Reinhard raised his sword, and in that moment, the space around him shifted. The air stilled—no dust, no wind, no movement at all. Everything froze, as if time itself had yielded to his will. His breathing slowed, yet his heartbeat pounded in a wild rhythm, merging with the flow of mana coursing through his body, sending waves of unbearable pain. Every muscle was strained, his body teetering on the verge of collapse. And yet, he remained utterly focused.
— "Star-Shattering Technique… The Gentle Current That Diverts the Stars."
His voice was soft, yet each word echoed across the arena, like an ancient law inscribed upon the world by his very existence. In that instant, his sword began to glow—not with a blinding flash or raging fire, but with a calm, cold radiance, akin to moonlight reflected upon a still lake. His blade moved smoothly, unhurried, yet within its motion lay something inevitable.
A strike that could not be stopped.
Silivan, still wrapped in his dark haze, lunged forward. His sword, filled with primordial darkness, sliced through the air, rushing toward Reinhard with a speed akin to the movement of the moon. But at that moment, the world was consumed by light.
Light tore through the darkness.
The arena was drowned in white radiance, so blinding that even the most hardened knights squeezed their eyes shut, feeling their vision scorched by the burst of pure energy. A dense mist, like a living entity, slithered across the stone floor, enveloping everything in a milky-white fog. Even the air grew heavier, as though an invisible wave of pressure had crashed down, pinning everyone in place.
A dead silence fell.
All around, people held their breath. Many knights instinctively gripped their swords, though they understood that, in this moment, their weapons were utterly meaningless. They stared into the glowing mist, their expressions tense, their minds racing with the terrible realization that they could not see the outcome of the battle.
— "What happened?..
— "Can anyone see them?!"
— "Could it be… the heir has lost?"
Whispers rippled through the crowd, mingling with fear, tension, and anticipation. Warriors and nobles alike stood frozen, their eyes wide with suspense.
And then, the mist began to fade.
Slowly, steadily, the air cleared, revealing the battlefield. The stone floor of the arena was shattered, covered in deep fractures, as if the gods of war themselves had tried to tear it apart. The air still crackled with the remnants of magical energy, and at the very center of the destruction, two figures emerged from the haze.
Reinhard was kneeling.
His head was bowed, his arms hanging limply over his legs. The sword that, mere moments ago, had radiated divine light, now seemed dim, drained of its power. A deep wound marred his shoulder, from which warm blood trickled down, thin crimson streams dripping onto the cracked stone, staining the battlefield where two incredible warriors had just clashed.
He did not move.
No one heard a sound—no breath, no movement, not even the faintest rustle.
Only silence.
The spectators and passersby held their breath, staring at the scene.
Someone swallowed hard. Someone peered into the arena, their disbelief evident.
Someone took a cautious step forward, as if afraid to voice the words that might turn out to be true.
— "Could it be… the heir of Deir… Reinhard… has lost?"
These words, spoken in a trembling voice, hung in the air, spreading through the arena like the rolling thunder of a scorching, beautiful May afternoon.