Far Western Edge of the Port City of Cartag
Inside the Dungeon of the Dream Phoenix
Moisture clung to the stalactites like a heavy veil. Every falling drop dragged the dense air down with it, thick with ambient mana.
The dungeon was silent—but not simply quiet. It was the kind of stillness that comes right before a storm. Only the footsteps of Count Ducking disturbed it, echoing through the stone as if measuring each beat of his power.
Step by step, vapor rose around him, born from the contact between the damp air and his cloak, mixed with the faint, constant mana output of his magic circles—just enough to keep his surveillance active.
His brows lifted slightly. He'd felt it: the smallest disturbance in the dungeon's mana flow.
Extending his dark-gloved hand with absolute precision, he whispered—as though reality itself were meant to obey:
—"Xaic çet… éçixé… çahir Tçeaç."
The initial hum was barely audible.
Then the pillars of fire descended like meteors in slow motion, devouring illusions and specters with a roar that shook the stone. Each detonation forced a sharp breath from the Count. Every spark demanded focus. Every exhale revealed the truth—he was expending more mana than anticipated.
Still, his spell bathed the dungeon in a light that tolerated no shadows, carving a clear path toward the heart of the place.
His breathing grew heavier. Not from fatigue—but from the cost of absolute control, of perfect efficiency. Each fragment of mana spent was a piece of his essence, a price he paid knowingly.
Even so, a thought crossed his mind.
"Why does the Master need that material? No… impossible. Jonathan said that object couldn't be created."
"But if anyone can make the impossible real… it's him. Better not question it yet. I'll ask once I secure the Illusory Stone."
The Count pressed onward, step by step, until he reached the epicenter—where mana reached its highest density.
There, a soft green light pulsed gently, marking the chamber where the Dream Phoenix awaited.
A creature of legend.
Nothing else mattered. Not the absolute silence. Not the illusions dissolving behind him.
Only the path ahead.Only the task to be completed.
***
Kingdom of Britain — Outskirts of Camelot
Two kilometers from the city, where sunlight filtered through the trees at dawn. Dew clung to the foliage, mingling with the mist, wrapped in a deathly stillness.
Only the sound of droplets striking the earth.
Then a light wind stirred the dust—heralding the inevitable collision.
Two opposing forces clashed with overwhelming violence. Neither yielded an inch. Perfectly matched—yet the ground beneath them collapsed without resistance, forming a massive crater.
Shockwaves tore trees from their roots. With every exchanged blow, the landscape itself crumbled until nothing remained.
Their exchange intensified relentlessly—until their speed became imperceptible to any eye.
Then, suddenly, both halted. Standing face to face.
The towering Berserker warrior grinned, eyes burning like open flames. In combat stance, fists bloodied—yet steady. His overflowing crimson aura wrapped around his body as though armor itself were unnecessary.
Opposite him, the Grand Swordsman gasped for breath, gripping his legendary blade with both hands. Every inch of Excalibur's edge glowed with runes, entirely engulfed in the dense, overwhelming blue aura of its wielder. His eyes shone with unwavering resolve.
Locking eyes with his fierce opponent, the King spoke:
—"You're getting old, Arthur. Ten years ago, I needed an Archbishop just to heal my fists."
The Barbarian King's words struck Arthur's heart. With a resigned smile, he replied:
—"Every year that passes, I feel my strength fading, Vince… the vigor of my youth left me long ago."
Vince lowered his gaze for a second, rested his hands behind his neck, and began walking casually.
—"A shame, really—getting old, my dear friend. Look at you: the strongest man alive. Superhuman Number One."
Arthur raised a brow at the sly jab, eyes sharpening instantly as he clicked his tongue.
—"Are you provoking me?"
—"Maybe."—Vince grinned.
Both burst into shared laughter. But Vince's expression soon hardened.
—"Arthur... I only have five years left on the Throne of Nordkrieger. I just hope that whoever inherits my throne is more than just a prodigious warrior."
Arthur recalled the days when they first met, smiling faintly.
—"What you really want is for the winner of The Tradition to have powerful allies… and friends."
Vince met his gaze seriously—then exhaled, relaxing.
—"You know me too well."
—"What about that boy—James of Clan Battler? Even I've heard rumors of his talent."
With tired eyes, the King of Nordkrieger confessed:
—"I won't deny his natural gift. But he's an impulsive, prideful bastard. The Tradition is still five years away—and I don't see a king in him yet."
