Half a dozen of Earth's greatest warriors have challenged these elite Roman knights and failed. Although each of these soldiers possesses strength comparable to rank 8 warriors, the fact that they were defeated by re artifacts made of clay was disheartening to Ery.
Shifting attention back to the arena, another figure erged, this one a powerful warrior known as Brandt, standing tall bedside Fjolrin.
Recognized by several, even the knights of Brittania, murmurs of anticipation swept the room. True to their whispers, Brandt did not disappoint. With his spear dancing in his hands, he displayed an awe-inspiring ancient technique. Against all odds, he battled the praetorians, overpowering them one after another until all four lay defeated.
"Finally we found our first winner! Brandt from the Northern Kingdom"
Hope kindled in the hearts of the onlookers. The praetorians, though formidable, were not invincible. Seizing upon this renewed optimism, another challenger approached. Draped in robes, bearing the emblems of ancient Egypt, it was Imhotep, a rank 8 sorcerer. As he began to weave his incantations, flas erupted around him, and gusts of wind circled the arena.
Yet, despite his elental prowess, the praetorians seed to be a step ahead, anticipating and countering his every move. It wasn't long before the sorcerer found himself cornered, his spells ineffective. At one heart-stopping mont, it appeared Imhotep would et a fatal end, but by a twist of fate or perhaps a rare mont of rcy, the praetorian spared his life.
The hushed atmosphere in the arena was palpable. Imhotep's defeat had been a stark reminder of the strength of the praetorians. It felt like the weight of disappointnt and apprehension had beco a tangible force, pressing down on the attendees. Whispers ceased, and a pin-drop silence ensued, leaving many wondering if any warrior would be brave enough to face the near-impossible challenge again.
That's when a soft shuffling broke the tension. All eyes turned toward the entrance of the arena as a young monk, draped in simple robes, stepped forward. Damo, as he was known, was barely 16, a stark contrast to the battle-hardened warriors that had co before him. Yet, his eyes carried a depth of determination that belied his years.
Unlike Imhotep, who had relied on flamboyant spells and elental displays, Damo's strength was rooted in sothing far more internal. As he took his stance, there was a palpable shift in the air. With each breath, he channeled his spirit energy, and as he released it, his punches beca surges of force, challenging the praetorians in a way none had before.
The battle was intense. Several tis, it appeared that Damo was on the verge of collapse. However, he would then retreat montarily, channeling his energy not for offense but to rejuvenate himself. It was a marvel to watch, this dance between physical exertion and spiritual recovery. Slowly but surely, Damo's persistence began to pay off. One by one, the praetorians fell, each defeat sending ripples of disbelief and then jubilation through the audience.
"Our young friend here, Damo, is the second winner!' said Julian with pride.
The applause and cheers for Damo were deafening. But as quickly as the tide of victory had co, it receded. The warriors who followed him into the arena found themselves overpowered, their efforts falling short.
The collective morale began to wane once more until another figure, regal and commanding, stepped forward. It was Arthur, the King of Britannia. Many had expected him to wield Excalibur, the legendary sword of lore. Instead, in an act of sheer audacity or perhaps humility, he chose to fight with his Knight of the Round Table sword.
"I am Arthur of Brittania, I will give this challenge my best"
Arthur's every move was fluid, a masterclass in precision and technique. He commanded the arena, not just as a king but as a warrior of unparalleled skill. With each parry, thrust, and swing, the praetorians found themselves outmatched. The onlookers watched in awe, realizing they were witnessing not just a fight but a legend in the making.
Seven years had passed since Ery had last witnessed Arthur in combat, and the transformation was nothing short of breathtaking. The young king, who Ery rembered as a prodigious but raw talent, had evolved into a formidable force. Ery's eyes critically analyzed Arthur's movents, seeing not just a swordsman, but a true master. The Britannia sword skill, a renowned martial art in itself, seed as though it had been reborn and refined through Arthur's form. Each swipe, parry, and thrust was executed with a precision and power that left even the four seasoned praetorians overwheld.
"We have our third winner!"
Amidst the whirlwind of battles that day, three figures had clearly distinguished themselves: Brandt with his unorthodox spear techniques, Damo's incredible spiritual channeling, and now, Arthur, the King of Britannia. Ery's thoughts wandered briefly to Glita. The young fey girl would've surely made an impression in this contest. Ery's portal gate would have easily brought her into the fray, but given the increasingly mysterious nature of the Summit, he decided it best she remain distant from potential peril.
As the dust settled, Brandt, Damo, and Arthur stood tall in the center of the arena. They were the triumphant few, their prowess proven beyond doubt. The attendees, comprising so of the world's most powerful figures, looked on in anticipation as Julian, the orchestrator of this grand event, began to address the assembly.
However, before Julian could utter a word, nature itself seed to revolt. The skies darkened, and the atmosphere grew thick with tension. From the cloud descended a dozen figures, their power palpable, even from a distance. Half of them emanated the distinct aura of Magus-level beings. But it was the leader of this celestial contingent that drew gasps and murmurs from the crowd. Zeus, the known God of Thunder, his majestic form adorned in divine armor, set foot on the temple grounds with an air of authority that none could contest.
"Gods!! God is descending to us!!" The exclamation from an awestruck attendee echoed the collective sentint. It was a sentint of reverence, fear, and sheer disbelief.
Zeus, surveying the gathering with piercing eyes, voiced his displeasure. "What are we having here? Why am I not invited?"
Julian, usually unflappable in the face of adversity, now wore an expression of surprise and, possibly, concern. The sudden, unanticipated descent of the gods had turned an already montous occasion into an event of potentially cataclysmic significance. Ery felt the gravity of the situation. The Summit was no longer just about Earth's mightiest; it had beco an intersection of the mortal and the gods.
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