Subtitle: Before the gathered dukes, a prince's pride would face a boy's resolve.
A boy, no older than nine, strode in—dressed in fine silks, his golden eyes burning with a fury far too mature for his age. His small voice sliced through the stunned silence of the arena like a blade drawn in challenge.
"Who is it," he demanded coldly, "that bullied my fiancée?"
A ripple of shock passed through the gathered crowd. Every gaze turned toward the doorway of the training hall, where the boy stood framed by the open archway. It was none other than Lucas Richard, the young prince—son of King Daymond and Queen Elizabeth. Two armored guards flanked him, their boots striking the stone floor in unison. Whispers spread quickly. Everyone knew Lucas—the same prince who had once fought Ray years ago and lost.
Ray's expression shifted slightly as realization dawned. So this is all a play, he thought, his sharp eyes flicking toward Rowena. The moment their gazes met, he understood. She wasn't the only one involved. Across the hall, Robert's calm mask wavered. He, too, sensed the deception—and perhaps even more. His eyes swept to Leonardo, then back to Rowena, and the puzzle began to form in his mind.
Leonardo must have arrived earlier with Lucas, scheming with Rowena to stage this entire scene. Robert's gaze drifted toward Alexander Ravenscroft, who wore a look of genuine surprise upon seeing Lucas. So, Alexander wasn't part of this… However, the subtle shift in Alexander's expression while looking at his daughter suggested that he knew something. Rowena, sensing her father's eyes upon her, feigned innocence and turned away, gliding toward her fiancé as though nothing were amiss.
The only person completely unaware of the undercurrents was Duke Edward. Taking a step forward, confusion knitting his brows, he asked, "Your Highness, why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be at the academy?"
Lucas, already prepared for the question, straightened proudly. "I was on my way to visit my mother when I received a message from my fiancée—saying someone had bullied her. So I came here to see who dares to harm Rowena."
The air grew heavy with restrained tension. The children accompanying the dukes hastily gave the royal salute, every movement stiff with nervousness—everyone except Ray.
One of the guards frowned deeply and barked, "Rude! Why aren't you saluting, Your Highness?"
The statement hung in the air. The dukes were exempt from such formalities by royal decree, but Ray was no noble—no title protected him. In Lucas's mind, that simple refusal was an unforgivable slight. How dare he not bow to me?
Ray chuckled softly, the sound sharp as flint. "I am a member of the Guild of Inventors," he said, his smile widening. "None of us salute the king, let alone a prince. Why don't you try touching me?"
His tone was calm, but his eyes glittered with challenge. The guards stiffened. They knew well the weight of those words. The Inventor Guild was a power in its own right—untouchable and fiercely loyal to its own. The Richard Kingdom's relationship with them was already fragile at best. None of the guards dared act rashly.
Lucas's jaw tightened, the cords in his neck standing out as he fought to control his temper. He turned toward Rowena, voice cold. "Who bullied you?"
Rowena pointed a trembling finger at Ray, fake tears welling in her eyes. Her voice quivered as she recounted how Ray had defeated her in combat.
Lucas's expression darkened. "How dare you hurt her like that?" he thundered.
Ray only laughed, the sound echoing through the hall. "If she's that weak, she shouldn't participate in a competition. She should go home and play with dolls."
Color drained from Rowena's face, replaced by furious red. Her mask of fragility cracked, and true anger flashed beneath. She turned to Lucas, her expression that of a wronged damsel seeking justice. Lucas's anger deepened at the sight, and he rounded on Ray. "I challenge you to a duel."
Ray shook his head slowly. "I'm not going to accept your challenge again. Last time I won, I got into trouble for it. And besides, you started cultivating a year earlier than me. I can't duel someone already at the sixth Qi stage."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Everyone knew of Lucas's loss to Ray—but not that Ray had been troubled afterward. Though he hadn't said it directly, his words painted their own picture. Lucas stiffened. The truth he wished buried now floated dangerously close to the surface.
Grinding his teeth, Lucas ignored the jab. "Then I'll reduce my cultivation to match Atlas's level. You defeated Atlas in the finals, didn't you? There's a formation here that can suppress one's cultivation to any desired stage—for a fair fight."
Ray smirked. "Fair? If it's really about fairness, then make it first Qi stage—to match mine. And tell me, how will you guarantee I won't get into trouble afterward?" His gaze flicked toward Duke Leonardo Montclair, Lucas's grandfather, before returning to the prince.
Lucas's lips curved into a tight smile. "Fine. First Qi stage it is. The referee can adjust the formation." Then, glancing at his grandfather, he added pointedly, "And as for Grandfather—"
Leonardo snorted, his deep voice rumbling through the air. "In front of your father and the other dukes, do you really think I'd dare cause trouble?"
He gave no promises, but the implication was enough. Ray glanced toward his father. Robert met his eyes and gave a firm nod. Taking a slow breath, Ray nodded back and stepped toward the stage.
The murmurs in the hall quieted. Lucas ascended the platform, drawing a royal sword from his waist—the steel gleaming under the arena lights, polished to a mirror shine. Ray followed, his grip tightening on his own sword. The hum of the suppressing formation filled the air, and both boys' auras dimmed to the same level.
They faced each other, two figures bound by history, pride, and tension thick enough to cut.
The referee raised a hand.
"Begin!"
The shout cracked like thunder.
Ray and Lucas moved—blades flashing, eyes locked, the first clash of steel ringing through the charged air.