Volume 03, Chapter 102

  Arthur’s Training Before Duel

  Arthur stands quietly in the spacious backyard of the Lyon Chateau, sunlight gleaming gently upon the pristine grass and elegant flowerbeds surrounding him.

  Grasped in his hand is the sword he obtained from the Temple du Sceptre Lié. Its blade shimmers faintly in the sunlight.

  “So… how exactly am I supposed to get you to talk?” Arthur murmurs, turning the sword thoughtfully as he studies its polished, mirror-like blade. "I have been trying to communicate ever since Clark and I escaped from that temple... yet you have stayed silent."

  Even now, the blade offers no response, only the subtle pulse of latent Mana emanating quietly from its cold metal exterior.

  Arthur sighs softly. “At least your Mana is still active. I suppose that is something.”

  He swings it experimentally through the air, feeling its perfect weight and balance.

  “Arthur!”

  Arthur instantly straightens up at the deep, familiar voice behind him. He turns around, eyes widening slightly in surprise and joy.

  Approaching with confident, powerful strides is Uther.

  “F-Father!” Arthur exclaims, nearly stumbling over his own feet in excitement. “Y-You came!”

  Uther gives a calm, dignified nod. “I took a temporary leave from guild matters. The vice guildmaster will oversee everything until my return. Remember, Arthur: I have accepted your request for a spar because you insisted. Do not disappoint me. I expect you to at least manage to touch me once.”

  Arthur swallows nervously, gripping his sword more tightly. “Understood!”

  Uther’s lips curve faintly upward. “Good. Let us begin immediately.”

  They quickly take their positions, stepping onto the broad, open grass field in the chateau’s backyard. Uther stands calmly, arms relaxed at his sides, while Arthur crouches slightly, taking an offensive stance.

  “Come, Arthur,” Uther commands simply. “You make the first move.”

  Arthur nods, breathing deeply as he bends his knees, gathering Mana throughout his entire body.

  “Flash of Merlin…” Arthur murmurs under his breath.

  —Bling!

  In an instant, Arthur shoots forward at blinding speed, a bright streak of golden-white light trailing behind him. He closes the gap between them swiftly, blade poised to strike at his father’s head.

  Uther remains motionless, his face tranquil and unbothered. “Luminous Gauntlets,” he says quietly.

  His hands immediately blaze with radiant light.

  Arthur drives his blade forward with all his strength — but in a swift movement, Uther effortlessly catches the blade between his luminous palms.

  —Fwoosh!

  A gust of wind erupts from the impact, leaves and grass fluttering outward in a ripple.

  Arthur strains, muscles trembling, attempting to push forward — but his father’s grip is unwaveringly strong.

  In desperation, Arthur focuses, drawing more Mana through his body, trying to boost his strength.

  Still, Uther remains immovable, effortlessly resisting the advance. His tone remains perfectly calm as he lectures:

  “Arthur, when confronting someone physically stronger than yourself, it is foolish to engage them head-on. Instead, choose your moment carefully. Strike only when they are unaware, when their guard is lowered.”

  Before Arthur can react, Uther yanks the blade sharply, causing Arthur to stumble forward, off-balance.

  Arthur sees Uther’s fist draw back, aiming toward his stomach. Panicking, he rapidly concentrates Mana there, bracing himself.

  Yet, at the last moment, Uther abruptly changes direction—a feint.

  —Slap!

  Uther’s open palm connects forcefully against Arthur’s cheek, knocking him sharply backward.

  Arthur tumbles painfully across the grass, finally coming to a halt, kneeling breathlessly with his sword stabbed into the earth to support himself.

  “Hah…hah….”

  Panting heavily, Arthur raises his eyes, meeting Uther’s scrutinizing gaze. Uther’s eyes narrow slightly as he stares at the sword.

  ‘A sword imbued with light magic?’ Uther wonders. ‘Strange… I have never seen such a blade in the Lyon family’s treasury. Where did Arthur obtain it?’

  Arthur shakily rises back to his feet, sensing his father’s presence — just a faint hint of Mana emanating from him.

  ‘Father’s not even revealing his full Mana yet,’ Arthur thinks grimly. ‘If he did… I would be crushed by its sheer pressure.’

