Chapter 140: The Dynasty

Across the arena, Marcus grew increasingly agitated as the Herald’s amplified baritone boomed overhead.

"Marcus’s face flushed scarlet, making him look even more—"

Lord Ashford’s roar from the commentators’ booth shook the Colosseum walls. But the damage was done.

A hairline fracture split Marcus’s concentration.

Theo’s eyes snapped open.

The Empyrean Edge, aloof and unresponsive for the entirety of the match, finally answered.

A subtle resonance hummed through its core.

A single sword-shadow erupted from Theo’s spiritual form. It carried none of the layered artistry of Marcus’s Animus web.

Brimming with the same straightforward force as the swordsmanship Theo had learned... honest steel swung by honest hands.

"Damn!" Marcus stiffened. The timing and precision of the counter-strike caught him mid-recovery, before his fractured focus could mend.

The slash tore clean through the elaborate lattice of threads Marcus had spent the entire match weaving.

By the time Marcus raised the Founder’s Blade to parry, the spiritual blow had already connected... a hammer-strike to his psyche that sent his vision swimming and his balance buckling.

He staggered back and dropped to one knee, bracing himself against the Founder’s Blade.

Unlike Theo — whose mental fortitude was monstrous, tempered through nightly Archon-formation grinding and sustained Soul-Link feedback from a divine artifact — Marcus felt a crushing pressure bloom in his chest.

"So it is true," Marcus said, shaking his head. "I did not believe the rumors."

He clasped his fists in formal concession. "I yield."

Theo blinked. "You only lost the initiative in a single exchange. If you had pressed forward, the outcome could have gone either way. Why concede?"

"You did not use your hammer," Marcus replied bluntly. "Beating me with a sword strike counts as your victory. I will not cheapen it by dragging out a fight I have already lost in spirit."

A hush blanketed the arena.

"That boy unleashed a psychic sword-strike... and Marcus could not block it?"

Master Cato’s eyes bulged as he rocked backward in his seat.

Defeating Marcus Ashford was not the same as defeating some ordinary prodigy.

On the Imperial Vanguard list, Marcus was the undisputed premier swordsman of their generation.

"This is what happens when you hand Octavian that wretched novel," Lord Ashford growled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Had Marcus not been distracted by the narration, that gap in his focus would never have appeared.

"I have been a fool!" Master Cato slapped his thigh in belated regret.

"His carelessness is his own doing. No one else bears responsibility." Lord Ashford watched his heir descend the steps and sighed inwardly.

"...he won? Just like that?"

"What happened?"

The majority of the spectators were utterly baffled. They had endured ten minutes of motionless meditation and a bizarre fiction reading, only for Marcus to stagger backward and surrender out of nowhere.

"Marcus lost a psychic exchange and conceded."

"Something feels wrong. Could this be a fixed match?"

"By the way... what was that story the Herald was reading? I rather enjoyed it. Where can I purchase a copy?"

The sales of The Tyrannical Empress Falls for Me were about to enter a new stratosphere.

Beneath the golden imperial canopy, a senior court official rose to his feet, applauding as Theo and Marcus stepped down from the platform.

"Grasping sword resonance mid-battle... remarkable!"

Amid the stunned murmurs of the nobility, the official glanced sideways.

Crown Prince Aurelius, however, showed no surprise. He appeared entirely at ease, sipping his wine with the measured calm of a man who had already drawn his conclusions.

"Elder Brother," Princess Calla asked from beside him, her expression conflicted, "how is the Sovereign’s swordsmanship also this formidable?"

"Passable, I suppose," Aurelius replied, setting down his cup.

The psychic exchange had confirmed what he needed to know. In a battle of spiritual wills, Aurelius could perceive the combatants’ true depths with far greater clarity than any spectator.

Theo’s swordsmanship was competent. Nothing more...

Which meant Seraphina’s Wyrm-Severing Arts could not have been taught by the Sovereign.

