The most perceptive saw it instantly. A moment later the understanding swept the rest of the crowd, leaving everyone gripped by the same stunned realization.

  It wasn't luck. It wasn't Rhavak being inaccurate. The Prince of Ruin was dodging lightning.

  Stunned, a servant’s silver tray clattered to the cobblestones, the sound startlingly loud in the hush.

  "M-my apologies!" he stammered, but no one heard him. No one could turn away from the pit.

  Lyris, seeming like the last person to understand, grabbed her sister's arm. "How is he doing that? How is he dodging lightning?"

  Klara didn't answer. She was a statue, her warrior's mind analyzing the impossible. Her gaze was locked on Lucon, seeing past the pipe and the languid posture to the flawless, pre-emptive movements that defied all logic.

  Next to them, Claude had pressed his face so close to the golden barrier that he was breathing in the soothing holy magic it exuded, his expression one of world-shattering disbelief.

  Below, Lucon remained puffing away at his pipe.

  In truth, he hadn't expected this result either. There should have been only defeat, in a single, humiliating strike. But his fall never came. In its place was analytical clarity. The Flow of the world exposed all he needed to know.

  There was no comparing Rhavak's lightning magic to Helto’s [Bull’s Rush]. The lightning was far faster and had a far more destructive force. Yet, there was one fatal flaw in the difference. Helto's Aura-fused charge had no tell, but Mages were different.

  Mages did not rely on only their Mana to power their spells and spread their awareness with Mana Sense. They also used it to aim. They projected their intent—a line of energy connecting their spell’s intended path to their target. It was a necessary guide to serve as a road their chaotic spells could follow.

  In the ever-shifting tapestry of the Flow, Lucon saw it. A thin, brilliant blue line shot from Rhavak's Mana Pool, through his staff, and aimed directly toward Lucon's heart seconds before the spell itself manifested. It was the tell. A roadmap of the attack displayed openly in his perception.

  [Sparking Arrow]

  A new spell shot from Rhavak's staff, this one more focused, faster—a thin concentrated line of lightning that followed the exact path of the line of energy Lucon had already seen.

  [Golden Step]

  Lucon was already moving. He simply leaned to the side, his body flowing with an almost bored grace, the holy magic granting him just enough speed to move his torso out of the path. The thin compacted lightning shrieked past his shoulder, close enough for the static to make the hairs on his arm stand on end, and exploded against the barrier beyond him.

  Another unified gasp grew from the crowd, louder this time, tinged with awe.

  From his position maintaining the barrier, Monk Georgi's eyes were wide, staring at the shimmering golden footprints Lucon left in the dirt.

  "That...that isn't how holy spells are supposed to be used..." he murmured to himself.

  Lucon exhaled more smoke, pushing a gray cloud between him and Rhavak.

  "You don't deserve to be the Named Hero," he stated. "Fate has already picked my brother. You should accept it."

  A muscle in Rhavak's jaw tightened. His black eyes swirled with a sudden, violent heat. Then, to the crowd's surprise, a short, humorless laugh escaped him. He put a hand to his own face, his shoulders shaking with a mirthless chuckle.

  "I shouldn't be so surprised," Rhavak said, lowering his hand to reveal a cold, knowing smirk. "It makes sense now."

  One of Lucon's eyebrows lifted in mild curiosity. "It does?"

  Rhavak nodded, his tone one of a student who thought they knew more than the teacher. "I made it a point to learn everything about my rival, Claude Edelyn, even about his brother: the so-called 'Prince of Ruin.' Your one and only notable skill is your unarmed discipline from the Merciful Temple. It's only the second noteworthy thing about you, right after your talent for wasting your family's fortune." He gestured with his staff. "It explains your movement—the dodging.”

  There was a pause. The only sound was the faint hum of the barrier.

  "You are the type who thinks he knows everything, aren't you?" Lucon observed. He was still impressed Rhavak knew about his skill in unarmed fighting, which only the temple monks would know about him. But that had nothing to do with his ability to dodge so well.

  Rhavak ignored him, his smirk still in place. "But you see, the true advantage of being both an Arisen and a Mage is the synergy. Combining skills to create something greater."

  As he spoke, Lucon saw it in the Flow—a new, intensely bright blue line aiming directly at him.

  [Blink Blade]

  In a burst of crackling electricity, Rhavak burst forth with speed that could outrun a horse. He was suddenly in front of Lucon, his sword already in a swift, point-blank arc. It was a perfect fusion of spell and Battle Skill—acceleration both through magic and his Arisen body.

  "LUCON!" Claude shouted, slamming his hands against the barrier.

  Then, a sound echoed across the courtyard, sudden and utterly incongruous: a loud, resounding SMACK.

  The crowd stared, stupefied.

  Rhavak was frozen, his sword having cut through empty air. He was positioned awkwardly, as if he had been the one struck. And on his cheek, angry against his pale skin, was a vivid red handprint.

  He slowly turned his head back to Lucon, his black eyes wide with uncomprehending disbelief.

