Chapter 138: The First Clash

Twenty-nine days passed in a blur of Tesserae tournaments and one very confused Pontifex attempting to write a resume for a job title that did not exist.

On the thirtieth morning, the Imperial Colosseum opened its gates, and fifty thousand citizens flooded through them.

The Imperial Tournament had begun...

In the gilded observation box high above the blood-red sands of the arena, Emperor Valerian set down his wine cup and smiled.

"How did Reginus fall so quickly? The boy trained under Duke Castor for three years."

He shook his head, but the grin never left his face. On the crystal projection overhead, the replay of Princess Seraphina’s victory looped in a brilliant arc of silver light... a single, strike that had split Prince Reginus’s defensive formation like wet parchment.

The Wyrm-Severing Aether Arts.

Wherever the girl had learned such a technique, it was breathtaking.

"She has grown remarkably," the Emperor murmured, turning his gaze to the woman at his side.

Empress Domitia smiled. It was the particular kind of smile that contained more statecraft than warmth.

"They are both of Your Majesty’s blood. How can one be called superior to the other?"

Her tone was honeyed. Her eyes were not.

Seraphina looked far too much like *her*. The dead Consort Livia. Especially when the girl drew a blade... that same fierce, untamed grace that had once captivated the Emperor and turned the Empress’s life into a political inferno.

But Domitia’s expression softened after a moment. Few in the court had placed genuine hopes on Reginus. The boy had been a formality. The true weapon of the imperial household was, and had always been, Aurelius.

"I wonder," the Empress said, her voice soft but pitched just loud enough for the attending ministers to overhear, "what would happen if little Seraphina were matched against our Crown Prince. What does Your Majesty think?"

The warmth drained from the Emperor’s face.

"You would not dare."

"Your Majesty has always been so gifted at turning a blind eye," Domitia replied, her smile pitiful and precise. "Why can you not extend this humble consort the same courtesy?"

The silence between them was heavier than iron.

...

At the Ashford Sword Sanctum’s viewing pavilion, overlooking the eastern wing of the Colosseum.

"What extraordinary blade intent!"

"What kind of technique was that? I can see traces of our Sanctum’s foundational footwork in her stance, but the killing stroke was entirely her own invention."

Several Ashford disciples crowded the railing with burning eyes as the replay of Seraphina’s strike looped on the nearest crystal screen.

"That girl... she looks familiar," one murmured. "Have I seen her before?"

"Too similar," Lord Darius Ashford said quietly from his elevated seat. His weathered hands gripped the armrests, his gaze locked on the copper-haired princess. "Far too similar..."

The way she held the blade at a thirty-degree cant. The defiant tilt of her chin. The instinctive trust in her own body over any manual she’d ever read.

Consort Livia had stood exactly like that, twenty years ago, on the training floor of this very Sanctum.

Marcus Ashford, the young heir, watched with measured appreciation.

"If we were at the same cultivation tier, I might not be her equal," he admitted, though he showed no dejection. It was a statement of fact, not surrender.

Besides, Marcus had his own concerns. He turned his attention to the tournament bracket on the crystal projection and found his name.

**[Marcus Ashford vs. Theo — Abyssal Sword Sovereign]**

He exhaled quietly.

Then his eyes drifted to the adjacent bracket.

[Liana vs. Prince Varro]

...

Herald Octavian took center stage at this moment, flanked by two distinguished guests: Lord Darius Ashford and Master Cato, the Sanctum’s senior strategist.

They served as the Tournament’s official analysts... a role that lent the proceedings the air of a professional sporting event.

"A stunning upset!" Octavian bellowed through a voice-amplifying sigil, his booming baritone carrying across all fifty thousand seats. "Princess Seraphina has defeated Prince Reginus in a single exchange! What a display of the Wyrm-Severing Arts!"

The Colosseum roared.

"But the matches ahead promise even greater spectacle! Lord Ashford, what is your analysis of the Empress’s upcoming... Lord Ashford?"

The old swordsman was still staring at Seraphina’s retreating figure, entirely lost in a trance.

"My Lord," Master Cato said flatly, "your circlet has slipped."

Lord Ashford snapped back, one hand shooting up to adjust the silver band on his brow. He shot Cato a withering glare before clearing his throat.

"As for Liana versus Prince Varro... there is nothing worth analyzing. The Prince does not possess the right to make her draw her blade seriously. A breakdown would be an insult to everyone’s intelligence."

"And the main event?" Octavian pressed. "The Abyssal Sword Sovereign versus your own heir, Marcus? Master Cato, your assessment?"

Master Cato stroked his beard. "The Sovereign’s chances are slim—unless he abandons the sword entirely."

"Elaborate?"

"First, Theo enters the arena a full cultivation tier below Marcus. That is already a significant handicap."

"Moreover," Cato continued, choosing his words with surgical precision, "while the Sovereign’s swordsmanship is technically proficient it lacks the spark of genuine originality. His forms are precise. His execution is flawless. But every technique he performs feels borrowed. There is no invention. No creative fire."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"If he were a painter, the Sovereign would spend his life producing perfect reproductions of masterworks... indistinguishable from the originals. But they would never be *his*. His future lies not in becoming a great artist, but rather... an expert forger."

The analogy landed with surgical effect. The crowd murmured.

