Ballistic Light Missiles

The swordsman, the Royal Knight who had charged Adam, stood frozen for a heartbeat, his mind struggling to catch up with the impossible reality.

His powerful downward strike, meant to end the fight or at least force a desperate defense, had been stopped cold.

Not by a shield, not by another sword parrying it away, but caught casually, almost insultingly, between the thumb and two fingers of the prince's left hand.

The blade hadn't even drawn blood. It just… stopped, held fast inches from Adam's neck. The sheer humiliation of it burned hotter than any physical wound.

Gritting his teeth with frustration and disbelief, the swordsman instinctively tried to pull his sword back. He yanked hard, putting his considerable strength into the motion, expecting the blade to slide free or at least force the prince to adjust his grip.

But it didn't move. Not even a millimeter.

His sword blade remained firmly caught between those two seemingly ordinary fingers and thumb. Adam's grip was like solid steel, absolutely unshakable. The swordsman pulled again, straining with all his might, his muscles bulging under his uniform.

He might as well have been trying to pull his sword out of solid rock embedded with iron bars.

There wasn't even a slight twitch, not a rattle of the blade against those fingers. It was held completely immobile, defying physics and the swordsman's lifetime of training. How could mere fingers possess such impossible strength?

Adam, still holding the blade effortlessly, locked eyes with the stunned swordsman standing just feet away. He saw the shock in the man's eyes, the confusion, the dawning realization that he was facing something far beyond a normal opponent.

And then, for just a fleeting moment, Adam felt something odd stir within himself. A flicker of… was it fear? No, not exactly fear of the swordsman. It was something else, a strange resonance triggered by the look in the swordsman's eyes.

Despite the impossible situation, despite being completely overpowered and humiliated, the swordsman wasn't showing terror. He showed shock, yes. Frustration, absolutely.

But underneath it, Adam sensed a core of unwavering duty, a soldier's resolve that didn't break even when faced with the unbelievable.

"He's not afraid?" Adam thought, genuinely surprised for a split second. "Even now? After seeing this? He's still focused on his duty, his mission to 'test' me?"

It was an unexpected glimpse of resilience, a kind of human spirit Adam hadn't encountered before, or perhaps hadn't paid attention to. It was… interesting.

But before Adam could dwell on that strange sensation, before he could analyze the swordsman's unexpected lack of fear, he felt it.

His heightened senses, now fully integrated with Eric's body and his own spiritual awareness, picked up a sharp disturbance in the air.

A ripple of movement, fast and silent, approaching rapidly from his right side, from the direction of the artificial forest.

Tiny, almost invisible projectiles slicing through the wind at incredible speed. He recognized them instantly. Needles.

The same kind of nearly invisible, wickedly sharp needles that had struck Eric earlier when Adam was still just a helpless observer trapped inside his domain.

Those same needles that had pierced Eric's skin without him even noticing until the pain hit, delivering poison or causing bleeding, weakening him significantly.

And now they were back. Launched from the shadows by the hidden assassin.

But this time, they seemed deadlier. Faster. More numerous. A silent, almost invisible swarm heading straight for him, aiming for vital points, designed to incapacitate or kill.

This time, however, Adam wasn't helpless. He wasn't just watching through scared eyes. He was in control.

Just as the deadly cloud of needles crossed the halfway point across the arena floor, closing the distance in less than a heartbeat, Adam reacted. He didn't panic or even look particularly concerned.

He shifted his stance slightly, a smooth, almost casual movement. Then, using his right hand – the one holding Eric's sword – he swung the blade. Not wildly, but with incredible precision and speed. Twice. Two fluid, perfect, almost beautiful circular motions towards the direction of the incoming attack.

FWOOOSH..!

FWOOOSH..!

Two sharp, crescent-shaped arcs of pure white energy, like solidified light, burst forth from the tip of the sword blade. They sliced through the air with a sound like tearing fabric, moving with unbelievable velocity.