  "Did you just...slap me?" he murmured, voice quiet.

  Lucon stood calmly, shaking out his hand.

  "You will not be the Named Hero," he reiterated, his tone almost comforting. "But have heart. You will be in the Hero's Party. At the very least."

  Luckily for Lucon, Rhavak’s Aura Heart was still at First Spark. This was unlike Helto, who was a level above at Ember Arisen. If he’d slapped Helto going that speed, the bones in his hand would have broken.

  Rhavak’s composure shattered. "Who are you to determine that, wastrel?!" he roared, his voice rising to a fever pitch.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  [Unseen Sword]

  His blade became a solid bar of white lightning, moving with a speed even an Ember Arisen couldn’t follow.

  Another crisp SMACK resounded through the air, even louder than the first.

  This time, the crowd saw it clearly. They saw Lucon's hand, shrouded in golden light, casually lash out and strike Rhavak across the other cheek with the flat of his palm.

  Rhavak staggered back, his head wrenching to the side. Now, a matching red handprint bloomed on his other cheek. He stood there, utterly stunned, the white light dying from his sword.

  A strangled, furious cry tore from Rhavak’s throat. "Stop—!"

  [Radiant Lunge]

  SMACK.

  "—slapping—!"

  [Shocking Arc]

  SMACK.

  "—me!"

  [Voltaic Rush]

  SMACK.

  It was like brutal, almost rhythmic music of failure. Each time Rhavak’s Mana flared, painting a brilliant blue line of intent in the Flow, Lucon was already moving. A burst of lightning, a blur of golden light, and then the crisp sound of palm meeting cheek would echo across the dead-silent courtyard.

  Rhavak was a prisoner of his own power; the very magic that made him a prodigy was his greatest liability against Lucon’s perception. He was so determined to prove his superiority by using his full, hybrid might that he never considered switching to the unpredictable, less telegraphed Battle Skills that would have certainly handed him the victory.

  But it wasn’t like he could see the Flow of the world like Lucon.

  The crowd was a gallery of statues, their silence louder than any cheer.

  Petyr’s hand was slapping against the golden barrier, his earlier anxiety replaced by a grin so wide it threatened to split his face. He turned to Monk Georgi, his voice a trembling, joyous shout.

  "He’s back! It’s him!"

  Georgi watched Lucon’s fluid, unhurried movements with weariness.

  "I don't remember him ever being like this," the monk murmured. "He used to talk big…but never backed it up this well."

  Captain Mavor’s eyes were narrowed, analyzing every move as if trying to decipher a complex military manual written in a language he didn't understand. Beside him, Kaeson gave a single, firm nod, seeming to make a silent vow only he could hear. Bethea, flushed with secondhand pride, stood tall next to her brother.

  Hidden and watching from within a bush, Hilda was flushed, beaming a full smile.

  Norlon was biting his own knuckles hard enough to leave teeth marks. Perrin stood there with his mouth agape.

  Julie was biting her lip, shaking her head as she murmured to herself, "How…how is that wastrel doing this…?"

  Lyris had wrapped herself around Klara’s arm, clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing in a world gone mad. But Klara offered no stability; she was just as adrift, uncertain, her gaze on the man she thought she knew.

  Claude was motionless. All thought, all calculation, had vanished from his face, replaced by a blank, overwhelming shock.

  SMACK.

  This blow was heavier, a concussive impact that sent Rhavak stumbling across the pit, colliding with the far wall. He struggled to rise, his face completely red and swollen, one eye nearly shut, his bottom lip puffed like cotton.

  Lucon strolled toward him, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his pipe as smoke trailed lazily behind him. He halted mid-step, catching sight of someone watching from above. Lifting the pipe in greeting, he smiled up at a man already balding despite his youth.

  "Petyr," he called out. "Be a friend and fetch me a drink, would you?"

  Peytr nodded fervently with glee.

  The fight, if it could even be called that, then continued its meaningless course. Rhavak, driven by humiliated fury, would lunge with another crackling attack, only to be met with another stinging, disrespectful SMACK from Lucon’s open palm. He was a broken record of failure, his once-impeccable image reduced to an embarrassing, clumsy spectacle.

  Whispers began to disperse the stunned silence.

  "Someone should stop this…"

  "This is already over, isn’t it…?"

  "To lose to someone like the Prince of Ruin…"

  Suddenly, Petyr reappeared at the barrier's edge, clutching a bottle of amber liquor and a single cup, his eyes wild with exhilaration.

  "Georgi! Lower the barrier!" he demanded, his voice filled with excitement.

  The monk shook his heavy bald head. "We should wait until the sparring is concluded. For the safety of all."

  "Now!" Petyr insisted, waving a dismissive hand. "Do it!"

  With a weary sigh, as if surrendering to the inevitable chaos that followed Lucon, Georgi released his holy magic. The golden dome flickered and vanished.

  Peytr filled up his own cup then leaned precariously over the pit's edge.

  He then shouted, "LUCON!"

