"Lancelot," Mother said softly as she descended from the dais, placing a hand on my shoulder, her voice low enough for only me to hear. "This is your first step. Take it wisely."
"I will, Mother," I replied, meeting her eyes with a resolve that felt as steady as the ground beneath my feet.
She nodded, a subtle smile curving her lips before she turned to speak with an envoy from Ardenfall. Celia darted to my side, beaming with pride, and Edwin approached, offering a brief clap on my back that spoke more than words.
"Congratulations, Lance," Edwin said, his voice threaded with both genuine warmth and a hint of challenge. His golden eyes met mine, sharp and assessing, as we clasped hands. The pressure of his grip was firm, almost as if testing me, and I returned it with equal steadiness.
"Thank you, Edwin," I replied with a smile that mirrored his intensity. Beside me, I could feel Celia's energy sparking brighter, her excitement barely contained as she bounced on her toes.
Edwin turned to her, his expression softening. "And congratulations to you too, Celia," he said with a nod, a rare gentleness in his voice.
"Thanks, Edwin!" she chirped, her eyes wide with joy.
But Edwin's gaze flickered back to me, the playful glint in his eyes replaced with a more serious gleam. "You know what comes next, don't you?" he said, his voice low enough for only us to hear, a subtle thrill beneath his words.
I met his eyes and nodded, a faint smile tugging at my lips. The anticipation hummed between us like a taut bowstring.
The ritual—a rite of passage for any heir announced in such grand fashion. A trial not just of birthright, but of skill, conducted before the very eyes of those who would someday call me their lord. The banquet hall, resplendent with laughter and music, would soon fall silent, its gilded walls bearing witness as I proved my mettle. A public testament that I was not just an heir in name, but in power.
Celia's bright gaze darted between us, unaware yet that the air between Edwin and me had shifted, brimming with unspoken promises of rivalry and respect. The ritual loomed, and with it, a step deeper into the path I was destined to walk.
Of course, not every heir faced the ritual at the same age, nor did they confront challengers of the same caliber. Each test was tailored, a reflection of the expectations placed upon them. But as I cast my gaze around the hall, filled with nobles adorned in their finest silks and whispers of courtly intrigue, a single thought solidified within me:
'I will not lose, no matter who stands before me.'
There were few indeed who could match me in skill with the spear, and those few were not the kind who would deign to step forward for a duel on a night like this.
"You want to be the first one?" I asked, a half-smile playing at the corners of my mouth.
Edwin returned the look, a glimmer of determination in his golden eyes. "As the weakest person to duel you, I should," he admitted, the words spoken with the same blunt honesty that always defined him.
So, he knew. That acknowledgment stirred a sense of respect, though I masked it behind an air of nonchalance. I turned to catch my mother's eye across the room, where she stood, poised and regal, among the other high nobles. Her expression was unreadable at first, but then she gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Let's get this over with," I said, the edge of anticipation sharpening my tone.
Together, Edwin and I made our way to the dueling space adjacent to the banquet hall. It was a marvel, a place carved into the very essence of the estate, inscribed with intricate runes that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. These enchantments strengthened the floor and walls, ensuring that even the most ferocious clash would leave the structure unscathed. The air was thick with expectation, as the murmur of conversation dwindled to silence, all eyes turning to witness the rite that was about to unfold.
The dueling space hummed with latent magic, an unseen heartbeat in the stone beneath our feet. Edwin took his position opposite me, the playful gleam in his eyes now hardened into focus. This was no longer a moment for childhood games or friendly sparring. This was a proving ground, where blades would speak louder than any titles or words.
I readied my spear, feeling the familiar weight settle into my hands, a comforting extension of my will. Edwin mirrored my movement, his own stance resolute, the shadow of a smile betraying the thrill of the challenge.
"May your intent be as true as your strike," I murmured, the ancient words of dueling slipping from my tongue.
Edwin nodded, and as the final echoes of whispered blessings faded from the crowd, the duel began.
With a sharp intake of breath, Edwin surged forward, the glint of wind aura shimmering around him like the whisper of a storm. His sword arced downward, carrying the weight of his momentum and the amplified power of his aura. The strike was swift, calculated—worthy of the heir to Ardenfall.
But I was ready.