These energy slashes weren't physical; they were concentrated power given form. They shot across the arena and collided violently with the swarm of approaching needles mid-flight.

CRACK!

TWING!

PING!

The sound of dozens of tiny impacts echoed sharply. The energy slashes cut cleanly through the speeding needles, slicing them neatly in half or shattering them into harmless fragments before they could even get close to Adam.

The now-broken pieces of the deadly needles scattered uselessly across the ground.

Some embedded themselves harmlessly into the dirt floor like thrown darts, others bounced off the stone walls with faint metallic clinks. The silent, deadly attack had been neutralized completely, effortlessly, almost casually.

Gasps erupted from the crowd again. They had seen the energy slashes, bright white against the arena backdrop. They understood, even if they couldn't fully comprehend the speed, that the prince had just countered a hidden attack with impossible skill.

The swordsman, who had still been desperately trying to wrench his own weapon free from Adam's impossible grip, froze again.

His eyes darted towards the direction the needles had come from, then back to the scattered fragments on the ground, then finally to Adam, who still stood calmly holding his sword, having used his other hand to wield Eric's weapon for the counterattack. He couldn't believe what he had just witnessed.

"He… he blocked the assassin's needles… while still holding my sword… with one hand?" The swordsman's mind reeled. The level of awareness, the speed of reaction, the power projection… it was beyond anything he thought possible, especially from someone who looked like Prince Eric.

The swordsman wasn't the only one completely stunned by Adam's effortless defense.

The assassin, Asherin—the one who had launched the volley of poisoned needles from his hidden position—was also caught completely off guard. He was a master of stealth and precision strikes, trained from childhood in the arts of silent killing and misdirection.

He had chosen his moment perfectly, attacking while the prince seemed fully engaged with the swordsman, hoping to take advantage of the distraction, to land a debilitating blow, to weaken him from the side as planned.

But instead of seeing the prince stumble or cry out in pain, what he witnessed was something that defied his elite training and experience.

An impossible defense. Two slashes of pure energy, executed with blinding speed and perfect accuracy, wiping out his entire volley of specialized needles in mid-air.

"He not only sensed my attack coming… which should have been almost impossible given its speed and silence… but he countered it with such perfect timing and finesse… while dealing with the swordsman?" Asherin thought, his dark eyes narrowing behind the mask or shadow that concealed his face.

This wasn't just skill; it was something else. Something far more dangerous. He needed to adjust his tactics immediately. This opponent was leagues beyond what they had anticipated.

But Asherin wasn't one to give up easily. He was a professional, adaptable and resourceful. He wouldn't rely on simple projectiles again.

Hidden amidst the tall, confusing optical structures—maybe pillars designed to create illusions or simply block sight—and the dense foliage of the artificial trees around the arena's edge, Asherin quickly activated something on a small, discreet screen embedded in his wrist guard. A complex sequence of commands flashed across the tiny display.

Suddenly—all around the arena—the light seemed to shimmer strangely, like heat haze rising, but colder.

And then—dozens upon dozens of figures flickered into existence simultaneously.

Ten. Twenty. Maybe even more. It was hard to count them all as they appeared scattered throughout the maze-like battlefield.

All of them were perfect copies, perfect replicas, of Asherin himself. Clad in the same dark, stealthy attire, holding similar daggers or other assassin tools.

Their movements, their facial expressions (where visible), even the tiny details like their breathing patterns—they looked absolutely identical.

They surrounded the central area like ghosts materializing from the shadows, some standing boldly in plain sight on ledges or open ground, others crouching low behind stone walls or hidden within the fake trees, all of them turning their identical, focused gazes towards Adam.

The spectators gasped again, louder this time, a wave of awe and confusion sweeping through the stadium.

Confusion spread like wildfire through the audience as they tried to make sense of the sudden appearance of so many assassins.

"What is that? Clones?"

"Where did they all come from?"

"Look, they all look exactly like Asherin!"

"Which one is the real one?" someone shouted, voicing the obvious problem.

