The sand burns under my knees. Roland raises his blade above me, grinning wide, his friends roaring behind him. All I hear is the crowd's laughter—every noble, merchant, and snot-nosed brat who ever spat on a miner's boots.

I don't kneel to yield. I kneel to channel.

My left hand curls into the sand, mana running down every finger. I shut out the noise. The Grimoire overlays the world with lines—fire, ash, darkness, every thread I've mastered, woven into a single, blazing circuit. The Infernal Manual's memory thrums behind my eyes. Diavolo Draw.

Gold Rank.

No one in Clearwater has ever seen it.

Most wouldn't believe it if they had.

Roland takes two steps back, raising his shield and sword in a champion's pose.

"See? The miner kneels before his betters! Admit defeat!"

I don't answer. I press my thumb to the hilt at my hip.

Hell's Sword forms from pure fire, ash, and a knot of darkness so dense it drinks the morning sun out of the sky above us.

There's a different aspect to it now, with a few dark drops of molten magma sliding off its blade.

A ripple passes through the beach. The temperature suddenly rises. The light bends, like the sun can't reach the sand.

Even the waves seem to slow, foam curling around my feet as if the bay itself waits for what comes next.

"Shadow Lattice," I murmur.

My shadow splinters and suddenly tendrils of it reach for Roland, stopping him in place.

Felisia stands at the edge of the crowd, breath caught in her throat, eyes wide. Sir Greyson's hand goes to his sword, but he does not draw.

Roland hesitates and tries to get free, falling deeper and deeper to the tendrils, getting more and more entangled the more he moves.

"Wait--what the... what is this?!" Roland starts screaming and then he gasps. "My Mana?! What's happening?!"

I breathe in once. Fire in, ash out.

Darkness, cold and slow, runs through my arm.

Now.

I move. Diavolo Draw.

The blade clears my sheath in a single, fluid arc—fire blasting down my arm, ash spinning around my wrist, darkness clinging to the edge like a living shadow.

The world explodes in color and heat.

A wave of flame rips across the sand, carving a black line from my knees to Roland's boots.

Ash swirls up in a cyclone, choking every noble and merchant on the first three rows.

The air splits open for a moment—blue fire bursts from the blade's edge, turning the sand to glass and the ground to molten slag.

Roland tries to raise his shield and sword together, feeling despair at the power of the attack I just unleashed on him.

The blast knocks him flat, shield sent flying into the surf.

His sword, pried from his hand, lands halfway down the beach, hissing and steaming, all bent and burned, as it hits the wet sand.

He skids back, clothes scorched, hair singed, mouth open in a silent scream as a large wound opens diagonally across his chest.

The crowd gasps—no jeers, no laughter now. Just stunned silence.

The blast's edge stops an inch from the nobles' pavilion, blue flames reflected in every wine glass and golden cup. A

wave of heat sweeps across the crowd, knocking hats off heads, sending hair and banners streaming.

I rise, steam curling off my shoulders.

My blade, all fire and shadow, burns out in my hand and fades to nothing.

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No one speaks.

For a heartbeat, even the sea is silent.

Roland tries to stand, but his knees buckle. He drops back onto the sand, arms shaking, staring up at me like he's seen a ghost.

I walk toward him. Step by step, through blackened sand and scorched glass, the only sound my boots crunching on the cooling slag.

He flinches as I approach, his face pale, pride shattered.

I stop a foot from him, looking down.

"You wanted a lesson, Roland," I say, voice low, summoning the Hell's Sword to point it at his neck, "so I gave you one. Look at me like that again, and you're dead. Do you understand?"

The noble nods in a panic, feeling the incredible difference in power between us.

Felisia's laughter breaks the silence first, sharp and clean.

Sir Greyson lets out a breath like he's been holding it for hours.

The crowd erupts, half in cheers, half in outraged shouts.

Behind the nobles' pavilion, Calantha's jaw hangs slack.

Lord Aulus sits up straight for the first time all day.

Adrienne's retinue goes silent, while Veyl's smile finally falters.

I turn away from Roland, not waiting for a reply.

The duel is over.

