The ride back to Aethelburg was a silent, grim pilgrimage. We were no longer fleeing a trap; we were riding into its jaws, armed with a plan so audacious it bordered on insanity. The open road, which had seemed like a path to freedom only days before, now felt like the long, final walk to the gallows. The weight of our decision settled upon us, a heavy, suffocating blanket of purpose and dread.
The flicker of emerald green I had seen on the ridge—Prince Alaric—was a ghost that haunted our journey. Every rustle of leaves, every shadow that moved at the edge of our vision, felt like his watchful, predatory gaze.
"He is playing a different game," Elizabeth said on the second night of our journey, her voice a low murmur as we sat around a carefully concealed campfire. "My father is a chess master, moving his pieces to control the board. The demon general is a berserker, trying to smash the board to pieces. Alaric... he is like a player who has hacked the game to see all the hidden mechanics, and he finds the struggles of the other players quaintly amusing. He is more dangerous than both of them combined."
"He's a variable we can't predict," I agreed, staring into the flames. The silence in my head was a raw, open wound. How I longed for ARIA's cold, hard probability analysis of the Prince. Probability of Alaric's intervention in the tournament: 87.4%. Probability of his motives being beneficial to the host: 3.2%. The phantom text was a ghost on the edge of my thoughts.
"Then we must become so unpredictable ourselves that his predictions become useless," Elizabeth concluded, her eyes hardening with a familiar, strategic fire.
Our training resumed with a new, desperate intensity. The carriage rides became grueling seminars in political warfare. Elizabeth would grill me relentlessly on the noble houses who would be in attendance at the tournament.
"Lord Tiberius of House Vance," she would snap. "His house is sworn to the Traditionalists, but his youngest daughter suffers from a rare magical ailment. The Princess's healing ability is the only known cure. He is a man torn between political allegiance and fatherly devotion. He is a potential weak point in their faction."
"Sir Gareth of the Iron Gryphons," she'd continue, not giving me a moment's rest. "A rival guild to Hemlock's Silver Gryphons. He is proud, arrogant, and sees your sudden fame as an insult to 'true' adventurers who earned their reputation. He will likely challenge you publicly. Do not engage him in a battle of pride; make him look foolish."
Luna, meanwhile, became a master of subtle observation. She would practice her archery for hours when we made camp, her movements becoming fluid and confident. But her real training was in awareness.
"The horses are restless, my lord," her mental voice would whisper to me while Elizabeth and I were deep in strategy. "They smell a wolf pack a quarter-league to the east. It is not a threat to us, but it tells us the wind is changing."
Her senses, linked to mine, were becoming an early-warning system, a biological radar that saw and felt the world in a way I never could.
My own training was internal, a silent war fought in the depths of my own mind. Without ARIA to act as my compiler, I had to learn to write my own code. I spent hours meditating, my hand resting on her book, trying to feel the flow of my Geode Mana Core, trying to understand its new, earthy syntax. I practiced small, subtle acts of 'Terraforming.' I would command a single root to snake out from a tree and trip a scurrying rabbit. I would command the pebbles in a stream to arrange themselves into a perfect circle. They were parlor tricks, as the Duke would say, but they were exercises in control. I was learning to direct the river instead of just unleashing the flood.
When we finally saw the spires of Aethelburg again, the city felt different. We were not returning as fugitives or political pawns. We were returning as contenders.
Our arrival caused a sensation. The news of the reinstated Grand Tournament had spread like wildfire, and my name was on everyone's lips. The Champion Slayer, the Stone Bulwark, the boy-lord who had defied a Duke and won. As our modest carriage passed through the city gates, the crowds did not just cheer; they chanted.
"Silverstein! Silverstein! Stone Bulwark!"
It was a heady, terrifying sound. I was no longer just a person. I was a symbol. A symbol of defiance, of new power, of a possible future.
