As Joe screams his name, the stadium literally shakes. Thirty thousand people rise as one, a tidal wave of sound that crashes against the Royal Booth.
Markus stands in the center of the arena, the silver spotlight catching the sharp lines of his face. He doesn't jump, he doesn't cheer, and he doesn't boast. He stood still, basking in the glory he had earned over the past week.
In the booth, Princess Rosalind is the first to clap, her small hands sparking the applause that soon spreads to the Emperor himself.
Deep within the command center of Illinois City, the air in the officer's mess was thick with the scent of coffee and high-grade mana-fuel. General Braum and Major Celeste stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their commanders, their eyes glued to the flickering tactical screens. When Markus delivered the final, surgical strike, the room didn't just cheer—it erupted.
Though Connor was the official poster boy for the Military's prestige, the soldiers in this room saw Markus as one of their own. Braum's deep, guttural laugh shook the table as Celeste offered a sharp, triumphant salute to the screen. For them, this wasn't just a victory for the Academy; it was a win for the boy they had watched grow into a monster.
'Such a shame my brother was born in the same year as a monster like Markus,' Celeste thought to herself.
At the Campeón, the usual bustle of service was replaced by a high-stakes, communal fervor. The staff—who had come to view Markus not as a patron, but as one of their own—gathered around the main screens for a private live viewing.
The kitchen was a symphony of celebration; they had prepared a sprawling, decadent feast of roasted meats, artisanal breads, and spiced wines to honor the occasion. As the final blow landed, the dining hall erupted in a roar that rivaled the arena's crowd.
In that moment, the Campeón wasn't just a restaurant; it was the jubilant heart of the Blackwell faction, celebrating the boy who had become their champion.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE STAGE IS NO LONGER MINE!" Joe shouted, sweeping his arm toward the Royal Tier as the stadium lights converged into a single, blinding path of gold.
"TO PERSONALLY COMMEND THE UNPARALLELED BATTLES WE HAVE WITNESSED THIS WEEK, WE ARE GRACED BY THE PRESENCE OF THE SHIELD OF THE REALM HIMSELF. STAND TALL FOR THE PRESENTATION OF AWARDS BY HIS MAJESTY, THE EMPEROR!"
With a stride that commanded the very air to go still, Valerian moved across the arena floor, a living manifestation of Imperial might.
Before him, the three champions occupied the podium like young gods in the making. Jisoo stood with the vibrant energy of the Third-year crown, Clark with the seasoned grit of the second, and Markus—the Iron Heir—stood at the center, his spatial presence humming in silent greeting to the Emperor.
Together, they were a terrifying display of the Academy's reach, three apex predators acknowledging the only man in the world who stood above them.
"Unique, disciplined, and lethal," the Emperor remarked, looking Jisoo in the eye. "Your battles this week were a masterclass in frequency manipulation.
You aren't just winning matches, Jisoo; you are defining a new standard for what it means to be an Awakener. Wear this as a testament to your legacy." He leaned forward, securing the gold medal over her heart. The engraving sparkled with Imperial mana, marking her forever as:
[Jisoo, Champion, Third-Year]
"Environmental mastery is the hallmark of a true strategist," Valerian remarked, his voice steady and resonant. "You don't just fight with mana, Clark; you reshape the world to suit your needs. To weaponize the very frequency of the wind... that is a rare gift. The frontiers of the Scouting Legion would be far safer with a talent like yours at the helm." As the Emperor secured the gold medal, the mana-screens flickered, broadcasting his new title to the millions:
[Clark, Champion, Second-Year]
"Absolute in space, and absolute in will," Valerian remarked, a thin, knowing smile playing on his lips. "To sweep both the team and individual crowns is a feat of legend, Markus. You've shown the Empire that the Blackwell name is not just a relic of history, but the blueprint for its future."
The Emperor leaned in closer, his hand grounding Markus with a heavy pat on the shoulder. "The world is growing restless, and my shoulders are not as young as they once were. I expect you to be ready when the time comes to share the weight of this realm."
He secured the gold medal over Markus's heart, the metal humming with the reflected power of two of the strongest auras in Valeria.
[Markus, Champion, First-Year]
The stadium lights shifted, converging on the podium to capture a moment that would be etched into the annals of Valerian history. The Emperor stood tall, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if looking past the cameras and into the centuries to come.
Below him, the three champions stood at the peak of their youthful power, their gold medals catching the light like miniature suns.
It was a terrifyingly beautiful image: the established might of the throne standing in silent endorsement of the three most dangerous teenagers in the world. The rhythmic click-hiss of the professional photographers was the only sound in the arena, documenting the exact second the status quo of the Empire shifted forever.
The Imperial party exited the sand, leaving a vacuum of power that was immediately filled by a low, distorted hum of a guitar that vibrated in the very marrow of the spectators.
"THANK YOU, VALERIA!" Joe's scream was nearly drowned out by the rising tide of the crowd.
"You've seen the power of the soul, now feel the power of the sound! Performing the anthem of our new era—link your mana and raise your voices for LINKIN PARK! CHESTER, THE STAGE IS YOURS!"
The electric tension of the finals didn't dissipate; it transformed. As the first haunting piano notes of What I've Done echoed through the rafters, a hush fell over the Thirty thousand spectators.
Then, the guitars kicked in—a wall of sound that crashed against the stadium walls like a physical force. Chester's voice pierced the air, raw and soul-baring, singing of mercy and the washing away of past mistakes.
It was a strange, beautiful juxtaposition: the "voice of a generation" crying out for a clean slate while the smell of ozone and scorched mana still lingered on the floor.
**
Markus had just stepped into the shadow of the Royal Booth when he was ambushed. Rosanne didn't care about the Emperor's lingering aura or the presence of the high-ranking generals; she saw only the gold. She lunged, hanging off Markus's arm as she tugged at the ribbon.
"MINE! Let me see the prize!" She cradled the gold medal in her palms like a dragon guarding a hoard, her lower lip pouting in a dramatic, adorable display of jealousy.
"No fair! Why is yours so much bigger than the practice ones? Waaaa, Markus! I'm going to win ten of these when it's my turn!"
With a mischievous glint in her eyes, Rosanne expertly unpinned the gold from Markus's chest and secured it to her own silk dress. She struck a series of dramatic, victory-ready poses, her sleek wrist-link flashing as the holographic camera captured every angle. With a few rapid taps on the interface, she uploaded the shots to the Imperial Network.
The caption was a masterpiece of sibling cheekiness: [First-Year, Champion, Rosanne Vance]. Within seconds, the notification light on her watch began to pulse—a digital wildfire of likes and confused comments from the Academy's elite.
Isolde and Sloane didn't offer a formal salute or a nod of approval; they simply folded him into a warm, suffocating embrace that grounded him back to reality.
Sloane's large hand buried itself in Markus's hair, messing up the perfect style he had maintained throughout the supersonic brawl. "That was a hell of a show, Markus," Sloane murmured, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his stern features.
Isolde squeezed him tighter, her voice a soothing balm after the roar of the stadium. "You've carried the weight of our name, my dear. We couldn't be prouder."