  Arthur knows well the extent of Uther’s power. As an [S]-Rank magician and a prominent guild leader, his father commands respect and admiration across Sylvestria.

  “Arthur,” Uther’s voice snaps him from his thoughts, commanding attention. “That sword in your hands… where exactly did you acquire it? It is certainly not from our family’s archives.”

  Arthur hesitates, realizing he needs to offer a convincing story. He cannot risk revealing the truth about the temple raid with Dominic.

  “I… bought it from Galerie des Trésors,” he says finally, maintaining a steady voice.

  Uther raises an eyebrow slightly, appearing somewhat skeptical, but chooses not to press the issue further. “I see.”

  He relaxes slightly, but his commanding tone returns immediately. “Then show me the power of that sword, Arthur. I can sense great amounts of Mana within it. Let us see if you can wield it effectively enough to strike me down.”

  Arthur inhales deeply, gripping the blade firmly once more, his determination reignited. He nods sharply.

  “Yes, Father.”

  Uther extends his hand toward Arthur, a sudden surge of blinding light gathering at his palm as he draws upon an immense well of Mana.

  Arthur’s eyes widen, the pressure hitting him like a wall. The sheer volume of Mana being conjured makes the air feel heavy.

  “Flash of Mer—!”

  “Avalon Blast.”

  Uther’s voice cuts through the moment, calm and absolute. Before Arthur can even finish casting, three massive beams of radiant light erupt from Uther’s hand.

  Arthur barely has time to react. Instinct kicks in as he immediately channels Mana across his body in a protective veil.

  —BOOM!

  The impact strikes with overwhelming force. A shockwave tears across the field, sending Arthur flying like a ragdoll. He crashes into the grass, tumbling over himself until he skids to a stop, battered and gasping.

  “Ngh…” Arthur groans, his arms trembling as he pushes himself up.

  Blood trickles down his cheek, and his clothes are torn in multiple places. Cuts litter his body, but he is still standing.

  Thanks to the sword in his grip, its Mana presence reinforcing him, his reserves remain high. His body might be beaten, but he can still fight.

  “Arthur,” Uther calls out as he calmly approaches, his expression unreadable. “Higher-ranked Magicians can cast faster, with more destructive force. If you are fighting them in an open field at range, you are already at a disadvantage.”

  His tone sharpens. “That is why you must learn to surprise them. Catch them off guard. Adapt.”

  Arthur grits his teeth and uses the sword to steady himself, rising slowly.

  ‘Damn it… it has not even been that long, and I am already in bad shape,’ he thinks bitterly. ‘How am I supposed to take on Clark in our duel like this?’

  As he stands, Uther’s eyes flick to the sword. It is completely untouched by the blast. Not even a scratch.

  ‘Remarkable…’ Uther thinks. ‘That blade... it is not ordinary.’

  Arthur is not done. He grips the sword tighter. He focuses his Mana into it, and almost immediately, the blade flares to life, bathed in a radiant, golden hue.

  Then—something new.

  “Removing restraints… analyzing the opponent,” a calm, mechanical voice echoes from the sword.

  Arthur freezes. His eyes widen. ‘It is… speaking? But I have poured Mana into it before, and it stayed silent. Why now? Does it only activate during combat?’

  Uther’s brow raises, intrigued. “A sentient sword?” he mutters.

  “Opponent’s strength exceeds user—Approved. One-on-one combat—Approved. Combat scenario: sparring—Approved.” The voice continues, unwavering.

  Arthur blinks. ‘Those are the same lines it said when we fought the golem…’

  Uther’s interest deepens.

  “Analysis complete. Required Mana to defeat current opponent: [A++] Rank,” the sword continues.

  Arthur’s jaw drops. “[A++]?!”

  That is not even part of the standard ranking system. Magicians are ranked from [F] to [SSS]—he has never even heard of [A++].

  “Transferring Mana to user.” The sword says.

  —FWOOSH!

  Suddenly, an enormous surge of Mana flows from the sword into Arthur, whipping the wind into a frenzy. The very earth beneath him trembles as light pulses outward from his body.

