The Proving Circle flared to life, runes searing blood red as the first wave emerged—lizardmen, scales glistening with venom, their serrated blades dripping poison that smoked against the arena's stone. William stepped forward, Stormrend unsheathed. The crowd hushed. He moved like the lightning he commanded: precise, relentless. A blade grazed his arm, the toxin hissing against his skin, but his magic surged, incinerating the venom before it could spread. Ira's touch, he noted coolly, recognizing the poison's emerald sheen. Stormrend arced, cleaving through scaled flesh, leaving charred husks in its wake. The lizards fell, their final hisses drowned by thunder.
As the last lizardman crumpled, the gates groaned open again. Orcs—towering, ravenous, eyes bloodshot and jaws frothing—charged. Their frenzy reeked of Jacob's meddling; their hunger was too sharp, too orchestrated. William sidestepped a spiked club, pivoting as Stormrend's edge sliced tendons. He let their momentum betray them, luring them into collisions, their brute strength turned against themselves. Lightning lanced from his free hand, frying three mid-leap. The crowd roared, but Jacob's snarl cut through the noise. William beheaded the last orc in a single swing. Let the prince choke on his own spite, he thought, calm as the arena's dust settled.
The third wave came not with frenzy, but dread—ogres, hulking and silent, their clubs studded with steel. No sabotage here, only raw power. William smiled faintly. He gripped Stormrend. The ogres swung, crushing stone where he'd stood moments before. He danced between strikes, analyzing patterns: the twitch of a wrist, the shift of weight. When the largest ogre overreached, he struck—not with lightning, but precision. The blade slid between ribs, piercing the heart. Lightning followed, a controlled burst that charred the beast from within. The others fell to misdirection: feints, shattered kneecaps, final bolts to the skull. As the last ogre collapsed, William stood untouched, his breath steady, Stormrend's hilt still cool in his grip.
The reactions came in waves. Leofric's nod was blade-sharp, approval veiled as expectation. Thalric muttered curses, kicking his seat. Aurelia's fingers drummed her armrest, dissecting every move. Jacob spat into the sand, fire writhing at his fingertips. Princess Liena's pendant glowed faintly, her healing magic brushing the arena like a sigh.
William sheathed his sword, the echoes of battle fading.
The second round began without fanfare. The Proving Circle's runes shifted from blood-red to glacial blue as the first mage stepped forward—a Rank 2 Mage, a Journeyman, robes embroidered with rudimentary fire glyphs. He hurled crackling orbs of flame, their trajectories sluggish, predictable. William barely unsheathed Stormrend. A flick of his wrist, and lightning speared through the spells, scattering embers. The Journeyman faltered, and William closed the distance in a blur, the flat of his blade striking the mage's temple. The man crumpled. Wasted potential, William thought, noting the fear in the boy's eyes. Too reliant on theatrics, not instinct.
The next opponent emerged—a Rank 3 Mage, an Elemental Savant, her robes rippling with storm-gray silk. She levitated on a stone platform , wind whipping debris into a cyclone. "You cannot outrun the sky," she sneered, hurling ice shards sharp as daggers. William ducked, weaved, but did not strike. He studied her rhythm: the slight dip of her wrist before each volley, the way her magic pulsed in tandem with her breath. When she gathered lightning of her own, he acted. Stormrend flashed, not at her, but at the ground. The bolt fractured the stone beneath her, disrupting her levitation. She plummeted, and his blade halted a hair's breadth from her throat. "The sky bows to storms," he said quietly. She yielded, trembling.
The final mage, a Rank 4 mage, an Archmage, wore a cloak stitched with constellations. He conjured a golem of molten rock, its fists crashing like meteors. William sidestepped, analyzing. The golem's core pulsed with magma—its weakness. He feinted left, drawing the creature's strike, then channeled lightning into a single, surgical thrust. The bolt pierced the core, crystallizing the magma. The golem shattered. The Archmage staggered, pride crumbling faster than his creation. William sheathed Stormrend, unruffled. Power without purpose, he mused. A child playing god.
