The morning sun rose slowly over the kingdom, its golden light stretching across the marble terraces and stone courtyards of the palace like a silent herald of what was to come.
A soft breeze carried the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread from the royal kitchens, where breakfast had just concluded, yet beneath that calm and ordinary beginning lay a tension that could not be ignored.
Today was not a day of feasts or idle laughter.
Today was a day of endurance, of skill, of pride.
After the final cups were set aside and the last words of morning conversation faded, the royal family rose as one, their movements calm yet purposeful, as though guided by an unseen rhythm that all of them understood without needing to speak.
Carriages were prepared, though many chose to ride on horseback, preferring the feel of the wind against their skin as they made their way toward the martial arena west of the kingdom—the very place where the first duel between Keyla and Eris had once ignited a spark that now burned like wildfire.
The journey was not long, yet it felt significant.
Each turn of the road seemed to carry weight, each passing field whispering anticipation.
By the time they arrived, the arena was already alive.
Thousands had gathered.
The stands were filled with nobles, soldiers, merchants, and common folk alike, their voices blending into a rising tide of excitement that echoed across the stone walls.
Banners fluttered in the wind, and the metallic glint of armor from the assembled knights created a sea of steel that shimmered beneath the sun.
At the center of it all stood General Dracona.
He was as imposing as ever, his presence commanding silence the moment he stepped forward, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise of the crowd like a blade.
"Everyone," he began, his tone steady yet filled with authority, "I bid you good morning."
The murmurs quieted, replaced by a focused stillness that spread outward like ripples in water.
"Today," he continued, "duels will take place—not between two or three individuals—but between one warrior and a hundred… or more."
A wave of excitement surged through the arena, yet he raised his hand, silencing it once more.
"Each soldier standing before you is a knight," he said, his gaze sweeping across the lines of armored men. "And each child of the royal families who has reached the age of seventeen shall face them alone."
The weight of his words settled heavily, yet proudly.
"When you can no longer continue," he added, "you will concede. Your opponents will stop, and the next contestant will step forward."
He paused, allowing the rules to sink in.
"Remember this well—do not kill, do not cripple. Defeat your opponent, but leave them able to rise again."
Another pause.
"And when you are done, you will retire to the right of the arena… and receive your due rest."
Then, with a sharp nod, he concluded.
"The first contestant… is Lord Livy Aragon. Good luck."
Lots had already been drawn among the princes and lords, each name written carefully and chosen by chance, ensuring fairness in the order of battle.
Lord Livy stepped forward.
His weapon was unlike the others—a whip, long and coiled, with a spearhead gleaming wickedly at its tip.
As he entered the arena, the knights shifted, watching him with curiosity.
The first opponent charged.
The crack of the whip echoed like thunder.
The spear-tip struck with precision, hooking the knight's shoulder and sending him crashing to the ground in a single, fluid motion.
Another followed, then another.
Livy moved like a storm given form—his whip lashing, coiling, striking.
At times it wrapped around limbs, yanking opponents off balance; at others, the spearhead struck with sharp, decisive force.
Sweat glistened on his skin as the hours passed.
One hour.
Two.
Still he fought.
By the time he fell to one knee, breath ragged and body trembling, eighty-seven knights had been defeated.
Two hours and a quarter.
The crowd roared.
Prince Sage stepped forward next, his heavy broad saber resting easily against his shoulder as though it weighed nothing at all.
When the duel began, his style was entirely different.
There was no flourish, no wasted motion.
Each swing of his blade carried weight—raw, crushing force that sent opponents flying as though struck by a falling tree.
Knights came in pairs.
Then in groups.
Still, Sage advanced.
His boots carved lines into the sand as he pushed forward, his blade rising and falling with relentless rhythm.
Hours blurred together.
Three and a half hours later, when he finally staggered back and raised his hand in surrender, two hundred and twenty men had fallen before him.
Lord Orni followed.
Where Sage was power, Orni was precision.
His rapier flickered like light itself—fast, elegant, deadly.
He did not overpower his enemies; he outmaneuvered them.
Each step was calculated.
Each thrust exact.
Three hours passed, and one hundred and two knights lay defeated before he finally conceded.
By then, the sun had begun its descent.
The sky burned with shades of orange and gold, and exhaustion hung in the air like a thick mist.
The Emperor rose, signaling the end of the day.
The duels would continue tomorrow.
By the ninth hour, the arena was filled once more.
The cheers were louder.
The anticipation sharper.
Prince Damis stepped forward first.
His heavy sword cleaved through the air with brutal strength, each strike sending shockwaves through his opponents.
Three hours and twenty minutes later, two hundred knights had fallen.
Lord Ultur followed, his one-edged blade dancing with controlled aggression.
He lasted two hours, defeating eighty knights.
Then came Lord Uther.
His weapon—a spiked hammer—was terrifying.
Each swing crushed defenses, shattered formations, and sent men sprawling.
Two hours and ten minutes.
Ninety-two knights defeated.
The day ended once more, the fighters honored with firm pats on the shoulder and words of pride from the royal family.
The following days blurred into a relentless cycle of battle.
Lord Froddo.
Lord Lawy.
Lord Hobbed.
Prince Lahan.
Each stepped forward.
Each fought with everything they had.
Numbers rose.
Strength faltered.
Willpower endured.
The Emperor rewarded all who attended, gold coins gleaming in the hands of the people, while the soldiers received double for their service.
Then came the day of Fredda.
The air itself seemed to shift when she stepped forward.
The knights hesitated.
They knew her.
Ruthless.
The first man charged.
He fell in three breaths.
Then the rest rushed her.
But Fredda did not retreat.
She welcomed them.
Her blade carved through the chaos, her movements relentless, almost merciless in their precision.
Time vanished.
When General Dracona finally called the end, she had fought four hundred and twenty-seven knights.
Her body was covered in wounds.
Yet she stood.
The arena erupted.
Aldera followed.
She fought with fierce determination, her chocolate-brown hair whipping behind her as she moved.
Four hundred and two knights fell before she yielded.
At last, the final day arrived.
The arena was filled beyond capacity.
No one wanted to miss it.
Eris stepped forward first.
His golden lances gleamed in the sunlight, their edges catching the light like fire.
From the very first clash, it was clear—this was different.
He moved faster.
Struck harder.
Knights came in waves.
Hundreds.
Still, he stood.
Hours passed.
Blood stained his clothes, his breathing grew heavy, yet he refused to fall.
By the time he finally dropped to one knee and raised his hand, one thousand and two men had been defeated.
The arena exploded with cheers.
Keyla rushed forward, supporting him as he staggered back to his seat.
He looked at her, exhausted yet smiling.
"...A kiss?"
She laughed softly… and gave it to him.
Then it was her turn.
Keyla stepped onto the stage, twin swords in hand.
The moment her feet steadied, something changed.
Her gaze turned cold.
The knights felt it.
They came in threes.
She met them head-on.
Her blades moved like shadows—fast, precise, unstoppable.
There was no hesitation.
No wasted motion.
She became a force of nature.
Hours passed.
One hundred.
Five hundred.
A thousand.
Still she stood.
When the final knight fell, the count was clear.
One thousand two hundred and twenty-five.
The arena fell silent…
Then erupted louder than ever before.
That evening, the six day duels were recorded in scrolls, preserved as history for generations to come.
And as the feast began, filled with laughter, pride, and celebration, one truth echoed in every heart present.
Legends had been born in that arena.