Chapter 28: Echoes of Ambition

The butler, ever poised, once again took center stage. His voice, carrying the gravity of tradition, rang out across the Hall:

"Next to step forth, House Caervane."

The Hall shifted, murmurs growing quieter, more cautious, more curious.

Before the tension could thicken, Mike Echo's voice burst in, bright and charged:

"AND NOW, FOLKS, WE DIVE INTO THE SHADOWS! House Caervane takin' the stage, and if you blink, you might miss the real show!"

The Echo Crystals shimmered, zooming in on the next pair stepping forward.

"First up—Silas Caervane! Calm, sharp-eyed, looks like he's calculating three battles ahead already! Quiet as the night, but don't let that fool you, that's a brain you don't wanna cross!"

"And right beside him—Lucan, Kingmaker of the Tome! Muscles under those scholar robes, eyes like steel, and carrying that massive grimoire like it's part of his soul!"

"Mind and memory, tactics and summoned terror—House Caervane's bringin' the silent storm, Folks! Get ready for a different kind of fight!!"

The nobles leaned forward, not with excitement, but with wary interest, watching as House Caervane prepared to show their strength.

Silas Caervane and Lucan stepped into the arena with measured calm, no dramatic charges, no grins, only the quiet weight of calculation.

The animated armors reset once more, standing tall and gleaming under the light.

Silas's cold gaze swept across the field, analyzing swiftly. He spoke lowly, voice devoid of tension:

"Their reliance on arcane runes is absolute. Find the medium, break it, and they collapse."

Lucan gave a slight nod, adjusting his glasses with two fingers, the lenses glinting under the Arcane lights.

Without hesitation, he opened the massive grimoire strapped to his side. The pages flipped rapidly on their own, a blur of ancient ink and glyphs, the sound sharp and rhythmic like fluttering wings.

Finally, one page ripped itself free from the tome, floating gently downward, glowing faintly as it touched the polished stone floor.

The summoned energy thickened, humming, coiling, building pressure.

From the torn page floating on the floor, the air itself seemed to unravel, and from that distortion, a massive form slithered into existence.

A Lindwurm: an ancient serpent-dragon of legend, emerged, its shimmering, scale-covered body coiled with impossible grace. Its sleek, wingless form gleamed under the arcane light, runes etched faintly along its sinuous body.

It moved without sound, without roar, only the faint crackle of magic rippling from its scales.

"UH—ARE YOU SEEIN' THIS, FOLKS?!" Mike Echo practically shouted, voice climbing in pitch. "HOUSE CAERVANE JUST SUMMONED—A LINDWURM!! THAT'S RIGHT—AN ACTUAL MYTH WALKIN' INTO THIS ARENA LIKE IT OWNS THE PLACE!!"

The nobles leaned forward, a mixture of awe and dread rippling across the Hall.

Silas gave no command. Lucan merely nodded once, snapping his grimoire closed with a soft, final thud.

The Lindwurm coiled, its golden eyes flashing once, then with a single, fluid strike, it lashed across the field.

CRASH—!!

The entire line of animated armors was obliterated in one sweeping arc, crushed, shattered, scattered across the polished floor like broken dolls.

No chaos. No wild explosions. Just a cold, elegant ending.

The Lindwurm lowered its head, coils rippling slowly as if it hadn't even exerted effort.

"CLEAN. EFFICIENT. TERRIFYIN'." Mike Echo breathed, almost reverent for once. "HOUSE CAERVANE JUST DROPPED THE ENTIRE FRONTLINE—WITHOUT A SINGLE WASTED MOVE!!"

The Hall held its breath, then broke into stunned applause, the nobles murmuring with a mix of admiration and unease.

House Caervane had made their mark.

Lucan, standing calm amid the silent ruin, closed his grimoire with a soft, final thud.

The Lindwurm, still coiled in slow, lazy motions, flickered, and without warning, it burst apart with a muted splash.

A cloud of shimmering black ink splattered lightly across the polished arena floor, like a dream dissolving into nothingness.

No roar. No fanfare. Just silence, and the lingering ripples of summoned memory.

"AND JUST LIKE THAT, FOLKS—GONE!" Mike Echo cried, almost stunned. "HOUSE CAERVANE DON'T JUST FIGHT—THEY ERASE!"

