With those words, Charlotte gave a slight curtsy to the assembled crowd, then turned and walked away from the square without a backward glance, returning to stand beside Ophelia. The onlookers were left dumbfounded by this unexpected turn of events—they had been looking forward to watching the maid continue her valiant fight, only to see her withdraw so readily after claiming victory, leaving them no time to react at all. Just what had the maid set foot on the stage to accomplish?
For a moment, an awkward silence hung over the square, both on and off the arena. But the announcer quickly brushed off the awkwardness and whipped the crowd's spirits back up. As for the nobles, their earlier disrupted plans were now back on track thanks to this bizarre little interlude. With Charlotte forfeiting the subsequent battles, the nobles wasted no more time hesitating. Soon, two warriors representing the internal factions of the Byrd family stepped onto the stage, and the fight began anew. The common folk gradually pushed the strange scene from their minds, once again throwing themselves into the revelry and cheers with abandon.
The warriors turned their attention back to the square, but the nobles now fixed their gazes on Ophelia's seat. They were well aware that the earlier situation had been far from ideal for them—but with the maid's exit, they had reclaimed control of the tournament. This was undoubtedly a boon for the nobles of the Byrd family. Still, they couldn't help but wonder: had this been a mere coincidence? Or had it been a premeditated move? Had the other party already sensed their predicament and deliberately intervened to throw them off balance?
Staring at the young and beautiful girl, the nobles found it hard to believe that a teenager could possess such keen intuition. Yet her expression betrayed none of the impulsiveness or excitement typical of someone her age. In fact, even when Charlotte returned to her side, Ophelia merely offered her a calm, serene smile and a nod before turning her gaze back to the square—as if her maid's feat had been nothing more than a trivial matter, unworthy of further thought.
Just like before…
The clan patriarch looked away from that beautiful face and let out a soft sigh. The young lady before him was the spitting image of the princess from all those years ago—calm and composed far beyond her years, always able to make the right judgment at the right time and place. Had it not been for that seemingly casual remark that had captured everyone's attention back then, would his own heir have truly escaped that disaster unscathed?
"Your Highness…"
The patriarch took a deep breath, his eyes closing as his withered hands trembled slightly. He had never thought he would lay eyes on her again. And yet, there she sat, not far from him, as beautiful as ever—but for the patriarch, he no longer had the courage to open his eyes and look upon that figure again.
He had long since lost that right and qualification.
"Father?"
Pelzer, sitting beside him, turned his head, noticing the patriarch's ashen expression and quickly asking in a low voice. At the sound of his son's voice, the patriarch emerged from his brief moment of sorrow, opening his eyes and regaining his usual stern expression. He glanced at his son, and a memory of Wen's earlier report suddenly surfaced in his mind.
"Pelzer, did you not go out of your way to provoke those young ladies a few days ago?"
"Huh?"
Pelzer froze at the patriarch's question, then his face lit up with joy as he replied eagerly, "I did, Father! I merely taught them a small lesson, that's all. After all, they're just a branch family from the Twilight Forest—if we don't make them understand their place and status, we'll lose all face for the Byrd family! Father, I believe no matter what their background may be, we must never back down. We are the masters of this territory, after all! If we show weakness so easily, the other noble houses will laugh us to scorn!"
"Sigh…"
But Pelzer had not expected that upon hearing his answer, the patriarch would not look pleased in the slightest. Instead, he wore a deeply worried expression and let out a long sigh.
"This matter is not yours to meddle in, Pelzer. It would be best if you leave it well alone. I have already entrusted Wen with full authority to handle the territorial dispute over the Twilight Forest on my behalf. You need not say anything more about it—do not concern yourself with this matter any further. Do you understand me?"
Pelzer was truly bewildered by his father's response. He had fully expected to receive praise for his actions, but instead, the patriarch had explicitly told him to stay out of it? By the sacred Mana, this was no trivial matter! This was an important negotiation that directly affected the Byrd family's interests—so why was his father acting as if it were nothing to him?
"But Father, Wen is far too close to them these days! Are you not afraid he will act against the interests of our family?"
"I understand your concerns," the patriarch frowned, cutting Pelzer off sharply. How could he not understand what his son was worried about?
"However, I have already handed this matter over to Wen, and he will act according to my wishes. You, as my heir, should understand this much, Pelzer: there are things that require your attention, and there are things that do not. If you act recklessly, you will only bring unnecessary risks upon yourself and the family!"
Pelzer opened his mouth to speak, but in the end, said nothing. He bit his lip and turned his head away. Knowing his father as well as he did, Pelzer was well aware that his mind was made up—and any further argument would only diminish his standing in his father's eyes. Even so, deep down, Pelzer still felt a flicker of disapproval toward his father's decision. He could not understand why his father feared that young lady so much. If it was because of her royal lineage, it did not seem like it. And as for the possibility that his father had been charmed by her beauty—that thought never even crossed Pelzer's mind. He knew full well that his father was not the kind of man to lose his judgment over a pretty face. There must be something more to this, something hidden beneath the surface.
