before it can cut into the sand.

“Did you see that? Three shields!” a voice yells.

“That’s just luck,” another scoffs but he doesn’t sound convinced.

I channel Fire Walk and Fire Shield together—my boots flare, my ward blooms—and I rocket forward in a strip of crimson light, closing the distance to Julius before he can conjure another arrow.

His eyes go wide. He whirls and, in a panic, draws a curved saber from his belt.

Insight, Grimoire.

[Crystalline Wave – Gold Rank Saber]

My Fire Armor alone won’t block this

.

He lunges. I lean into the sweep, letting his momentum carry him—and I leave myself open.

His blade slashes across my chest. Pain explodes.

But a plate of Fire Shield materializes between us, and Fire Armor snaps into place along my ribs. The saber splinters the plate and cracks the armor, but both hold long enough to save my life.

Steam hisses as Julius stumbles back, shock on his face.

I grit my teeth. Time to finish this.

I activate Flameform Blueprint alongside my Grimoire’s guidance. My Fire Walk ignites into dual jets beneath my feet—precision thrusts that pin me to the air—and I hover for the briefest moment above him.

“My turn now.”

I bring Hell’s Sword down in a perfect arc. Its ember-blue edge slices through his armor like tissue and plunges straight into his heart.

He gasps, eyes wide with disbelief, and collapses in a smoldering heap.

The arena goes silent. Then the crowd erupts.

I land lightly, chest heaving, as the echo of my victory— and my killing blow— hangs in the scorching air.

I raise my Hell’s Sword in the air and let out a massive roar.

* * *

The crowd doesn’t erupt into cheers.

They erupt into disbelief.

Gasps, shouts, and murmurs ripple through the stands like a wave crashing against a cliff. A few nobles shoot to their feet. Several look like they’ve seen a ghost. One woman faints.

Because Julius Shellford—Level 20, noble heir, Classed since adolescence—just died.

And not cleanly. Not in a polite, tournament-style duel. No flourishes. No mercy.

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He died because I cut straight through his heart and didn’t stop to ask permission.

“No!” Lord Shellford’s voice bellows over the chaos.

He’s halfway down the dais, his silk robe flapping open as he barrels toward the arena floor. The man looks mad—hair disheveled, face red, eyes wild. Two attendants try to stop him. He shoves them both to the sand. One trips over his own cane. The other scrambles back.

“He murdered him!” the man roars, jabbing a trembling finger toward me. “That peasant killed my son!”

I don’t flinch. He stands in the middle of the ring, still holding the fading blaze of Hell’s Sword. Blood steams at his feet.

“He asked for trial by combat,” I say. “He got it.”

Lord Shellford hurls himself forward.

Felisia, seated beside the Magistrate, surges to her feet. Sir Greyson is already moving—he jumps from the viewing platform and lands in a crouch near me, hand on his hilt.

But before the enraged noble can reach for me, four guards tackle him from behind.

“Get off me! Let me go!” Lord Shellford screams, thrashing. “He murdered my boy! He cheated—he—he—!”

“Lord Shellford,” Magistrate Orellus says, rising slowly, “compose yourself.”

The guards wrestle the man to his knees. His breath saws in and out of his chest. His lip curls. Tears mix with sweat. “He was my only son,” he chokes.

“Your son accepted his offer of trial by combat,” Orellus continues, his voice like a guillotine’s drop. “As the standing magistrate of Clearwater, I hereby declare the first charge—murder of Valerius Shellford—absolved by victory in trial.”

The words hit the crowd like a dropped bell.

“But,” Orellus says, raising a hand before the noise can resume, “that does not conclude the matter. There is still a second charge to address.”

I lift my chin.

“The charge of murder of miners from the Miners’ Guild.”

Before I can speak, boots thud heavily on the arena stone.

The crowd parts.

The black Knight steps forward—obsidian helm featureless, each step deliberate. Behind him, Calantha walks slowly, arms folded. Her smile is light. Almost polite.

“I’ll handle this one,” she says.

Orellus raises a brow. “You presume to name yourself Champion?”

“Oh no,” Calantha replies sweetly. “I have a Champion already.”

She lifts one hand. Snaps her fingers once.

The black Knight steps forward again—and draws a sword.

Felisia’s breath catches.

She gestures to the silent juggernaut beside her.

“This man will be your opponent.”

The arena hushes again.

I glance at Sir Greyson.

Then back at the towering Knight.

Then he grins, slow and crooked.

Calantha strolls forward until she stands just at the edge of the dueling ring. Her voice carries with unnatural clarity—amplified by the hush that’s fallen across the crowd, or maybe just by the poison in her tone.

“Well, Jacob,” she says, savoring every syllable, “you had your little moment, didn’t you?”

