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He looked at the referee.

Seeing that, the referee looked at both contestants and seeing them nod, he raised the whistle.

–WHISTLE!

As the whistle echoed through the arena, the barbarian lunged forward, releasing a long, exasperated huff and muttering under his breath, "Cocky little bastard…" His words trailed off, replaced by a guttural growl as he charged, each thunderous step seeming to shake the ground beneath him.

Lucavion, unfazed, simply waited, his body language loose and relaxed. The barbarian\'s massive fists swung forward with raw, brute force, aiming to crush him with sheer weight and power. Yet Lucavion only shifted subtly to the side, the edge of the barbarian\'s knuckles grazing past his shoulder with a hair\'s breadth to spare.

–SWOOSH!

The crowd gasped, and Valeria found herself leaning forward, her eyes narrowing as she focused on every detail. Lucavion\'s movements were almost languid as if he were dancing around a clumsy giant rather than facing a deadly opponent.

The barbarian, fueled by frustration, swung again, his muscles rippling with the effort. This time, he came at Lucavion with a sweeping hook, aiming to take him down by the ribs. But Lucavion sidestepped a quick, effortless pivot, causing the barbarian to stumble forward from the force of his own swing.

"Getting tired already?" Lucavion\'s voice held that familiar mocking tone, casual as if they were chatting over drinks instead of locked in combat.

The barbarian\'s face twisted with rage, veins bulging as he let out a snarl. "Stand still, coward!"

Valeria\'s lips tightened in a grim line, her gaze never wavering from Lucavion.

"Oh….is that what you want? Then, don\'t blame me for being impolite."

Finally, Lucavion lifted his blade, holding it at a slight angle, almost inviting the barbarian to charge again. His opponent growled in response, accepting the unspoken challenge, and barreled forward with all his strength, fists raised high to slam down on him.

Just as the barbarian\'s fists came down, Lucavion moved, stepping into the space within his opponent\'s reach, his sword slicing upward in one fluid, precise arc.

SWOOSH!

There was a flash of steel, and the barbarian froze, a thin line of blood appearing across his chest.

The crowd hushed, a ripple of shock spreading through the spectators.

"Yield?" Lucavion\'s voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the cold edge in his tone left no room for negotiation.

The barbarian staggered, his breath ragged, the realization dawning in his eyes.

He hadn\'t even landed a single hit, and just one strike from his opponent alone was enough to bring him down to his knees.

His vision was even getting blurry, and he felt like he was having a hard time standing. Something inside his body was boiling.

That cut just now, he knew.

\'I won\'t be able to stand.\'

That the fight ended.

In a single move.

"Yield," he rasped, his pride damaged as he stepped back, holding a hand to his wound.

Lucavion gave a satisfied nod, lowering his sword with a relaxed smile as if this had been nothing more than a casual bout.

Yet his gaze still lingered on the barbarian, appraising him with a quiet, almost begrudging respect. "Not bad," he remarked, his tone softer now, lacking the mockery from moments before. "For an alley fighter like you, your performance was... admirable. You\'re no suckling lamb."

The barbarian\'s eyes widened, confusion and something else flickering across his face.

"You have instinct," Lucavion continued, sheathing his sword with a slow, deliberate movement. "The kind that comes only from sharpening yourself on the edge of danger, fight after fight. It\'s rare to see that in this polished arena."

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Stay alive. Keep that awareness of yours keen. Next time, trust it. Know when a fight is lost before it costs you more than a scar."

The barbarian, still clutching his wound, looked up at Lucavion, his expression somewhere between gratitude and shock. It was as if he had been stripped bare of his rage, forced to see his defeat as something other than humiliation.

"Let this be an experience for you," Lucavion added, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. "Learn from it, and maybe… next time, you will win, who knows?"

He didn\'t wait for a response, turning with his usual lazy grace and walking away, leaving the barbarian to process the moment.

Valeria grimaced, watching Lucavion stroll away as if he\'d just finished a warm-up exercise rather than an arena match. His smugness grated on her, but as she recalled that single, precise slash, she found herself replaying the movement in her mind.

\'Could I have blocked that?\'

she wondered, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. She put herself in the barbarian\'s place, visualizing the blade flashing toward her, its speed and angle almost impossible to anticipate until it was too late. Even if she could have moved fast enough, she realized, the impact would likely have staggered her, throwing her balance just enough to leave her open to a follow-up attack.