  Arthur’s breath hitches. His limbs no longer ache. His thoughts sharpen. Strength pours into every fiber of his being. ‘This sword… it was holding back before. I thought it was [C] rank at best. It only released that much against the golem—but now… it is giving me everything,’ he thinks.

  Uther’s eyes narrow. He can feel the immense Mana flowing—not from Arthur, but from the sword itself. And it is growing fast.

  ‘That blade… it is empowering him far beyond his natural limits. If he relies too heavily on it, he will never grow,’ he thinks, expression hardening. ‘I need to take that sword from him… before it becomes a crutch.’

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  Uther begins to gather Mana—not just in his hands, but throughout his entire body. It surges through him like a storm barely contained beneath his skin.

  This time, it is not just a show of strength—it is [S]-Rank Mana, dense and oppressive, pressing against the very air around them.

  Arthur’s grip tightens around his sword as he senses the change. Even the [A++] output from his weapon feels like a step below what his father is summoning now.

  “Flash of Merlin,” Uther mutters, vanishing from sight in a blur of radiant light.

  He reappears just meters in front of Arthur, closing the distance in a blink, his right fist cocked back and glowing with the Luminous Gauntlets spell from earlier—now supercharged with [S]-Rank force.

  Arthur’s eyes widen. But instead of faltering, he plants his feet, raises the sword, and brings it down to intercept.

  —BOOM!

  The moment fist and blade collide, a shockwave erupts outward, shattering the earth beneath them and sending a cloud of debris and dust skyward.

  As the smoke clears, the two figures lock in place—Arthur bracing against the blow, his sword pressed against Uther’s fist. Both struggle to overpower the other, their feet grinding against the scorched grass below.

  Arthur’s arms tremble from the force, but his eyes burn with disbelief—and determination. I... stopped him?! He’s not holding back… and I’m still standing?!

  Uther sees the flicker of surprise in his son’s face—and capitalizes on it.

  Suddenly, Uther unclenches his right hand, grabbing the blade’s hilt. With a sharp yank downward, he tries to unbalance Arthur and readies his left fist to strike.

  But Arthur is not done yet.

  He twists his body and yanks the sword back in a swift upward arc—

  —BLING!

  A massive beam of radiant light explodes from the sword’s edge, forcing Uther to react fast. He leans back just in time, the beam narrowly grazing past his face.

  The beam does not stop—it continues upward, expanding as it travels, cutting into the heavens like a blade of divine judgment. It pierces the clouds, creating a wide pillar of searing white light that can be seen for miles—towering at three hundred thirty meters tall, its width almost the same.

  The workers of the Lyon household surely see it... but neither Arthur nor Uther break their focus.

  “Tch...” Uther clicks his tongue and immediately gathers more Mana, conjuring a blade made entirely of pure light.

  With fluid motion, he slashes horizontally at Arthur’s midsection.

  —CLANK!

  Arthur deflects the blade swiftly, then drops low, aiming a retaliatory strike at Uther’s legs.

  But Uther is already moving—parrying cleanly.

  —CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! CLANK!

  The air around them erupts in flashes of light and sound as the two clash with impossible speed. Their weapons collide in rapid succession, movements so fast that only streaks of light mark their exchanges.

  Each strike is reinforced by Mana, echoing like distant thunderclaps.

  Arthur only keeps up because the sword feeds him Mana—pushing him beyond his normal limits.

  But Uther has years of experience—and he knows how to feint.

  He shifts his weight, letting his sword lag just half a second—inviting Arthur to strike.

  Arthur takes the bait.

  In that instant, Uther’s light blade flicks to the side, catching Arthur’s sword at just the right angle—

  —CLANK!

  The sword flies from Arthur’s hands, spinning through the air before embedding itself in the earth several meters away.

  The moment it leaves his grip, Arthur feels it.

  His Mana reserves plummet—returning to their natural level. The surge of strength vanishes. He is back to his base [C] Rank.

  Before he can recover, Uther steps in and drives a solid kick into Arthur’s chest.

  —SMACK!

  “Guh—!”

  Arthur is launched backward, tumbling across the grass before finally skidding to a stop. Dirt clings to his clothes, his chest aches, and his breath comes in ragged gasps.