"This… this is optical cloning technology! High-level stuff! Isn't that restricted, forbidden-tier magic or tech?"

"How can Prince Eric possibly deal with this many attackers at once? He can't fight them all!"

Up in the royal section of the stadium, King Noor IV sat bolt upright now, his previous calm completely gone, replaced by intense focus. His unreadable expression remained, but his body language screamed attentiveness.

His sons—Eric's older brothers, Raven and Leonard—also leaned forward in their seats again, their eyes wide with surprise and maybe a touch of excitement as they watched the multiple assassins appear. This was getting truly interesting.

The oldest brother, Prince Raven, the master swordsman, actually smirked slightly, a competitive glint in his eyes.

"Well, well… Interesting tactic," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"Multiple opponents, misdirection… Let's see just how much you've really been hiding, little brother. Can you actually overcome this illusion? Or was that first burst just a fluke?" He seemed almost eager to see Eric fail against a more complex challenge.

Back down in the transformed arena, Adam still held the struggling swordsman's blade effortlessly pinched between his fingers.

The swordsman was now using both hands, straining with every muscle in his body, veins popping on his forehead, trying desperately to reclaim his weapon—but it still wouldn't budge even a fraction of an inch. Adam's grip was absolute.

Adam's primary focus seemed to remain on the swordsman right in front of him, maintaining the impossible grip.

But his eyes, calm and analytical, slowly shifted, scanning the arena, taking in the sudden appearance of Asherin's numerous clones. He noted their positions, their postures, the subtle differences that perhaps only his heightened senses could detect.

Several of the Asherin clones were already on the move, darting through the maze, preparing coordinated attacks from different angles.

Others remained hidden behind trees or walls, simultaneously launching a fresh barrage of those tiny, sharpened needles, but this time in perfect synchronization.

The air above Adam suddenly sparkled with dozens, maybe hundreds, of tiny, deadly projectiles heading towards him from seemingly every direction at once. It was a multi-pronged attack designed to overwhelm and confuse any defender.

And still—even facing a trapped swordsman in front of him and a swarm of clones attacking with needles from all sides—

Adam didn't flinch. He didn't look worried. He didn't even seem particularly interested.

He finally spoke again, his voice calm, cold, and dripping with unimpressed disdain, easily heard over the whistle of the incoming needles:

"Clones? Needles? What a pathetic trick…"

With that dismissive comment, Adam did something unexpected. Still holding the swordsman's blade trapped in his left hand, he suddenly plunged the tip of Eric's sword—the one he held in his right hand—straight down into the stone ground at his feet with surprising force. Thunk.

The earth beneath them trembled slightly from the impact, sending faint vibrations outwards. The sword stood embedded in the stone tile, humming faintly with power.

Then, Adam raised his now-empty right hand—palm open, facing outwards—towards the general direction where the real Asherin was likely hidden amongst his illusions.

And in a calm, clear, commanding tone, like a general issuing an order, he declared the name of an attack, something no one in this kingdom had ever heard before:

"Light Attack: Ballistic Light Missiles."

As the words left his lips, a brilliant pulse of pure white energy erupted explosively from his outstretched palm. It wasn't a wave or a beam; it was something different.

In the blink of an eye, multiple—maybe dozens—of streaks of blinding white light burst forth from his hand. They looked like miniature comets or tiny, self-guided missiles made of pure energy.

Each streak shot outwards with incredible speed, leaving a bright trail behind it, and then instantly homed in on every single visible Asherin clone scattered across the battlefield.

They didn't just fly straight; they curved and adjusted their paths, locking onto their targets with unerring accuracy.

The air roared with the high-pitched hum of powerful magic charging and releasing. The light from the missiles was blinding, forcing spectators to shield their eyes again.

The stage of the trial was no longer just a test of a prince's worthiness. It had transformed into something else entirely—a shocking, terrifying demonstration of overwhelming, unknown power wielded by the boy everyone had dismissed as weak.