Her hand tightened instinctively around the hilt of her own sword. \'

That wasn\'t just some showy attack… it was calculated. Exact. As if he\'d been measuring that man\'s every weakness the entire time.\'

Despite herself, Valeria felt a reluctant admiration for the precision Lucavion had displayed. That strike wasn\'t born of brute strength or overwhelming mana but pure, refined skill. She could imagine the force it would take to parry such a blow effectively, to counter it without missing a beat.

\'It would\'ve taken everything I had,\'

she admitted to herself, almost begrudgingly.

\'I\'d have blocked it, maybe even stayed standing… but it would\'ve cost me ground. And against him, that\'s all he\'d need.\'

The crowd began to murmur in awe as the barbarian, still clutching his wound, was led off the stage. Valeria\'s gaze remained fixed on Lucavion\'s retreating form, her jaw tightening. She hated that he made it look so effortless, that his every move seemed calculated without a hint of strain. But more than that, she hated the flicker of doubt that crept into her mind—the question of whether, in that single exchange, she would have fared any better than the barbarian.

*********

As the clashes continued across the arena floor, the lounge reserved for the Marquis grew tense, though none of the tension seemed to affect Marquis Aldrich Ventor himself.

He sat with a look of serene interest, his gaze sweeping over the rings below where fighters clashed, each bout adding to the mounting energy of the tournament.

The lounge, adorned with House Ventor\'s colors and symbols, exuded an air of authority and wealth, befitting the Marquis\' reputation as a powerful figure in the realm.

Seated on one side of the Marquis was a woman dressed in a robe of deep blue and golden accents, a distinguished mark of the Cloud Heavens Sect.

Her presence was imposing yet restrained, her gaze sharp as she observed the battles below. She was Elder Xue of the Cloud Heavens Sect, a 6-star martial artist renowned for her mastery over wind techniques and ethereal combat.

She sat with a composed demeanor, though her fingers tapped rhythmically on the arm of her chair, betraying a barely-contained intensity.

On the other side, a man clad in reddish-grey robes sat silently, his expression stern and inscrutable.

This was Elder Kael of the Silver Flame Sect, another 6-star martial artist known for his ferocity and command over explosive fire techniques.

His robe bore the markings of his sect, a subtle flame design that seemed to smolder even in the dim light of the lounge. Though he maintained an outward calm, his jaw was set, and his eyes narrowed as he watched the tournament with a keen focus.

The atmosphere was undeniably charged. The rivalry between the two elders was evident even in their silence. They kept their gazes forward, ignoring one another, each aware of the other\'s presence yet unwilling to acknowledge it.

The ongoing tournament served as an implicit battleground, a stage for the sects\' pride, and each victory below seemed to raise the stakes between them.

But amid the barely suppressed tension between the two sect elders, the Marquis remained the epitome of calm.

Aldrich Ventor sipped his wine leisurely, his face revealing little beyond a quiet satisfaction as he observed the tournament he had so meticulously organized.

His composure was a reminder to the elders seated nearby that, while powerful, neither of their sects held sway over Andelheim or its ruler.

House Ventor\'s influence and strength were renowned, and his forces were well-trained, more than capable of rivaling each of their sects. It was this reputation that kept the two elders in check, both aware that the Marquis could afford to host their rivalry yet did not fear either sect\'s power.

Marquis Ventor leaned forward slightly, watching a match between a Cloud Heavens disciple and a Silver Flame warrior unfold. The fighters were young, full of spirit, each move embodying the fierce pride of their respective sects. He spoke, his tone even and measured, but with an edge of curiosity.

"It seems the young talents from both your sects have risen to the occasion this year," he commented, his voice carrying a calm authority. "The audience has been drawn in by the clash of styles. It is a fine display of skill and tradition."

Elder Xue nodded, though her response was clipped. "Our disciples have trained rigorously for this moment. The Cloud Heavens Sect spares no effort in preparing them for excellence."

Elder Kael let out a quiet, almost dismissive snort. "Indeed, I see them flitting about. Though our methods may differ, the results will speak for themselves. The Silver Flame Sect values strength and impact above all."

Marquis Ventor\'s gaze flicked between the two, the faintest smile touching his lips. "Strength and elegance—both admirable qualities."

The Marquis smiled as he looked at the arena.

Someone was slowly stepping up at that exact moment, after all.