  “Hah... hah...”

  The adrenaline drains from him, and exhaustion sets in fast. He feels every bruise, every aching muscle.

  Uther suppresses his Mana the moment the sword flies from Arthur’s hands.

  "Arthur," Uther says, his voice calm yet firm as he walks toward him. "That sword is powerful. It will make a great trump card in the future... but do not grow reliant on it."

  Arthur, still on one knee, pants, sweat running down the side of his face. His chest rises and falls with every breath, but his eyes burn with defiance.

  Uther stops a few steps away. "The spar is over. Two minutes—and you are already this exhausted. Let us stop for today."

  Arthur, still sitting on the ground, clenches his jaw. No. Not yet.

  He refuses to end it like this—not when his father has always compared him to the original Dominic. Not when he is still being seen as second-best. He cannot let this chance slip away.

  This is not just about the duel with Clark tomorrow. This is about proving he is not just the son of Uther Lyon, or the boy forever compared to a Manaless prodigy. It is about proving himself to his father and himself.

  Arthur pushes himself to his feet. “No, Father,” he says, his voice ragged but resolute. “I want to continue. I refuse to give up!”

  Without waiting for permission, he gathers Mana throughout his body. Golden light pulses beneath his skin as he extends one hand toward the ground beneath Uther’s feet.

  “Avalon Blast!”

  Three searing beams of light fire downward, striking the earth and erupting into a massive explosion that kicks up a storm of dust and debris.

  Uther shields his eyes, scowling. He is trying to obscure my vision? But surely he knows I can still sense his Mana.

  But then something feels... off.

  He can still sense Mana—yes—but not from Arthur’s body. It is... scattered.

  Compressed. Controlled.

  Uther’s eyes widen as he sweeps the smoke away with a flick of his hand—and sees ten glowing orbs of light hovering across the field, each one brimming with [D-] Rank Mana.

  “So you have managed to shape your spell enough to place its pre-activation state wherever you want,” Uther mutters. “That is an advanced control technique...”

  He turns to see Arthur standing further back, panting, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “It was a gamble,” Arthur admits between breaths. “I have never tried it before... but it worked.”

  The truth is, immediately after casting his first Avalon Blast, Arthur used Flash of Merlin to disappear and scatter ten dormant orbs around Uther. The spell’s base form, the light orb, was held at its primed state—no activation—until he was ready.

  And now, it is time...

  “Avalon Blast!” Arthur roars.

  —BLING!

  The ten orbs burst to life, each one transforming into a blinding beam of light, all converging on Uther.

  In an instant, Uther reacts, gathering [C+] Rank Mana and casting it across his form. “Avalon Radiant Aegis.”

  A radiant golden dome blooms around him—just in time.

  —BOOM!

  The beams collide with the barrier, lighting up the field with explosive brilliance. Smoke and shockwaves ripple out as the dome flickers—but it holds.

  When the smoke clears, Uther remains standing, unscathed. His cloak ripples gently in the fading aftermath.

  “Your Mana control is excellent...” Uther mutters, scanning the field. “But where—?”

  He pauses. He cannot sense Arthur’s Mana. Not even a flicker.

  —Crunch!

  Uther’s hand shoots up, catching the attack cleanly. Arthur grimaces, but does not flinch.

  Uther raises an eyebrow. Despite close proximity, Arthur’s Mana remains practically invisible—completely suppressed.

  When did he learn to suppress his Mana this well? Uther thinks in amazement. This is not something you learn overnight. It takes patience, precision... discipline.

  With a quick push, Uther knocks Arthur backward. The younger magician lands hard, sitting down with a grunt.

  But Uther does not scold him. Instead, he steps forward.

  “Arthur... that was remarkable,” Uther says. “When did you train to this level?”

  Arthur looks away, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I... I just trained in my free time,” he mumbles.

  It is rare for his father to ask things like this... rarer still to hear what almost sounds like admiration.

  Uther blinks. He has not expected that answer. He has always thought Arthur was not putting in enough effort. Even with all the resources he was born into, he was being overshadowed by a Manaless like Dominic. But to suppress Mana this precisely—to manipulate spells like this—it takes time. Dedication. Quiet effort.