We bypassed Crimson Keep entirely, a public and deliberate snub to the Duke, and proceeded directly to our new residence in the West Wing of the palace. It had been transformed. Under Luna's quiet and surprisingly ruthless direction, the palace staff had turned the dusty, forgotten wing into a functioning, fortified noble estate. Banners bearing the Silverstein gryphon—newly made and gleaming—hung from the walls. Guards loyal to the Princess, not the Duke, stood sentinel at our doors. It was a true seat of power.
The day of the tournament's opening ceremony arrived, and the entire capital was buzzing with an energy that was part festival, part prelude to war. The Grand Arena, which had been the site of my duel, was now decorated with the banners of every noble house in the kingdom. It was a sea of color, a visual representation of the kingdom's fractured power structure.
We took our seats in a specially designated box, not with the Duke's faction, but in a place of honor near the Royal Family. It was another clear signal from the King.
The ceremony began with a grand parade of champions. One by one, the primary contenders for the various divisions were introduced to the roaring crowd.
"From the northern mountains, representing the honor of the Traditionalist houses, Sir Gideon, the Griffinheart!" the herald announced. A knight in gleaming, golden plate armor, his shield emblazoned with a snarling griffin, strode into the arena. He was the very picture of a noble, honorable champion. He bowed deeply to the King, a man of duty and tradition.
"From the Imperial Mage's Guild, the Master of the Crimson Flame, Lord Ignis!" A tall, arrogant man in flamboyant red robes swaggered into the arena. He conjured a ball of fire in his hand and launched it into the sky, where it exploded like a firework, drawing a massive cheer from the crowd. He was a showman, and he would be Elizabeth's primary rival in the mage's division.
More champions were introduced. A hulking barbarian from the wildlands, a mysterious, masked figure known only as the 'Shadow of the Vale' who seemed to melt in and out of the darkness, and a dozen other powerful warriors and mages.
Then came the moment that made the entire arena hold its breath.
"And representing the kingdom of Eldoria, as a gesture of goodwill and sportsmanship, His Royal Highness, Prince Alaric!"
Alaric strode into the arena, and the roar of the crowd was deafening, especially from the noble ladies. He was back in his role as the perfect, charming prince, his emerald eyes twinkling, his golden hair gleaming in the sun. He waved to the crowd, a picture of effortless charisma. But his eyes, when they flickered toward our box, held a cold, reptilian intelligence. He was not here for sportsmanship. He was here to play.
"He entered himself into the open combat division," Elizabeth murmured, her voice tight with tension. "He is deliberately placing himself on a collision course with you."
The herald then announced the final contenders, the ones who had caused the most stir.
"Representing the resurgent House Silverstein... Lady Elizabeth von Crimson will compete in the Arcane Arts Division!"
A wave of shocked murmurs went through the noble boxes. A high-born lady, the daughter of a Duke, competing like a common battle-mage? It was a scandal. It was an insult to her station. And it was a brilliant declaration of independence. Elizabeth stood and gave a cool, elegant nod to the crowd, her face a mask of serene confidence.
"And competing in the Master Archer's Division... representing the household of the Lord Protector... the Lady Luna!"
Another wave of shock, this one even greater. A handmaiden? An elf? Competing in a royal tournament? It was unheard of. Luna stood, her face pale but her back straight, and gave a simple, dignified bow. She was no longer just a servant. She was a champion for the common folk, a symbol that skill mattered more than birth.
"And finally," the herald's voice boomed, reaching a crescendo, "entering the Grand Melee, the test of true champions... the hero of Aethelburg, the Champion Slayer, the Lord Protector of the Realm... Lord Kazuki von Silverstein!"
The roar that greeted my name was a physical force, a wave of pure, unadulterated adoration from the common folk and a complex mixture of fear, respect, and hatred from the nobles. I stood and gave a simple wave, my face a calm mask.
The stage was set. The players were in place.