The Hall murmured again, some nobles exchanging uneasy glances, others quietly impressed by the cold efficiency on display.

House Caervane had proven their point, and left nothing behind but the echo of their precision.

The butler, voice steady and full of ceremonial weight, stepped forward once again.

"Next to step forth, House Duskmere, Candidate Sylviane Duskmere, and her Kingmaker, Sayo."

The Hall grew notably quieter. Even the nobles who had grown used to the pageantry leaned forward slightly, tension threading through the air.

Mike Echo's voice followed fast, energetic but laced with a sharper edge:

"OHHH—HERE WE GO, FOLKS!! House Duskmere steppin' up—AND REMEMBER, this isn't just one Candidate and Kingmaker combo! No, no—House Duskmere's bringin' TWO pairs into this Candidacy!!"

"TWO Candidates. TWO Kingmakers. One house. One ambition."

"For those less familiar—having two Kingmakers under one roof? That's like holdin' two loaded cannons—with no safety locks!"

"It's power, sure, but it's also wild, unpredictable, and downright terrifying if they don't control it right!!"

The Echo Crystals captured the pair making their way toward the arena:

"Leadin' this charge—Sylviane Duskmere! Cold as winter steel, elegant as a blade, and carryin' the full pride of the Duskmere name on her shoulders!"

"And beside her—get ready—Sayo, the Blind Oracle! Calm. Silent. Wrapped in mystery—but those who know—KNOW—she's a storm you don't hear until it breaks right over your head!!"

The Hall practically buzzed as Sylviane and Sayo moved with unhurried, precise steps onto the platform, their presence cold, poised, and undeniable.

Sylviane and Sayo reached the center of the arena with calm, deliberate steps.

Without hesitation, Sylviane extended one hand. In a burst of cold, silver light, a graceful longbow materialized in her grip, elegant, slender, and deadly.

Her voice, cool and composed, drifted over to Sayo:

"Release two Shura clones. Sweep the flanks. I'll cover you from the backline."

Sayo, without a word of protest, unsheathed her blade, Shura, in a single fluid motion. She lifted her palm, and without hesitation, sliced across it,a thin line of crimson blood spilling forth.

From the slow drip onto the polished stone, two exact replicas of Sayo formed. Crimson-skinned and armed with twisted copies of Shura, their faces twisting into maniacal grins.

"WHOA-HO-HO, FOLKS!!" Mike Echo bellowed, half awe, half nerves. "HOUSE DUSKMERE PLAYIN' WITH BLOOD MAGIC, FOLKS!! CLONES—ACTUAL BLOOD-FORGED CLONES!!"

The two crimson Sayo clones let out sharp, almost gleeful laughter, then in perfect synchrony, they sprinted forward, veering to opposite flanks.

One cutting right, one cutting left.

Their blades trimmed through the front lines with clean, brutal efficiency, armored enemies falling apart one after another.

Meanwhile, the real Sayo moved straight down the middle, her steps graceful, her strikes devastating, sweeping through the centerline like a dance performance.

Sylviane stood motionless at the rear, silver bow drawn taut.

Every time an enemy attempted to break from the collapsing formation.

TWANG—!!

A silver arrow whistled through the air, piercing joints, disabling enemies before they could even think to retreat.

Their formation crumbled in perfect symmetry, caught between unrelenting blades and precise, merciless fire from above.

"COLD. CALCULATED. BEAUTIFUL." Mike Echo's voice dropped into an almost reverent whisper. "HOUSE DUSKMERE DOESN'T CHARGE, FOLKS—THEY SURGICALLY CARVE THE FIELD OPEN, ONE BREATH AT A TIME!!"

The Hall watched, stunned, as Sylviane and Sayo dismantled the enemy ranks with chilling precision.

From his place near the velvet cordons, Ethan Peirce, could feel the weight of a thousand eyes pressing down on him. Not just the nobles packed inside the Grand Hall, but everyone across the Capital watching through the Echo Crystals.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, tension gathering like a coil in his chest.

He wasn't just stepping into a fancy party now, he was stepping into the sight of an entire region.

Ethan exhaled slowly, willing his heart to calm, but it only seemed to pound harder.

A hand patted him lightly on the back.