  But now...

  Uther watches the boy catching his breath, still rising after every blow, refusing to stop.

  Was I wrong this whole time? Uther thinks. Was I so absorbed in my duties... that I failed to see my own son’s growth? Did I... misjudge him?

  The thought strikes something deep.

  It is a quiet, humbling pain—the kind that only comes when a parent realizes they have overlooked the quiet victories of their child. The unseen effort. The silent resilience.

  Uther walks toward Arthur slowly.

  Arthur blinks, surprised. “F-Father?”

  Uther does not speak. He kneels beside him—and ruffles his hair.

  Arthur freezes. His eyes widen. That gesture... it is something he has not felt since he was small. His father has always been stern, strict—commanding respect, but never showing warmth.

  “You did well today,” Uther says, offering a rare, gentle smile.

  Arthur stares up at him, stunned into silence. But the corners of his lips tremble—until a quiet, proud smile finally forms.

  And for the first time in a long while, Arthur feels... seen.

  “Thanks... Father,” Arthur says quietly, his voice soft but filled with emotion.

  Uther gives a small nod. “Igra—your mother—would be proud of you too.”

  “...You think so?” Arthur asks, glancing sideways.

  “Of course,” Uther replies, a rare tenderness in his tone. “Your mother was the gentle kind. The type who would have wrapped you in warmth, always cheering you on... even if you could not hear it.”

  Arthur falls silent. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them.

  He has never known his mother. She died shortly after he was born. Her love is something he has only heard about in stories... never felt.

  “Arthur,” Uther says after a pause, “in your duel tomorrow... I want you to win.”

  Arthur turns to him, eyes wide with surprise—but then something shifts in his gaze. Determination.

  This is not just a request. It is not an obligation or a task handed down from a guild leader or a father he longed to impress.

  This time... it feels like a promise. A purpose. A reason to keep moving forward.

  Arthur smiles, firm and sure. “Yes, Father. I will win!”

  ════ ?★? ════

  Inside the Obsidian Throne Room

  Malignor sits atop his throne, one leg crossed lazily over the other, fingers idly tapping the armrest.

  The silence is deep, reverent, almost suffocating.

  —Bang!

  The silence shatters as the colossal obsidian double doors at the far end of the room shake violently beneath a thunderous impact.

  Malignor’s crimson eyes narrow. “Who dares to knock so rudely on my door?” he murmurs, his voice calm but edged with disdain.

  “Raaahhh!”

  From behind the sealed doors, a feral roar echoes—a guttural, thunder-laced scream that makes the very floor tremble.

  Malignor does not flinch. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, sensing the intruder’s Mana. Its aura crackles and surges with untamed fury.

  “A demon,” he notes. “Freshly born… and already arrogant enough to challenge me?”

  A cruel smile curls his lips.

  —Boom!

  The obsidian doors explode inward, swallowed by a blast of smoke and violent energy.

  —Sizzle!

  Bolts of lightning surge in from all directions, arcs of raw magic crackling like serpents through the air. Some streak straight for Malignor.

  He does not move.

  He merely lifts his hand, fingers splayed casually.

  —BOOM!

  The lightning strikes him directly. Smoke erupts in a flash of blinding light.

  When it clears, Malignor remains seated, untouched. A shimmering red barrier pulses in front of him, absorbing the remnants of the assault. He exhales, more amused than ever.

  “Well,” he muses, “you are hideous… but impressively bold.”

  From the dissipating haze, the creature emerges.

  It walks on all fours like a beast of the end times.

  A panther of ruin, stitched together from death and storm. Its body is a grotesque fusion of exposed bone and decaying flesh, parts of it scorched black and crackling with electrical current. What little muscle remains pulses with glowing, electric veins—alive with arcane voltage, twitching with unstable power.

  Its head is an elongated, malformed skull with a permanent, snarling grin carved into its jaw. Massive, serrated canines jut outward like broken blades. Where eyes should be, there are only empty sockets, haunting voids—but floating above its head is a halo of lightning, spinning slowly, humming with sentient malice.