Silence gripped the arena. Emperor Robert rose, his voice a blade of false warmth. "What Rank of Magic Knight do you claim, boy?"
William met his gaze. "Rank 4. Warlord."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Leofric's jaw tightened—approval or irritation, none could tell. Jacob's fire magic flickered, his sneer faltering. Aurelia's ice-blue eyes narrowed, recalculating. A Magic Knight of Rank 4 at twenty-two? Even Arutoria Duskborn stiffened, her moonweaver petals curling inward.
The Archmage spat blood, clutching his shattered staff. "A Warlord? At your age? Lies!"
William turned, lightning dancing harmlessly across his fingertips. "Rank is earned, not aged into."
Princess Liena's pendant glowed softly, her gaze lingering on the scorch marks William left behind. Rowena's sketchbook trembled in her lap, her familiars writhing as they hissed: "The storm wears a crown. The storm lies."
William flexed his hand, Stormrend's hilt cool against his palm. Let them doubt, he thought. Let them wonder what else I hide.
The Proving Circle's runes darkened to pitch-black, the air thick with ozone as Robert's voice boomed. "A Warlord deserves worthy opponents. Let the third round begin."
The first challenger strode forward—a Rank 3 Magic Knight, a Rune Sentinel, his armor etched with glowing sigils. Twin axes crackled with frost magic. William tilted his head, unimpressed. The Sentinel lunged, ice shards erupting in his wake. William sidestepped, Stormrend's blade tracing a lightning arc that shattered the runes on the man's chestplate. The Sentinel froze mid-swing, magic fizzling. "Runes without resolve," William said, sheathing his sword as the man collapsed.
The second opponent emerged—a Rank 4 Magic Knight, a Warlord, her greatsword wreathed in molten flame. She swung with the precision of a veteran, fire lashing like a whip. William parried, lightning meeting inferno. The crowd roared as flames reflected in his crimson eyes. He feinted left, then pivoted, Stormrend's pommel striking her temple. She crumpled, her sword clattering. "Power without patience," he murmured, turning before she hit the ground.
The arena fell silent as the final challenger ascended—a Rank 5 Magic Knight, a High Warlord, his armor scarred from a hundred battles, a warhammer crackling with earth and lightning. "You're a child playing with storms," the man growled. "I'll break you."
William's calm cracked. The High Warlord's strikes were relentless, each blow shaking the arena. Stormrend's lightning sputtered against the warhammer's raw force. William staggered, blood trickling from his lips. The High Warlord laughed, slamming his hammer down. William barely dodged, the shockwave throwing him to the edge of the circle.
Get up, Leofric's voice hissed in his mind. Von Einsberns do not yield.
William's vision blurred. Then—a surge. His hair bled from jet-black to crimson, his red pupils swallowed by voids of black. A smile, sharp and unhinged, split his face. Lightning erupted—not from the sky, but from him. The arena shook, dust swallowing the combatants.
When it cleared, William stood alone, hair black again, eyes their usual crimson. The High Warlord lay unconscious, his hammer split in two.
The crowd erupted. "William! William! William!"
Leofric stood rigid at the edge of the von Einsbern balcony, his knuckles pale against the railing, pride and suspicion warring in his gaze. Jacob shattered his armrest, flames licking his fists as he glared at the cheering masses. Beside him, Princess Liena's pendant glowed blue, her healing magic instinctively reaching across the arena, brushing William's hidden wounds like a whispered prayer.
Aurelia's ice dagger froze mid-formation in her palm, her sharp eyes tracing the scorch marks on the High Warlord's armor. How did he scar steel like that?
Rowena's sketchbook trembled in her lap, her familiars clawing at the pages, their translucent forms fraying as they screamed: "Liar! Thief! The storm is not yours!"
William bowed, his face a mask of calm. But deep in his veins, the lightning purred.
The emperor's applause cut through the chaos, slow and deliberate. "A… remarkable display," Robert said, his golden gaze sharp enough to flay flesh.
As the cheers faded to murmurs, William turned away, the weight of a thousand eyes clinging to his back. Beyond the arena, stormclouds gathered—not of his making, but of the empire's hunger.