Pressure.
That was the word.
It wasn't about fairness. It wasn't even about marriage anymore. It was about making it impossible to say no. If the Duke rejected this sudden surge of interest, if he tried to block these entrants, the backlash would be imnse.
Accusations of discrimination.
Disrespect.
Disregard.
The kind of stain no kingdom could afford in front of the Empire.
He would be forced to open the gates.
And once that happened, there was no telling what else might flood through.
Still… all was probably not lost yet.
Duke Evermoon's eyes flicked briefly to the man beside him.
Mage Lian stood calmly, gaze locked on the arena below, where dust still lingered in the wake of Michael's display. There was a glimr in his
eyes..Duke Evermoon didn't speak, but he followed that line of sight.
Mir Nor.
A na unfamiliar to the Duke's reports.
But he rembers hearing rumors of a certain mysterious youth
This boy… he might be the one from the rumors.
But if that was true…based on the operation that happened weeks ago, there was only one person who would have the full story.
Grand Knight Verren.
That icy bastard.
Mage Lian might know too but the grand mage wanted nothing to do with him after getting a grasp of the current situation.
Duke Evermoon was just about to address Mage Lian when a voice echoed in their co.
"Both of you. Co."
They turned to look at eachother.
It was the princess.
A great mage of the LionHeart Kingdom.
The people below didn't know what was happening in the kingdom.
They couldn't.
Not even most nobles did.
Thanks to Michael's overwhelming show of power, sothing shifted—not in the arena, but behind the scenes.
The comntator—normally flamboyant, excitable, the voice of the people—sat rigid in his private section of the stands. His hat had been removed.
He wasn't speaking now.
He was listening.
Beside him sat a middle-aged man clad in blue robes lined with silver trim. One of the officials overseeing the tournant.
His brows were furrowed deep, his mouth drawn into a tight line.
The comntator looked at him sideways.
"Well?" he whispered, voice dry.
The robed man didn't answer at first. His fingers drumd on his knee, rhythm tight, anxious.
"…It's complicated," he finally muttered. "We've had… disruptions."
The comntator blinked.
"Disruptions?"
The man rubbed his forehead. "Withdrawals."
Now that made the comntator pause.
"…How many?"
"Fifty-three."
"…FIFTY-THREE?" he hissed, barely able to keep his voice down. "
"Thirty-one remaining now," the man replied, grim. "Not counting the teams that won."
The comntator leaned back, stunned.
He wasn't new to competitions like this. Withdrawals were normal. Cowards existed. Injuries happened. But fifty-three? All at once?
"…Because of him?" He tilted his head slightly toward the arena.
The man sighed.
He didn't need to finish.
"People don't want to be the next sacrifice," the official muttered. "Especially the ones who thought they had a chance. Now they're scrambling, making excuses, talking about family matters or personal limits or no use competing. The only good thing I can say it's only the capable ones that remain."
The comntator looked down at the arena.
"…So what now?" he asked softly. "Still continuing?"
The blue-robed man didn't answer at first. He stared out at the arena, lips twitching like he was chewing sothing bitter.
Then he finally said, "We continue the team battles."
The comntator raised a brow. "But the numbers are low."
"I know," the man muttered. "We'll rotate as needed. But none of them will proceed to the finals. Only four will."
The comntator blinked. "Why? I thought the team rounds were a qualifier for the next stage."
The man gave him a look.
"They were."
Then he added, quieter, "But the current state of things changed everything. Those four… they're different."
Michael sat quietly in the waiting room of Group B.
The air was different now. Not heavier—just thinner. Emptier.
Only a few participants remained in the room, scattered across the wide chamber like uncertain shadows.
The benches that had once been filled with nervous tension were now silent.
He sat alone.
Not just taphorically.
There was a wide berth around him—an invisible boundary the others seed too afraid to cross. They stole glances when they thought he wasn't looking. A few stared outright. So with fear. Others with bitter curiosity.
Michael didn't care.
In fact, he preferred it this way.
The less ti he spent here, the better. He leaned back slightly, arms resting over the bench, letting the stillness settle around him like armor.
He imagined it was the sa in the other waiting rooms.
But like before.
He just didn't care.
He stared at the illusion showing the situation outside just to see the comntator that was previously absent return.
But before he could say anything, the illusion display switched to white.
"Huh?"
Michael wasn't the only one taken aback.
The other participants were too.
What they had no idea of was that the officials didn't want them to see or hear what was going to happen next.
---
Back in the arena, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation.
The massive coliseum, which had briefly gone quiet following the delay, roared back to life as the comntator's voice rang out once more.
"Ladies and gentlen," he said, voice booming with renewed energy as he stepped onto the floating stage platform. "There has been a slight change."
The audience shifted uneasily. The nobles leaned forward. The commoners straightened up.
"The team battles will continue as planned," the comntator said, raising a hand. "But—" he paused for effect, "—they will now be purely for entertainnt and demonstration."
A stunned silence settled.
"No one from these matches will advance to the finals," he said. "Instead… the final stage of the competition will be fought between four individuals selected by the officiating council. A decision made due to the overwhelming difference in power displayed thus far."
There was a brief murmur, so confusion rising from the stands. He pressed on.
"These four participants are not just contenders—they are the strongest. The finest the tournant has produced. Their abilities are beyond the expected scope. They have… surpassed the original scale of this competition."
He took a breath.
"Among them is Mic Nor."
A ripple of reactions followed. So gasps. Others cheered. A few muttered indignantly, no doubt unhappy with what they saw as favouritism.
But before anyone could voice those thoughts too loudly, the comntator clapped his hands together with a grin and declared, "Now then! Back to the stage! For those still fighting—for glory, for honor, or just to prove a point—your ti has co!"
"Next up, we have again… Group A versus Group C!"
The nas of the participants appeared in bold script across the skies above the arena, and the stage began shifting, adjusting for the upcoming team match.
The crowd's uncertainty began to lt away as cheers returned, swept up in the motion and montum. The comntator had expertly redirected their focus. That was his job after all.
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