But with that, any hope of finding a breakthrough with his father was gone. Still, Pelzer did not allow himself to fall into despair. In his eyes, he had another, far better option.
Stepping out of the VIP chamber, Pelzer's gaze turned icy cold in an instant. He stared at Ophelia, not far away, his jaw tightening as he clapped his hands twice.
"You called for me, Master?"
The air beside Pelzer suddenly rippled and twisted, and a man clad head to toe in a blood-red robe materialized silently. He stood behind Pelzer, asking in a low voice.
"Nazar, prepare to enter the arena."
"Now?"
The man froze at Pelzer's order, then quickly spoke up, "Forgive my impertinence, Master—but is it not too early to send me out? Should we not wait a little longer and see how things unfold…"
"There is no need to wait any longer!" Pelzer waved his hand coldly. "I never thought that old fool would make such a decision—but that does not mean I have to accept it! Nazar, I need your strength now. This is the promise we made between us—do not forget that! I have given you your orders; now go and carry them out!"
"I understand."
Hearing this, the man in the red robe said no more. He bowed slightly to Pelzer, then took two steps back and vanished into the empty air once again.
Watching the red-robed man leave, Pelzer let out a cold snort. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying him any attention, then straightened his collar and returned to his seat. At that very moment, the battle in the square came to an end once more.
"The winner of this match is Sir Griffith of the Pollock family!"
The announcer called out the victor's name in a loud voice, and the crowd erupted into another wave of enthusiastic cheers. The man named Griffith smiled faintly and waved to the onlookers, acknowledging their adoration. As a warrior loyal to the patriarch's faction, he had fought valiantly to claim his victory.
"The winner is Sir Griffith of the Pollock family! Now—will any brave warrior step forward to challenge him?"
"I will give it a try."
The announcer's voice had barely faded when a cold, male voice rang out across the square. The crowd immediately turned their heads toward the source of the sound, and there stood a man clad entirely in a blood-red robe, slowly descending the steps and walking onto the arena. Unlike the previous swordsmen, he wore no leather armor or helmet—his attire was simple, consisting of nothing more than a plain cloth robe and a longsword hanging at his waist. He cut a simple figure, yet there was an air of danger about him that sent a chill down everyone's spine.
"May I ask your name, sir?" the announcer asked hesitantly, glancing up at the man and failing to recognize which noble house he belonged to.
"I am the personal bodyguard of Lord Pelzer Byrd."
"And… may I have your name, sir?"
"I have no name worth declaring."
Faced with the announcer's question, the man in the red robe replied calmly and indifferently, "You may call me the Wind of Darkness."
"Then… the challenger for Sir Griffith of the Pollock family is the Wind of Darkness, personal bodyguard of Lord Pelzer Byrd!! Let the battle begin!!"
The horn blared, signaling the start of the match.
Griffith had already tensed up the moment the red-robed man stepped onto the stage. As a seasoned warrior, he could sense that there was something off about the man's aura—as if he were hiding some great danger beneath the surface. Though the man stood right before him, Griffith could not detect the slightest hint of warrior's intent emanating from him. What was going on? Griffith frowned in confusion, but quickly composed himself, focusing all his attention on the opponent before him. Since the man was Pelzer's personal bodyguard, it was clear that the family heir intended to showcase his strength now. As a member of the Byrd family, Griffith had no intention of defeating the man—after all, this tournament was nothing more than a tacit understanding between nobles, a stage for their secret power struggles. Victory was not the only goal; sometimes, defeat was just as necessary to achieve one's aims.
Staring at Griffith, the corners of the red-robed man's lips curled upward into a smug smile. He reached out, flipped his wrist, and drew the longsword from his waist. The exquisitely crafted, ancient-looking blade glinted coldly in the torchlight—and to everyone's astonishment, a single red gemstone was embedded in its center.
A magic weapon!
At the sight of the sword, Griffith's face twitched involuntarily. A magic weapon was the dream of every warrior—aside from those who had advanced to the rank of knight and forged their own soul weapons, it was the ultimate aspiration of every swordsman. Unfortunately, magic weapons could only be crafted by mages; they were rare, exorbitantly expensive, and virtually priceless. What was more, mages were not willing to sell their creations to just anyone. Only those noble houses with close ties to the Mage's Guild had any hope of purchasing a magic weapon at a sky-high price. For an ordinary person with no connections, no amount of money would be enough to buy one.
Lord Pelzer actually owns a magic weapon?
