Chapter 139: Legendary Duel

Below the arena, in the Academy’s reserved section—

"Theo is so cool," Seraphina breathed. Noticing the occasional glances from the nobles seated under the imperial canopy nearby, she wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth.

*Such a child,* Liana thought... though her own gaze had softened like moonlight breaking through winter clouds.

He had clearly been rehearsing that line for weeks. She had heard him muttering variations of "one edge silences them all" in his sleep on at least four separate occasions.

"Sometimes I wish I could forget that Theo is a blacksmith," Gaius sighed, tilting his head. But the memory of the Sovereign obliterating an Archon-level beast with a single overhead hammer smash refused to fade.

The traumas he thought he’d buried were attacking him again.

"Just learn from him," he turned to say to Titus... only to find his fellow disciple clutching his skull, writhing on the bench like a man whose brain was trying to escape through his ears.

"’A thousand legions kneel to gold... one drawn edge of starlight silences them all... How can someone who writes poetry that beautiful only know how to swing a hammer?! What a waste! What a tragedy!"

"And why did everyone laugh when *I* recited a poem at the last banquet?"

Ah. Right. Titus’s mentor was Elder Tiberius. Another blacksmith.

On the commentators’ platform, Lord Ashford let out a chuckle.

"This boy certainly knows how to command a stage."

"Hmph. No wonder he insisted on fighting with a sword," Master Cato shook his head, though the smile on his weathered face was unmistakable. "It was all for this theatrical entrance."

Watching Theo, the old strategist saw a reflection of his own youth. Who hadn’t been brash and desperate to look legendary in front of a crowd?

On the arena floor.

Marcus studied the Empyrean Edge in Theo’s grip with a practiced eye. The divine blade sat obediently... no spiritual backlash, no resistance whatsoever. That alone was noteworthy for a weapon of its caliber.

"How much of the sword’s true power can you draw out?" Marcus asked, genuinely curious.

The young heir took a measured breath and closed his eyes.

The Founder’s Blade dipped in his hand. What followed was not a thrust, not a slash... not any physical motion at all.

Instead, something far more lethal seeped from the ancestral weapon: threads of pure, invisible sword intent spreading across the arena floor like roots seeking water.

Though Marcus’s body had not moved an inch, Theo felt a phantom blade hovering above his crown. His brow itched under the invisible pressure.

Had Marcus already struck?

A sword without form.

Imperceptible to the naked eye, yet Theo’s spiritual perception caught it with piercing clarity... luminous filaments of pure will, like the reflections of birds across a shimmering lake, weaving themselves into an inescapable net above the arena.

*Great Sage, classify.*

[Technique: Animus Blade — sub-discipline of the Pure Will school. The user forges their own soul into a cutting instrument and projects it as an autonomous strike.]

....

"Why aren’t they moving?"

"Has it not started? They are just standing there!"

Fifty thousand spectators — commoners, merchants, and lesser cultivators alike — exchanged bewildered glances. Two young men stood motionless on a platform the size of a city block, eyes closed, apparently meditating. It looked less like a legendary duel and more like a napping competition.

Up in the commentators’ booth, Octavian turned to the Ashford representatives with a strained expression.

"My Lords... what exactly is happening? Why is nobody fighting?"

"Their battle has already begun," Lord Ashford replied.

"This is a clash of Animus Blades... a branch of the Pure Will school. Both combatants have been pulled into a shared psychic arena, where they fight spirit against spirit."

"If one’s psyche proves weaker," Master Cato added, "the consequences are severe. Consciousness fractures. Spiritual collapse.

In extreme cases... instant defeat without a single blow being exchanged."

Octavian nodded, processing. "So if the Sovereign loses the mental engagement, he enters the physical fight with a crippled spirit."

"Precisely."

Octavian glanced down at the restless crowd. Fifty thousand paying citizens had come to watch a clash of divine weapons, and what they were getting was two boys standing with their eyes shut.

"Your analysis is quite... cerebral," the Herald said diplomatically. "Could you perhaps offer something more... accessible? You have witnessed thousands of duels. Surely you have some prepared material?"

In other words: *Improvise. Nobody can see what is happening anyway.*

Lord Ashford blinked. "What else is there to say?"

"Try this." Master Cato produced a slim, illustrated booklet and placed it in the Herald’s hands.

"What is this?"

"Illustrated literature. Extremely popular with the younger generation."

When confused, people will accept anything handed to them.

So Octavian shrugged, cracked the booklet open, and began reading aloud. His voice, amplified by the sigil, carried across the entire inner district.