"In terms of weaponry," Cato added, "the Empyrean Edge is no weaker than the Founder’s Blade in raw Aether density. But Marcus has spent years in communion with his ancestral weapon. The bond between a swordsman and his blade cannot be forged through talent alone—it requires time, devotion, and shared suffering."

Lord Ashford nodded grimly. "The Sovereign’s odds of victory are low."

The implications were clear even to the laymen in the upper galleries.

Marcus Ashford was the favorite.

...

In the Crown Prince’s private box, Aurelius took a measured sip of wine.

He had expected Prince Varro to at least test the Empress... probe her guard, force her to reveal a pattern. But looking at Liana’s bracket and Lord Ashford’s dismissive analysis, the match would likely end before it began.

What interested Aurelius far more was the Sovereign.

Theo. The boy who had stolen a relic from the tomb, led him on a chase through collapsing tunnels, and vanished like smoke. The boy whose "corpse" had turned out to be a single strand of hair and a cheap decoy pearl.

The memory still made his jaw tighten.

[Marcus Ashford vs. Theo]

Aurelius set down his cup and leaned forward.

*Show me what you are truly capable of, commoner.*

...

"The Abyssal Sword Sovereign versus Marcus Ashford! We are about to witness the first clash of divine weapons in this year’s Tournament!"

Octavian’s voice thundered across the arena.

"Marcus has already taken the stage! But the Sovereign is... still at the bottom of the steps? He has not moved!"

Fifty thousand heads swiveled in confusion.

Theo stood at the base of the arena stairs. His arms were crossed, his posture entirely relaxed, and his gaze was fixed on the adjacent platform.

Where Liana’s match was still in progress.

"Meanwhile, on Platform Two, it appears the Empress’s bout is already—"

A single flash of silver light split the air.

Prince Varro struck the arena wall with enough force to crack the stone. He did not get up.

"—concluded. The Empress wins."

Silence swallowed the Colosseum for two full heartbeats before the roar erupted.

Lord Ashford’s earlier prediction had been generous. Varro had not merely failed to make Liana draw seriously... he had failed to make her blink.

The Reborn Empress descended the steps with glacial indifference, the remnants of her sword intent still lingering in the air like frost on a summer morning. Despite the presence of royalty, nobility, and Archons in every box, she carried herself as though she were the most regal figure in the Colosseum.

She walked directly to Theo.

Stopped.

Tilted her head by a fraction.

"You have not gone up yet?"

"Waiting to recharge," Theo said simply.

"..."

Liana’s silver eyes flickered across the arena... fifty thousand spectators, the crystal projections broadcasting to every corner of the Empire, the Emperor’s private box, the Crown Prince’s calculating stare, and the dozens of Archon-level divine senses trained on this exact spot like searchlights.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

Nevertheless, she stepped forward.

Her arms wrapped around his waist. She held him.

"...Do your best," she whispered against his collar, so quietly that only the Soul-Link could carry it.

"Mm." Theo’s grin spread across his face like a sunrise cresting over the Capital. "Top three. Guaranteed."

As everyone knew, the fiercer the fighting spirit fueling the *Diamond Crucible Form*, the greater his combat output.

"What is he doing?!"

"You are supposed to fight Marcus Ashford, not court the Empress!"

"Is this even legal?! Herald! Is there a Tournament regulation against mid-match embracing?!"

The commentators’ booth descended into chaos. Master Cato’s teacup slipped from his fingers. Lord Ashford covered his face with one hand. Octavian frantically flipped through the rulebook.

Amidst the uproar, Theo ascended the platform with an insufferably confident stride.

Marcus Ashford stood at the center of the arena, the Founder’s Blade resting across his shoulder. He watched Theo approach and felt as though *he* were the underdog.

After a brief moment of thought, Theo decided against saying, *"She does not love you, brother."*

Besides, Theo wanted to win this fight the right way.

With the sword.

For the sake of his dream he would not deploy the *Abyssal Hammer*. He would not use the World-Forge. He would fight as a pure swordsman, on Marcus’s own turf, and win.

He raised one hand toward the sky.

"A thousand legions kneel to gold... one drawn edge of starlight silences them all!"

"Sword, come!"

The Empyrean Edge erupted from its sheath below the arena floor, spinning through the air before slamming into his outstretched palm.

If the blade possessed a consciousness, its expression at this moment would have been one of pure exhaustion. *Oh, we are doing the dramatic summoning again. Wonderful.*

The young swordsman struck a pose against the afternoon sun. One hand on the hilt. The other behind his back. Chin raised.

"Brother Marcus," Theo said. "After you."

The crowd erupted.

Marcus stared.

Why did this forge-born, hammer-swinging lunatic look more like a legendary swordsman than Marcus... the actual heir of the most prestigious sword academy in the Empire?

The pressure bearing down on his shoulders was irrational, inexplicable, and mounting by the second.

It felt as though *he* were the challenger seeking guidance from a master, rather than the tournament favorite facing an inferior opponent...

*Hold on... you are a blacksmith!* Marcus’s inner voice screamed. *What kind of "one edge silences them all" poetry is that?! You literally forge horseshoes for a living!*

But the Founder’s Blade hummed in his grip, and the Empyrean Edge gleamed in Theo’s hand, and the Colosseum held its breath.

The first clash of divine weapons was about to begin....