The spear, often overlooked in favor of flashier blades, held its own quiet nobility—a weapon born to command space and distance. And here, in the wide dueling ground etched with runes and expectation, that distance was mine to claim.
I stepped into the motion, the spear's polished haft an extension of my arm. Augmented by my own aura, the tip met Edwin's descending blade with a resonant clang. The force of the clash quivered through both weapons, but where his sword needed the arc to build power, my thrust came direct and unyielding. The interruption in his strike robbed it of momentum, forcing him back a half-step, his stance wavering.
I seized the opening, spear darting forward in a flurry of thrusts. Each strike was precise, relentless, like the ticking of an unforgiving clock. The tip glimmered in the torchlight as it sought the gaps in his defense, probing, testing. I didn't need to summon an aura blade—not yet. The cold steel alone sufficed to keep him on the retreat.
Edwin's eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and fierce determination flaring as he scrambled to regain footing. His sword swept out, deflecting one of my strikes with a sharp parry, but it was a defensive maneuver, a testament to how the spear controlled the dance.
What truly separated two warriors of the same mana stage? The casual observer might think it was strength alone, but the truth ran far deeper: it was how they shaped and wielded mana itself.
Mana was not a simple reservoir of energy. No, mana defied the laws of physics, bending to the will and essence of its wielder, acquiring unique properties that mirrored the spirit behind it. The difference lay in the subtle art of its formulation, the will embedded within its use. This was where the chasm opened between Edwin and me.
Edwin wielded mana with the skill and promise of a future master—talented, precise, and determined. But my soul held the knowledge of lifetimes spent at the edge of survival, where power was not just a tool but a lifeline. Though my body in this world was young and its strength a mere shadow of my peak, the way I shaped each particle of mana, weaving it into aura, was leagues beyond what a ten-year-old should be capable of. My understanding of mana went beyond instinct; it was etched into the marrow of my being, a legacy of battles fought under skies dark with ash.
Each movement I made carried that silent wisdom. Where Edwin's aura was raw and forceful, mine flowed with an intricate precision that spoke of experience and honed discipline. It was as if his strikes were the eager gusts of a storm, while mine were the calculated strokes of a seasoned artisan—small, profound differences that turned the tide of battle.
Because of this, I could press him without tapping into the true depths of Blue Stage mana. The battle remained balanced by choice, not necessity.
And yet, for all the disparity, I acknowledged that Edwin was extraordinary. For a ten-year-old to wield mana with such natural ease and force was rare indeed, a testament to his bloodline and training. In another place, another time, he might have been unmatched, his skill heralded as prodigious.
But this was not that place, and I was not an ordinary rival. Unfairly good, some might say, though fate had never promised fairness.
In that duel, under the gaze of noble eyes and the flickering light of enchanted torches, I could see the understanding dawn in Edwin's eyes. He felt the difference, sensed the gulf that should not have existed between us. And yet, to his credit, he did not falter.
At last, I decided to end the match decisively. My spear surged forward in a final thrust, imbued with precise intent and raw power. Edwin's blade met it, but the force was too great; his fingers faltered, and the sword slipped from his grasp, skittering across the stone floor with a metallic ring that seemed to echo longer than it should.
"It's my defeat," Edwin said, his voice steady and unyielding. There was no bitterness in his eyes, no shadow of disappointment. Instead, there was an unspoken promise, a glint of resolve that spoke volumes.
And rightly so. A loss against me was no shameful thing.
"Losing to me is no cause for regret," I replied, a smile breaking through the intensity of the moment. It was not a taunt but a simple truth—a recognition of the path we both walked, with all its trials and victories yet to come.
The murmurs from the spectators, like the rustle of leaves in an evening breeze, filled the silence between us. Edwin nodded once, stepping back with a look that already assessed his future matches, strategies unfurling in his mind. His spirit was unbroken, sharpened by the duel rather than dulled.
I took a breath, feeling the pulse of mana within me, the power that had carried me through yet another trial. My eyes drifted over the assembled nobility, some wide-eyed with awe, others tight-lipped with contemplation. This was only the beginning. The night was still young, and I awaited my next opponent with a calm anticipation.
After all, the path to mastery was rarely a solitary road, and tonight, under the vaulted ceilings and the glow of chandeliers, we were only just beginning.