"’Theo raised his blade and declared that today’s victory belonged to him by divine right! Should he triumph, he demanded that Marcus honor an ancient blood-oath sworn between their forebears! With that, he launched a devastating opening assault!’"

The crowd perked up. *Now* this was entertainment.

"’Marcus smiled and unleashed the Lunar Eclipse Formation! Sword-shadows engulfed the arena in a blizzard of lethal beauty!’"

The audience leaned forward, captivated.

A few of the sharper minds exchanged suspicious glances, something about the narration felt distinctly... literary but the majority were riveted.

Seraphina gasped at every line, freshly wiped drool returning with enthusiasm.

Liana’s grip on the plush doll at her waist tightened. Through the Soul-Link, she could sense it clearly... Theo was losing ground in the spiritual battle.

Restricted to swordsmanship, his chances against Marcus’s Animus Blade were grim...

Even Theo, locked inside the psychic arena, was baffled by the Herald’s increasingly dramatic narration echoing from above. But he had far more urgent concerns.

The lattice of soul-forged blades was closing around him. His only recourse was to deploy his battle avatar.

A towering, golden-armored figure materialized behind his spiritual form... the *Diamond Crucible Warden*, the manifestation of his forged battle will.

Marcus’s Animus Blade struck Theo’s psyche. Ripples cascaded across its surface... but the shell did not crack.

"One strike was not enough?"

Marcus was stunned. Despite the cultivation gap, the Sovereign’s soul was far sturdier than any analysis had predicted. The boy’s spirit was tempered like folded steel.

Undeterred, Marcus intensified his assault, channeling the Founder’s Blade’s accumulated centuries of ancestral intent into each successive psychic strike.

Theo’s consciousness trembled under the barrage.

But this was merely the opening salvo. Marcus’s attacks grew swifter, sharper, each one carrying heavier ancestral weight. The Diamond Crucible burned in response, but even the most resilient soul could not endure this punishment indefinitely.

At this rate, defeat was a mathematical certainty.

*What did Liana teach me during our sparring sessions?*

Theo forced himself to concentrate, studying Marcus’s technique even as it battered his defenses.

The Animus Blade was pure will... Marcus’s own soul, sharpened into a weapon.

The divine sword contained its own latent intent.... an ancient reservoir of sword will left behind by its original creator.

Theo had mastered the blade’s physical forms, but he had never attempted to channel its spiritual dimension outward.

Meanwhile, the audience had fallen into a hypnotic trance, lulled by the Herald’s increasingly passionate performance.

Octavian, now entirely engrossed in his source material, flipped to the next Chapter and continued with theatrical gusto:

"’Theo suddenly roared, merging three sword strikes into a single cataclysmic blow! This slash contained every ounce of his accumulated cultivation... a all-or-nothing gambit! The blade-light blazed across the heavens like a comet!’"

"’Marcus’s expression finally shifted! For the first time, genuine interest flickered in those cold eyes! He adjusted his stance, transformed his palm into a single outstretched finger, and lightly tapped the tip of the incoming blade! The recoil was catastrophic... Theo was launched backward, blood spraying from his lips!’"

Several women in the gallery clutched their chests.

"’Marcus closed the distance in three urgent strides, catching the wounded swordsman before his body hit the stone. "Are you injured?" he asked.

Octavian’s own voice began to crack with emotion.

But to his shock, the bleeding boy suddenly opened his eyes, seized Marcus’s wrist, and grinned.

"Caught you," Theo whispered. "You lose."

Lord Ashford lunged across the booth and ripped the booklet from Octavian’s trembling hands.

His face had transitioned from composed dignity to seismic fury in the span of a single paragraph.

He flipped to the cover.

The veins on his forehead bulged like mountain ridges.

Master Cato sipped his tea with the serene composure of a man who had orchestrated this exact outcome.

Down in the reserved section, Liana lowered her silver eyes and pressed her lips together so tightly that the line could have cut through divine-grade steel.

She was going to find every printed copy of that book in the Empire.

And she was going to burn them all...

***

Theo tuned out the Herald’s increasingly unhinged narration and turned his focus inward.

He reached for the Empyrean Edge’s latent sword will... the sleeping intent buried deep within the divine blade’s crystalline core.

The world Theo perceived was different from what Liana or the Ashford masters might sense.

Every sword form he had ever practiced responded to him in this moment.

Each offered a thread. None offered the full tapestry.

Not enough...

Just a little more...