The nobles stared at the longsword in the red-robed man's hand, their expressions turning grave. They frowned and exchanged worried glances—this development was completely unexpected. They had never imagined that Pelzer had such connections. Though the family heir's reputation had hit rock bottom after the fiasco in the Twilight Forest, the appearance of this magic weapon forced the other nobles to rethink their assessment of him. After all, not even the esteemed clan patriarch could claim to own a magic weapon. So where had Lord Pelzer obtained such a treasure? Could it be that he had forged some kind of alliance with the Mage's Guild?
The nobles' minds raced with questions, but inside the arena, Griffith's expression had turned serious upon seeing the Wind of Darkness draw his magic weapon. He assumed a fighting stance and nodded slightly to his opponent.
"I look forward to a good match."
"No need for pleasantries—you are already walking the path of death."
The Wind of Darkness's voice remained cold and flat in response to Griffith's courtesy, and anger flared in Griffith's heart. He had originally intended to signal to the man, hoping for a mutually beneficial outcome to the match. But he had not expected the man to be so dismissive of him, his words a blatant insult and provocation that showed he regarded Griffith with utter contempt. Very well, then—let me see just how powerful a magic weapon truly is!
With that thought, Griffith wasted no more time being polite. He roared loudly and launched a full-force attack on the Wind of Darkness. Leaning forward, he wielded his longsword with his left hand, thrusting upward at his target—this was a ranger's swordsmanship style hailing from the Southern Blackforest, known for its unpredictable attack trajectories and unorthodox fighting techniques designed to catch opponents off guard. Against a right-handed swordsman, most foes would be thrown into disarray by this left-handed style, giving the user a crucial advantage.
But in the face of Griffith's assault, the Wind of Darkness showed no signs of panic whatsoever. He held his longsword steadily and swung it diagonally downward, meeting Griffith's blade head-on—contrary to his tall, slender frame, the Wind of Darkness employed a straightforward, brute-force swordsmanship style typically used only by burly, powerfully built warriors.
"Hmph!"
The two swords clashed and immediately bounced apart. Disadvantaged by both angle and strength, Griffith's movements stalled for a split second—but he quickly twisted his body sideways, his sword tip dancing in the air as it traced a narrow semicircle before striking back, aiming directly for the Wind of Darkness's wrist. But the man seemed to anticipate his move; his own sword, which had been thrust forward a moment earlier, moved with lightning speed to block Griffith's attack. Instead of changing direction, however, he pressed his blade against Griffith's, sliding it along the length of the sword toward its hilt.
Griffith's eyes widened in alarm as he felt his sword being pulled along by the other man's blade. He gritted his teeth and tried to yank his sword back, but to his shock, it felt as if it had been glued to the magic weapon—he could not move it an inch. At that moment, the Wind of Darkness spoke a short incantation in a low, resonant voice.
"Flames of Dominion…"
As the words left his lips, the longsword in his hand was instantly engulfed in flames. Roaring fire erupted along the blade in the blink of an eye, surging toward Griffith's body.
"Ugh!!"
Even with his defensive soul aura protecting him, Griffith could not withstand the power of the elemental flames. Without hesitation, he dropped his sword and tried to retreat to safety. But the flames moved far faster than he had anticipated—in the space of a heartbeat, the crimson fire had already engulfed his left arm, setting it ablaze. Wracked with agony, Griffith collapsed to the ground, rolling around and screaming in pain. It was clear that he could no longer continue fighting.
"The winner is the Wind of Darkness, personal bodyguard of Lord Pelzer Byrd!!"
After the injured loser was carried off the stage, the announcer stepped forward at once to declare the victor's name. But in the face of the crowd's cheers, the Wind of Darkness remained silent. He sheathed his magic sword back at his waist, then lifted his head and looked toward Pelzer, not far away. Feeling the man's gaze upon him, Pelzer stood up and waved his hand—and at his gesture, the entire square fell silent instantly. The crowd leaned forward, eager to hear what the noble had to say.
"I think we have all witnessed the power of a magic weapon," Pelzer said, breaking into a warm smile.
"I am certain it has excited all of you—but this is merely the beginning. There is much more we have yet to see… and it would be a great pity if we were denied the chance to witness it."
What was he talking about?
The common folk exchanged confused glances, unable to understand the noble's cryptic words. But the members of the Byrd family nodded subtly, a look of realization dawning on their faces.
Sure enough, Pelzer then turned around, his gaze locking onto Ophelia in the distance.
"Beautiful Lady Ophelia," he called out, his voice ringing clear across the square. "Earlier, your maid treated us to a truly spectacular match—but we cannot help but notice that your two high-ranked swordsmen have yet to grace us with their presence. If you do not mind… would you be so kind as to let them come down and play with my bodyguard here?"