  Black, jagged wings jut from its back, like shards of shattered obsidian laced with sparking tendrils of storm. Its tail thrashes behind it, ending in a twin-bladed axe head formed entirely from white, splintered bone.

  And beneath its ribcage—where a heart should be—faces flicker. Dozens of them. Screaming. Twisting. Trapped in torment, phasing in and out of view like dying stars.

  Malignor leans slightly forward, his grin widening. “Well then,” he whispers, voice like velvet laced with knives, “shall we begin?”

  “RAAHH!”

  The demon lets out a thunderous roar.

  Its entire body surges with lightning, arcs of energy crackling along its limbs as it lunges forward, charging toward Malignor at blistering speed, the floor beneath it cracking with each step.

  Malignor does not move. Still seated upon his throne, he watches with casual amusement, one hand propping up his chin.

  “RAAHHH!”

  In the blink of an eye, the demon closes the distance. It raises its massive claw, sparking with voltage, and swipes at Malignor.

  —BOOM!

  The impact detonates into an explosion. Smoke billows throughout the chamber, swallowing the throne in a swirling cloud of ash and electricity.

  But as the smoke thins, a figure emerges.

  Malignor sits calmly, still in place, one hand outstretched.

  He has caught the demon’s claw effortlessly.

  A smirk spreads across his face.

  “A newly formed demon… with [A] Rank Mana and physical strength,” he muses. “Impressive. Luo Minghao never fails to amuse me.”

  With a casual flick of his arm, Malignor shoves the beast backward.

  —CRASH!

  The demon flies across the room, skidding through the obsidian tiles before slamming into a far wall. Dust and stone scatter from the impact.

  The creature snarls, rising slowly.

  Its eye sockets begin to glow brighter, and the halo of lightning above its skull spins faster. Sparks intensify, surging across its body like living veins of power. It is releasing even more Mana now—its energy warping the air around it.

  Malignor grins wider. “Come, then. Attack me.”

  But before the demon can respond, something drops onto its back—hard.

  —BOOM!

  Another explosion rocks the room, smoke bursting outward once again.

  When the haze settles, the demon lies crumpled on the ground, twitching in defeat. Standing atop its back is a lone figure.

  Luo Minghao.

  He steps down from the demon’s back and kneels before the throne, head bowed low.

  “My deepest apologies, Lord Malignor. The experiment… got out of control.”

  Malignor chuckles. “Rise. There is no need to apologize. I am impressed.” He leans forward slightly. “Now, enlighten me, how did you manage to create this?”

  Luo stands, adjusting his coat. His voice remains calm and clinical.

  “I used the charred remains of the La Peste Noire members, those Rosa burned alive. Though their bodies were incinerated, their souls lingered. I took those fragments and merged them.” He glances back at the unconscious demon. “To create the demon, I combined those souls with a trace of demon essence. A weak one. But the results…”

  “Oh?” Malignor raises an eyebrow. “Weak essence? Then why is this one so strong?”

  “The souls I used came from corpses with [C+] Mana. When I combined them, the cumulative effect elevated its strength to [A] Rank,” Luo explains.

  Malignor nods thoughtfully. “Clever. But tell me, how do you control it?”

  Luo reaches into his robes and pulls out a glowing red stone.

  “This,” he says. “A control crystal I created. It stabilizes and commands the demon’s behavior. It also works on weaker units, those at [B] Rank or below. However, it is still a prototype. The core is unstable. That is why this one slipped out of control.”

  Malignor laughs, deep and pleased. “Excellent work, Luo Minghao. Since this demon is your creation, it is time you make it useful.”

  He stands from the throne, his aura crackling with silent dominance.

  “Go to the town in the E?eforte territory. Deliver the stone to Guzman. If his poisonings are not enough to break their spirits, let him use this instead.”

  “As you command, Lord Malignor,” Luo bows.

  “Go.”

  Luo turns, walking away without hesitation. The moment he reaches the demon, he grabs it by the tail and begins dragging it behind him, sparks trailing across the obsidian floor.

  Malignor sits back on his throne, folding his hands before him.

  His grin widens.

  “Let us see if you are ready, Dominic,” he whispers, his eyes gleaming crimson. “Let us see if you can survive this.”