  Lucon, sidestepping a desperate, sparking lunge from Rhavak, looked up and smiled. The bottle was already in the air, thrown by Petyr. Lucon caught it effortlessly with one hand, never breaking his fluid, evasive golden steps.

  Petyr thrust the filled cup into the air in a triumphant toast.

  "Petyr, after years of sobriety?!" Georgi panicked, reaching for him with a wide hand. "Don't!"

  But Petyr ignored him, his voice ringing out across the courtyard. "The Prince of Revelry has returned!"

  In perfect, practiced unison, both men threw their heads back and drank deeply. Lucon, his throat working, bent his upper body parallel to the ground, letting a wild lightning bolt sizzle through the space his torso had just occupied, all without spilling a single drop.

  A few scattered, disbelieving cheers erupted from the crowd at the sheer, seemingly impossible feat.

  "Don’t any one of you even think about clapping," Norlon snarled, turning on his followers with a venomous glare.

  With his hands now full—one holding the bottle, the other with the long pipe—Lucon found himself momentarily unable to slap. Rhavak, seeing an opening, pressed his attack, a flurry of blue lines targeting different parts of Lucon's body.

  A golden glow enveloped Lucon's leg.

  [Heaven-bound Phoenix]

  He pivoted, and with a kick that seemed to draw light from the air itself, he launched Rhavak upward. A spectral, golden phoenix, smaller and less defined than Claude's violet one, but unmistakably similar, rose with the kick, carrying the dazed Rhavak into the air.

  Klara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "That's…!"

  "That's Claude's attack!" Lyris finished, her voice a shrill echo of disbelief.

  Claude looked visibly shaken. His brother had replicated a fused Mana-Aura technique with holy magic—a theoretical impossibility.

  Before anyone could process it, Lucon was already moving.

  [Nimbus Ballista]

  He shot into the air after Rhavak with an explosive upward kick, the motion a perfect mirror of another of Claude's moves. The kick connected solidly with Rhavak's midsection, and the aerial strike sent them both soaring up and out of the pit, going over the edge and onto the manicured lawn beyond.

  Monk Georgi’s surprise faltered as he realized bringing down the barrier was a bad idea.

  "I knew I shouldn't have listened to Petyr,” he groaned with exasperation. “When him and Lucon drink together, it’s always trouble. Just like the old days…”

  The two bodies hit the grass in a rough, rolling sprawl—Rhavak skidding, Lucon landing with the grace of someone stepping off a carriage. The courtyard went utterly still.

  The crowd stared, their shock was as if a dragon had descended to recite poetry. The unthinkable had happened. The Prince of Ruin had not only survived; he had dominated.

  Nothing in their world, not training, not politics, not prophecy, had prepared them for this.

  Rhavak lay broken, his spirit crushed along with his pride. The emotionless feeling in his black eyes was gone, replaced by raw, animal fear. He looked up and saw Lucon approaching—calmly, steadily, with both hands still occupied by a bottle and pipe, unable to decide which one to consume next.

  The Hero candidate flinched violently and tried to crawl backward.

  Lucon simply stepped on his head. Not brutally—just enough to stop him. Enough to say you’re not going anywhere until I’m finished.

  A whimper escaped the prodigy's swollen lips.

  Lucon bent forward, lowering his voice to a whisper just for Rhavak.

  "You will learn your place. You are to be my brother's party member. You both will save the world from the Demon King." He pressed down slightly with his foot. "But first, you will learn to submit. Submit to my brother, who will be the next Named Hero."

  Claude had leapt forward initially—his honor demanded he intervene, demanded he stop this humiliation—but the words halted him mid-stride. His eyes widened, emotions crashing in his shifting expression.

  “…Are you still the same Lucon?” he breathed.

  Lucon lifted his head and offered a crooked, almost boyish smile.

  Then it vanished. His eyes widened, his body tensing in an instant.

  In the Flow, a new blue line appeared—so brilliant, so dense with power it was like a direct beam from the sun. It was a promise of annihilation, a threat an order of magnitude greater than anything Rhavak had conjured. His instincts screamed.

  [Golden Step] would not save him.

  In a blur, Lucon released every ounce of power he could muster into a single desperate lean, attempting to clear the line of intent.

  [Ruinous Thunder]

  The world turned white.

  Then it turned soundless.

  Then the sound came rushing back in a single colossal, bone-rattling boom that shook the very ground beneath their feet.

  Screams rang out. People clutched their ears. Those without Aura or Mana dropped to their knees, overwhelmed by the force of the spell.

  Blood erupted as the blow tore away nearly half of Lucon’s face, revealing the white gleam of his cheekbone and jaw. The damage ripped the flesh from half his mouth, leaving teeth and gums exposed in a wet, red grin.

  A wizened figure strode forward as sight returned to the blinded onlookers, lightning dancing along the length of his staff. His eyes, shadowed by his wide-brimmed hat, burned with righteous fury.

  “Get away from him, you vile thing!”

  Dragnol Fire-Storm had arrived.