Glory

The battle dragged on, but the once-agile queen had begun to slow. Her breaths grew heavier, her swings less precise. Age, no matter how suppressed by aura mastery, was catching up to her.

The crowd that had once roared with excitement now watched in anxious silence, their cheers fading under the weight of pressure. Every slash of Lucas's sword was met with an elegant counter, his flame arts deflected by the queen's flawless technique. Even without unleashing his full strength, Lucas knew — the queen's mastery was real.

"She's strong… in term of power,its probably close to being 6 star," Lucas thought, sweat glistening on his brow. 

Finally, with a perfectly timed feint, Lucas landed a clean slash across her side. The queen staggered, coughing blood — but she still stood.

It was time.

Lucas turned toward Isla and gave a subtle nod. Isla instantly understood.

"Evacuate the spectators," Isla commanded.

Imperial knights moved swiftly, urging nobles and foreign dignitaries to flee the arena. But many were reluctant, held in place by curiosity, awe… and pride.

Then the Pope rose to speak, his voice echoing with authority:

"Whoever remains are responsible for their own safety.The duel has gone beyond what we could contain."

Some fled. Others stayed, unwilling to miss a once-in-a-lifetime moment — even if it cost them everything.

Across the field, the queen stood battered, her silver hair tangled and soaked with sweat. Still, she smiled.

"No matter how powerful your aura is, I can slash it," she said. 

"My Starless Art exists to counter all aura. When I close my eyes, I see the threads that bind energy together — and I cut them."

Lucas gave a small smirk.

"Then slice this.My final form"

Gasps filled the stands. The remaining spectators trembled. Even battle-hardened knights flinched at those words.

The queen's eyes gleamed with excitement. After years of ruling behind walls, the thrill of a real battle had awakened something in her — the warrior she once was.

"Good. Show me. Let me feel the Empire's flame, one last time."

Lucas pointed his sword forward. He inhaled deeply, then slashed down with full focus.

Heavenly Flame Art – Final Form: World Devourer.

A black orb formed at the tip of his blade, crackling with unnatural energy. As it traveled with his swing and struck the earth, the ground cracked open — and from within erupted black flames, hotter than anything in existence, rush forward like a living wave.

The knights behind him activated defensive arts, shielding the spectators as best they could.

The queen steadied herself.

This is it. The ultimate test. Can Starless Art cut through this?

She closed her eyes to see the threads — but her eyes flew open in horror.

Infinite strings... endless threads of aura.

Realization dawned too late.

Still, she raised her blade and slashed with all her strength.

Starless Art: Null.

Her sword tore through the countless aura strands — dozens, hundreds, thousands — but they kept coming. Her final thought was calm.

This attack… will kill me.

And she smiled.

As the black flames consumed her, a second slash ripped across the battlefield.

Heavenly Dark Art – Final Form: Dimension Slash.

Isla appeared from the shadows, his sword tearing through the air with a sound that shattered the sound barrier. The force of his attack collided with Lucas's flames, redirecting the brunt of it away from the surviving guests. The shockwave flattened the arena, toppling stone pillars and blasting debris skyward.

When the dust finally settled—

Lucas stood, sword lowered, his expression unreadable.

There was no trace of the queen. Not even ash.

On the far side, Crown Prince Ian stood with blood trailing down his forehead, lightly wounded.

The Pope and King Andreas stood behind twin holy barriers, both cracked and flickering. Andreas coughed blood, and the Pope leaned on his staff, eyes wide.

Even Isla seemed shaken.

His gaze locked onto Lucas.

That technique…

Almost equal to my final form in terms of power.

A stunned silence fell.

Then, a knight stepped forward and declared:

"Victory… belongs to the Empire."

A few remaining spectators clapped, hesitantly. Others remained silent, struck dumb by the sheer devastation.

And above it all, the legacy of the White Sovereign — one of the world's greatest masters — was reduced to memory.