* * *

The stunned silence holds for a breath, then shatters. Voices rise all at once—some shout my name, others boo, but nobody dares claim Roland won. The nobles watch with faces pale as chalk. Merchants and adventurers howl with delight, stamping feet and slamming cups on tables.

Roland scrambles on his knees, wheezing. He tries to get up but only manages to kneel, clutching at his burned chest.

Even Roland's backers stare like they've been slapped, their faces pale, and one of them—a skinny lordling in Adrienne's retinue—helps Roland to his feet before they drag him off the sand. The victory hits like a rush of cold water after a long fight, vindicating every insult I've swallowed, and it shatters Roland's pride in front of everyone who thought he'd crush me.

A Guild official steps forward, voice trembling but loud, "Winner—Jacob Cloud, by decisive victory."

No one argues.

Felisia pushes through the crowd, grabs my arm, and grins at me like she's never seen anything better in her life. Sir Greyson stands behind us, jaw tight but proud. I nod at him and glance back at the nobles' pavilion.

Calantha glares at me, face blotched and scalp still damp, but she can't meet my eyes for more than a second. Lord Aulus studies me, frowning, maybe for the first time realizing that this isn't a game. Adrienne's mouth is a flat line, her retinue whispering and refusing to look at her. Veyl only folds his arms, staring.

Adrienne rises and comes down the pavilion steps, every move stiff. She stands before me, forcing a smile that never touches her eyes.

"Impressive," she says, words brittle as glass. "You handled a lesser dog. Don't mistake that for true victory, rat. The Sky Hunt will be a different matter."

I meet her stare, calm and cold.

"We'll see, Lady Adrienne. I've got more surprises if you want to test them yourself."

Adrienne scoffs.

"Roland was always a blowhard. Maybe next time we'll have someone competent handle our family's honor."

She turns away, pretending not to care.

A young noble—one I don't recognize—approaches with a stiff bow.

"Master Cloud, House Lorentius sends its regards. We'd like to congratulate you on this win. May luck be on your side during the hunt."

He glances back at the pavilion, making sure others hear.

Huh? This is one of the first nobles who actually shows any respect.

I see him looking at Felisia, and I understand.

He must have understood that we shouldn't be underestimated. That's why he's so obsequious.

Whispers spread through the nobles like fire in dry grass, and a minor lord from some backwater house edges closer to me while the crowd mills about. He leans in, his voice low but urgent, and he hints that certain high-born eyes have taken notice of my skill today because displays like this don't go unseen.

"The Queen's agents are watching," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder. "You've made a statement, Cloud. Play your cards right, and it could open doors you never knew existed."

He flashes me a sigil that I immediately recognize, and I feel fire burning in my veins. I grab the man by the collar of his shirt and hiss, "I don't care. Tell them, I don't care. I don't exist for them—I've never had."

The minor noble looks at me apologetically.

"These are just orders, I'm very sorry. I delivered the message. I can go now."

I let him go, and he disappears.

Then, the crowd stirs as a new commotion starts at the edge of the field. The line of spectators parts, and Veyl arrives, facing me.

"Not bad... for a warm-up," he says with faint sarcasm that drips like poison, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd.

I can see some malice in his eyes, something that tells me that, before him, humanity is nothing.

Before anyone can react, Veyl spots a young servant boy—no older than—who's scrambling to clear debris from the duel site because he's probably terrified of the nobles' wrath. The kid trips over a chunk of glassed sand and drops his basket, spilling tools everywhere, and Veyl's smirk turns cruel as he raises his hand without a second thought.

Lightning crackles from his palm in a casual burst that he aims right at the boy.

The energy lashes out like a whip that singes the kid's tunic while sending him sprawling with a yelp of pain.

The crowd gasps in horror, but Veyl just laughs it off with a wave.

"Clumsy vermin," he sneers, turning back to the distant training dummy as if nothing happened. "Let me show you real power, since you're all so easily impressed."

He unleashes another bolt—this one massive—that obliterates a chunk of the distant cliff.

"Next is you, Jacob Cloud," Veyl says, making me narrow my eyes. "Soon, very soon."

He turns and gives me his back. Felisia runs up to the kid, checking on his condition.

I grit my teeth.

He's still stronger—much stronger than me, I realize.

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