The girl had a separate mentor. Interesting, but irrelevant...

For this Tournament, there was only one opponent Aurelius needed to focus on.

The Reborn Empress.

Amid the murmurs of the Vanguard competitors, the young swordsman Theo descended from the stage.

"The Sovereign beat Marcus in a psychic clash? Using a sword?"

"His swordsmanship was obviously taught by the Frost Empress."

"Obviously!"

"Think about it... Liana’s martial talent defies reason. Even someone she briefly mentored can best Marcus Ashford at his own art."

"The ’Empress’s Blessing’ nickname...

I never understood it before. Now it is starting to make sense."

"Her beauty outshines the entire Vanguard list, and her combat prowess is beyond measure."

Theo sighed inwardly.

"Theo." Liana’s voice was composed. "You have learned well."

Her hand settled atop his head, ruffling his hair with the authority of someone who had appointed herself his senior in all things.

"But Marcus did not go all out. To secure a place in the top three, you must remain disciplined."

"What about the marks of devotion?" Theo asked nonchalantly.

He had not only been studying swordsmanship over these past weeks. He was not stupid... he had noticed that Liana’s "training" seemed to extend well beyond combat theory.

And the itching on his neck had never subsided.

Liana’s eyes flickered.

The hand ruffling his hair sped up by a fraction.

As dusk settled over the Capital, the first day of the Imperial Tournament concluded after dozens of rounds. The original field of one hundred had been divided into a winners’ bracket of twenty-five, a losers’ bracket of twenty-five, and fifty eliminated outright.

Broadly speaking, those advancing to the winners’ bracket were the Vanguard list’s established top fifty.

Few upsets had occurred, and the Imperial Intelligence Bureau’s rankings had proven remarkably accurate.

The handful of underdogs who had toppled higher-ranked opponents were all memorable faces.

Lucius Varn, the Venomancer from the southern marshes, had refined poison directly into his martial intent.

Opponents, even those with superior cultivation, simply could not catch him.

His typical match played out as follows: He fled. They chased. He fled without breaking a sweat.

They chased until foaming at the mouth and collapsing from accumulated venom exposure.

Three victories. Zero direct confrontations. He bowed and waved.

But he was not the strangest competitor...

Brother Aetius, a Cenobite from the Temple of the Resonant Bell, had somehow mastered the Sonic Scripture Roar. Though his technique was not yet refined enough to inflict physical harm through sound alone, his sheer volume compensated generously.

His typical match: a bald monk sat cross-legged at the center of the arena, hurling insults with the force of a thunderclap.

His opponents turned crimson with humiliation, launched wild attacks... and invariably struck themselves in their frenzy.

The senior monks in the Temple’s viewing pavilion wished they could dissolve into the stonework, too mortified to acknowledge him as their disciple.

Two victories, one draw.

Captain Vitus, the most conventional of the surprise performers, fought thrilling, evenly matched duels with no gimmicks and no spectacle.

One victory, one loss, one draw.

Of course, Theo paid closest attention to the Vanguard prodigies wielding divine weapons.

If he faced any of them with a sword rather than his hammer, every match would be grueling.

"Aurelius is taking the stage," Liana murmured.

Theo’s focus snapped to the central platform.

The instant the Crown Prince drew the Aurelian Dragonblade, its imperial-suppression aura unfurled across the Colosseum like a tidal wave swallowing a harbor.

Among the spectators, cultivators at the Fourth Realm felt the overwhelming pressure bearing down on their chests like a monsoon, leaving them gasping and staggering.

"He has not even deployed the Seal of Eight Dominions, and he is already this powerful?"

Though his cultivation tier had not advanced since their encounter in the Sanctum of Somnus, Aurelius was several magnitudes stronger than before.

Theo’s brow furrowed deeply.

The Aurelian Dragonblade had been forged from the ley-line core of the Imperial Throne itself.

Inside the Capital the weapon’s output would scale in direct proportion to the dynasty’s living authority...