—"Not king material?" Arthur raised a brow, intrigued.
—"I like that he's close to the Ice Lady and her daughter. But that alone isn't enough."
Arthur smirked slightly.
—"So then, Vince… shall we continue our sparring?"
—"Give me your best shot, you senile old man." Vince said lightly.
But when Arthur heard that last word—"senile"—his aura thickened. He gripped Excalibur tightly, and three runes flared violet: his decisive technique.
With inhuman speed, he swung his sword from side to side with the force of his shoulders. Vince recognized the technique—but it was already too late to counter.
One second.
The ground split in two.
The nearby hill was cleaved cleanly in half. A trench, four meters wide and over five hundred meters long, carved deep into the earth, chilling to behold.
The clouds of debris slowly settled.
By pure instinct, Vince barely dodged the lethal strike.
—"This is why we moved away from Camelot in the first place—look at the mess you made, Arthur!"
—"Don't call me senile again." Arthur snapped, sheathing Excalibur.
King Vince turned his back, raised a hand dismissively, and waved goodbye.
—"No promises. Just hope you don't lose your mind by our next meeting."
***
City of Cartag — Gregorian Empire.
Noble Waiting Chamber — Coliseum.
The air in the chamber vibrated with distant cheers and the thunder of ongoing battles outside. Golden torchlight cast long shadows across the polished stone walls, making the room feel quieter than it truly was.
April still couldn't believe what she'd witnessed.
Her friend—the prodigy, the one she considered unbeatable among her generation—had been humiliated to the core. By a stranger who even looked younger.
Disbelief twisted into genuine concern, settling deep in her stomach.
She'd tried to follow him after the match, but a priest of Thor's temple stopped her. James was receiving treatment, and the cleric's insistence left her no choice but to wait.
Only the distant roar of the crowd kept her standing.
Minutes passed. Another duel unfolded in the arena, but April barely registered it. Finally, Bhartu peeked out and motioned for her to enter.
Inside, the air smelled of incense and metal.
James sat on the edge of a cot, elbows on his knees, staring into nothing. A bandage on his left arm still seeped a thin line of ointment. His expression showed no physical pain—only something worse.
A wounded pride.
April approached quietly.
April Gateway: —"Hey… Are you okay?"
James lifted his head just a fraction. His eyes were hollow, breaths uneven. The defeat had cut deeper than he expected. After a tense silence, he answered in a low voice:
James Battler: —"He… treated me like a toy… no… he didn't even take me seriously."
April Gateway: —"James… you've sparred with a superhuman. Don't sink over a single loss."
James Battler: —"Yeah… I can accept losing in a real fight… but against that idiot… every punch felt weak. My instincts felt useless."
April crossed her arms, hiding the softness in her eyes.
April Gateway: —"Then train harder. Simple… unless you don't want a rematch."
He sighed, lowering his head.
James Battler: —"I don't know… honestly I don't want to feel that again."
The resignation stung her. She stepped closer, crouching to meet his gaze.
April Gateway: —"I can't believe this… You? The great James Battler, hailed as the kingdom's combat genius… Already thinking of losing before even fighting?"
His fists tightened. The silence thickened.
James Battler: —"You didn't fight someone who… even at your limit, even giving everything, made all of it worthless."
April gave a small smile—no sweetness, just resolve.
April Gateway: —"Actually, I did… and that someone is you, idiot. Remember those training sessions with Nicole?"
James blinked, surprised.
James Battler: —"Sorry… I just feel pathetic. Why bring up Djkovic?"
April Gateway: —"Because in those duels, you beat me over and over… and there was a moment when I wanted to quit.But do you know why I didn't?"
James Battler: —"Why?"
April Gateway: —"Because if I gave up… not only would I never beat you, the gap between us would grow forever.So you need to keep training—for the day you don't just beat that guy… you surpass him and humiliate him the same way."
James exhaled slowly, like her words pulled him back into himself. A faint smile appeared.
James Battler: —"You're right… that bastard has a debt with me now, and someday I'm collecting it—with interest.But… what will my family think after today?"
April Gateway: —"If that slave gets killed by a superhuman, you won't have to worry about what your family thinks."
James stood, the fire returning to his eyes.
James Battler: —"Then I'm staying until the end of the tournament."
April Gateway: —"That's more like it."
Her smile widened. Outside, the roar of the crowd surged again—as if the coliseum itself was celebrating the return of a warrior's will.