The King then rose to deliver the final, explosive proclamation. "Let it be known!" his voice echoed, magically amplified. "This tournament is more than a test of skill! It is a test of worth! The champion who emerges victorious from the Grand Melee will be granted not just gold and glory, but a singular honor. They will be given a permanent seat on my Royal Council, and they will be formally recognized by the Crown as the prime suitor for the hand of my daughter, Princess Seraphina!"
The arena exploded.
It was no longer just a tournament. It was a proxy war for the throne. The winner would not just be a champion; they would be the most powerful political figure in the kingdom, with a direct path to becoming the next king.
The Duke had set a trap to humiliate me, and the King, in his desperate attempt to empower me, had turned it into a battle royale for the fate of the entire nation.
The drawing of the lots for the first round of the Grand Melee was a tense affair. A massive board was brought into the center of the arena, displaying the names of the thirty-two combatants. A royal mage waved his hands, and glowing runes began to swirl over the board, pairing up the fighters for the first round of single combat.
Prince Alaric was paired against a minor knight from the borderlands. A guaranteed, easy victory for him. Sir Gideon the Griffinheart was paired against the hulking barbarian. A classic matchup of skill versus brute force.
Then, my name lit up on the board. The runes swirled, searching for my opponent. The entire arena held its breath. Who would be the first to test the monster?
The runes settled on a name.
Marcus von Adler.
A wave of murmurs went through the noble sections. I saw Elizabeth go rigid beside me.
"Marcus..." she whispered, her voice filled with a sudden, cold dread.
"My lord," Luna's thought was a sharp sting of alarm. "The name... I have heard it in the servants' whispers. The House of Adler were once the Silversteins' most loyal bannermen. Before your family's fall."
The memories, the cold, hard data from the original Kazuki's life, surfaced in my mind. Marcus. A boy with sandy hair and a perpetual sneer. A boy who had grown up in my shadow, living on my family's lands. We had played together as children. He had been my rival, my friend... and then, my bitterest enemy. When my family's fortunes turned, his family had been the first to abandon us, swearing fealty to Duke Crimson in exchange for land and titles. They had profited from our ruin.
I looked across the arena, to the section where the combatants were gathered. A young man with sandy hair and cold, hateful eyes was staring directly at me. He was clad in black and crimson armor, the colors of the Duke. He gave me a slow, cruel smile and drew a finger across his throat.
This was not a random drawing. This was a message from the Duke. He had not chosen a brute or a champion to face me first. He had chosen my past. He had chosen a wound that was personal, deep, and festering.
The herald's voice boomed out, announcing the first match of the tournament.
"In this ring, the challenger, representing the honor of House Adler... Sir Marcus von Adler!"
The crowd gave a polite, scattered applause.
"And his opponent," the herald continued, his voice rising with theatrical excitement, "the hero of our city, the man who defeated a champion with cunning and a power not seen in a millennium... the Lord Protector, Kazuki von Silverstein!"
The roar from the crowd was deafening.
I stood up, my face a calm, unreadable mask. I walked down from the royal box and into the arena, the sand crunching under my boots. The roar of the crowd, the weight of a thousand expectations, the political machinations... it all faded away.
There was only me, the sand, and the boy across from me. The boy who had been my friend, and who now looked at me with the pure, uncomplicated hatred of a man who believes his entire life has been stolen.
He drew his sword, a fine, well-made blade that gleamed in the sun. "I've been waiting for this day for a long time, Lord Silverstein," he spat, his voice filled with a venomous bitterness. "The day I finally get to put you in the dirt where you belong."
A notification, the first one I had seen for an opponent, flickered into existence in my vision. It was different from the others. It was tinged with a faint, sickly red.
[Rival Detected: Marcus von Adler - Level 31 Vengeful Knight][Title: The Betrayer, The Usurper's Son][System User Detected!][System Type: Corrupted (Berserker Class)][Notes: Subject possesses a fragmented, low-tier System focused on enhancing physical combat abilities through rage. He is a pawn of the Duke, but his hatred for you is genuine and all-consuming. He will fight to the death.]
My blood went cold.
A System user.
They were not all friendly.