I don't answer.

Calantha tilts her head, feigning curiosity.

“What’s the plan now? Do you throw yourself at him? Or just kneel and save us the trouble?”

She laughs softly.

“I mean, we

could

execute you right here. Head on the block, nice and clean. A quick blade, no drama.” She gestures to the black Knight, who stands motionless, like a statue forged of shadow and malice. “But instead, you get to face

him

. Isn’t that generous of us?”

I wipe a smear of blood from his cheek—Julius Shellford’s.

“You always talk this much?”

Calantha’s smile sharpens.

“You should be thanking me. Most peasants don’t get to die on a stage.”

She steps closer, her heels clicking on the ground. The sound is crisp. Deliberate.

“But here you are. Everyone watching. Everyone remembering. And when the Black Knight breaks your arms and drives a sword through your spine? They’ll cheer.”

My eyes don’t move from the armored figure. “You keep talking like it’s already over.”

She laughs again—light, almost musical. “Oh, sweet liar.

It is.

You’re a peasant. He’s not just Classed. He’s the strongest Knight in Clearwater.”

Her gaze lingers, taunting.

“Still, I have to ask—would you rather I just cut your throat now? Or do you want to die shrieking under him like all the others?”

My smile is faint, but steady.

“Is he?”

“What?” Calantha frowns.

“Is he the

strongest

Knight in Clearwater?”

The air shifts. Gasps ripple through the crowd.

The Black Knight tilts his head—just a fraction.

Calantha’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes harden.

“I hope you choke on your own blood,” she says.

“It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Why do you get upset? You nominated your Champion, right? Don’t I get to nominate mine?”

A few had caught up on the name that I was apparently about to drop.

Especially Adrienne who, on the honor booth in the arena, turned to her side, finding no one there.

The silence after my words is broken not by Calantha’s reply, but by a voice—high, soft, and somehow ancient.

“How disappointing.”

The crowd turns as one. The magistrate stiffens. Sir Greyson’s face goes pale.

Because the speaker isn’t on the platform or the arena floor. He’s just

there

, seated on the lip of a balustrade like he’s always been, legs dangling, chin resting on one palm.

Small frame. Loose traveling cloak. A braid of fine silver hair that gleams faintly under the arena’s sun-dome. His face is young—boyish, even—but his gaze?

That gaze is ancient.

Felisia gasps. Sir Greyson bows his head.

“Sir Renquell,” he says quietly. Too quietly.

Calantha freezes. Then she forces a smile. “Sir Renquell. How nice of you to attend. I didn’t realize you were summoned.”

“I wasn’t,” Sir Renquell replies, hopping down lightly from the balustrade. He lands without sound. His boots don’t even scuff the marble. “I came because I was bored. And I heard something truly idiotic was about to happen.”

He walks across the arena steps, hands tucked into his sleeves, looking for all the world like a curious child walking into a garden.

Calantha’s smile turns tight. “You insult the Guilds with that tone, sir.”

Sir Renquell stops. He turns just slightly, giving her a sidelong glance. “You think I give

a fuck

what the Guilds think?”

Gasps. One woman drops her fan. A nobleman mutters a prayer under his breath.

“I’ve seen Guilds fall,” Sir Renquell says, louder now. “I’ve

toppled

kingdoms built better than this city. And I’m still here, Calantha. Still breathing. Still cursed. Still waiting for something—

someone

—to entertain me.”

He turns fully to me now, and there’s a glint in his eye. “And today, I think I found him.”

“As one of the Five Wandering Knights, bound by oath to serve justice where it falters, I hereby take up arms in defense of the accused, Jacob Cloud. I shall be his Champion.”

Orellus opens his mouth, but no words come.

Sir Renquell glances toward the Black Knight. “Unless the prosecution has… objections?”

The Black Knight doesn’t speak.

He only steps forward, silent and sure, spear tilting in one hand. His presence is a suffocating pressure. A void in armor. A thing that doesn’t move so much as displace the world around it.

Calantha’s voice cuts the tension. “You’re joking. You’re not

actually

going to lower yourself to fight

my

Champion over

him

?”

Sir Renquell finally turns toward her. There’s no amusement left in his expression.

“I’ve seen what this boy can do. And if you think I’ll let him be gutted by a glorified thug in enchanted tin over some merchant family tantrum—”

He takes one step toward her.

“—then you’ve mistaken me for

someone else

.”

Calantha flinches. Not visibly. But I see it.

Sir Renquell lifts his braid over one shoulder and looks back at the magistrate.

“Well?” he says lightly. “Shall we begin?”

I turn toward Felisia, sighing in relief at the fact that she actually delivered my message.