The announcer’s voice rang out again—loud, but slightly deyed, as if even he had been caught off guard by Lucien’s presence. “And facing him… Frankie Levy, son of Count Levy!”

  Scattered appuse followed. A handful of polite cheers. But it didn’t rise—couldn’t rise—not with Lucien still holding the moment in his palm.

  Frankie jogged into the ring with confident strides, adjusting his gloves, his other hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. He offered a quick bow to the nobles’ gallery, added a wave for good measure, and smiled like he hadn’t noticed the weight in the air.

  But everyone else had. Even the dust in the arena seemed reluctant to stir.

  He came to a stop across from Lucien—only then realizing his opponent hadn’t moved a single step since lifting his bde.

  Frankie’s smile faltered.

  Lucien didn’t bow. Didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head—slightly—like he was observing an insect beneath gss.

  He’s not reading Frankie, I thought, narrowing my eyes. He’s already decided how this ends.

  “Is it just me,” Trevon murmured beside me, “or did it get colder all of a sudden?”

  Constantine folded his arms. “That’s just his presence? Interesting…”

  “At such a young age too,” Theoden added. “Trevon, Cassius—watch closely.”

  I didn’t speak. But my gaze didn’t leave Lucien.

  A single beat passed.

  Then the announcer’s voice split the silence.

  “Combatants—ready your weapons!”

  The air shifted.

  Frankie lunged.

  A textbook opener—fast, clean, full of drive. His form didn’t seem bad. His footwork nded square. The thrust had intent.

  Lucien didn’t even blink.

  He shifted to the side with minimal effort, his bde catching Frankie’s midair and guiding it away like an afterthought.

  No power. No flourish. Just inevitability.

  That didn’t feel like a block. More like… timing. Control. He didn’t stop the strike—he made it irrelevant.

  Frankie recovered quickly, pivoted into a sweeping ssh—testing distance.

  Lucien didn’t give him any.

  He stepped in.

  One heartbeat ter, Frankie’s sword spun through the air, nding in the sand with a dull thud.

  No one saw the moment Lucien struck. Even I almost missed it—and I’d been watching the entire time.

  So fast. No pressure. No tells. Just clean, absolute execution.

  Frankie staggered back, chest heaving, face pale.

  Lucien didn’t advance. He didn’t even look winded. He simply waited—his bde lowered, posture rexed, as if the match was already over.

  He’s not fighting, I thought. He’s showing off.

  “That wasn’t even a technique,” Constantine muttered. “That was… that was bullying.”

  Theoden’s brow furrowed. “Not a single adjustment. He already knew how this would py out.”

  His words lined up with what I’d been feeling. Lucien’s movements weren’t just sharp—they were certain.

  I stayed silent. But my arms had tensed—just slightly. And from the corner of my eye, I saw Trevon now watching with full intent.

  He felt it too—the shift in the air, the weight behind Lucien’s silence. And if even Trevon—the best among us—had gone quiet, then it wasn’t just skill Lucien brought into the ring. It was something more. A threat real enough that even a genius had to take seriously.

  Lucien tilted his head again—an unspoken offer.

  Frankie rose. Barely.

  A desperate swing. A final, reckless lunge.

  Lucien stepped forward.

  One clean strike to the gut—blunt, controlled.

  Frankie colpsed to his knees.

  The bell rang again.

  “Victory… Lucien Zonneveld.”

  The silence lingered—stretched just a second too long. Then, a murmur began to ripple through the crowd—uncertain, unsettled.

  Lucien turned his back on Frankie without flourish, without a gnce. Like none of it had ever been in question.

  Lucien Zonneveld didn’t just win—he made sure no one would question why he was here.

  We now share the same stage—but for different reasons. He fights to be counted. I fight to be seen.

  ? 2025 baobaochong – All rights reserved.