"Relax," Ceris said, her voice low, steady, almost teasing. "You're not alone out there."

She flashed him a small smile, calm, sure of herself, then added:

"Our plan's simple. You cripple them. I'll finish them."

Ethan blinked, then managed a short, nervous laugh. It wasn't much, but somehow, it made the pressure lift just a little.

Meanwhile

In a shadowed balcony alcove, veiled by heavy curtains, a quiet exchange passed unnoticed by the crowd.

Lord Severin Veylin stood with his arms crossed behind his back, posture sharp as a blade. Jack Veylin leaned casually against the railing, one eye on the marble arena below, the other on his father.

"The arrangement is confirmed," Severin said, his voice a precise whisper. "When the moment comes, question the Trial."

Jack smirked. "Louder challenge, brighter spotlight. Just say the word, and I'll make it echo."

Severin's gaze narrowed. "Let others spill their sweat first. When the Court tires, you'll strike the stone. The Judge will see to the shift."

"A slight edge… earned with just a few words," Jack murmured, his grin widening.

"A few words shape legacies," Severin replied, eyes like frost. "Don't stumble when the Capital is watching."

Jack chuckled softly. "They'll see what I want them to see, House Veylin, stronger than the rest."

The curtain stirred slightly as the Hall's attention returned to the platform.

And then Mike Echo ignited.

"Next to step forth, House Duskmere, Candidate, Ceris Valen Duskmere, and her Kingmaker, Ethan Peirce."

The Hall shifted again, nobles whispering under their breaths.

Mike Echo's voice burst to life, riding the wave of renewed excitement:

"AND HERE THEY COME, FOLKS!! The SECOND pair from House Duskmere!!"

"Leading—Ceris Valen Duskmere, a rising blade from the main branch—carrying the legacy of redemption on her shoulders!"

"And by her side—making waves bigger than most Candidates, Ethan Peirce, also known as—THE TRICKSTER BLADE OF DUSKMERE!!"

"Newcomers? Maybe. Underestimated? NOT A CHANCE!! LET'S SEE WHAT THEY'VE GOT!!"

The Echo Crystals captured the two stepping onto the platform.

Ceris, poised, determined, a subtle glint of fire in her eyes.

And Ethan, tense, but standing tall, his nerves burning into sharp, ready focus.

As Ethan and Ceris stepped further onto the platform, a loud, familiar voice rang out from somewhere in the noble stands:

"WOOO!! DON'T YOU DARE LOSE, BEAST!!" Solus shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth, his voice booming across the Hall without a care in the world.

A few nobles flinched at the raw volume, others glared.

From beside Solus, Iria visibly winced, her face flushing a soft red as she tried, and failed, to pretend she didn't know him.

Ethan chuckled under his breath, laughing awkwardly as he waved a hand back toward the stands in half-embarrassed thanks.

"Idiot," Ceris muttered beside him, but there was a faint, amused twitch at the corner of her mouth.

As Ethan refocused on the arena, a low, familiar voice murmured within his mind—

Omen.

"Their movements are mechanical. Their fear is absent. Deception will falter here."

"Focus on disabling them completely, Kingmaker."

The weight of Omen's words settled quickly.

No tricks. No feints.

Just pure, clinical disabling.

Ethan exhaled slowly, and when he opened his eyes again, they burned with sharper resolve.

The Trial was about to begin.

Ethan leaned closer to Ceris, voice low but firm:

"Give me an opening."

Their Kingmaker-Candidate marks pulsed faintly a glow of shared intent.

Ceris didn't hesitate.

With a sharp inhale, she charged forward, her silver blade slicing through the air.

Her opening strike was a diagonal arc, clean, powerful, breaking through the first line of armored enemies, scattering them, disrupting their formations.

Several armors fell, joints cracked or disabled by the force of her precision.

Without missing a beat, Ethan followed, moving with a sleek, low sprint, staying beneath the enemy's line of sight.

He slipped through the broken front lines like a shadow.

While the attention remained on Ceris, Ethan slipped into the backline, undetected.

The ranged armors had no chance.

One after another, Ethan cut them down, raw, feral slashes from his short sword.

Each blow was a swift, brutal strike, one swing, one enemy down.

As Ethan weaved through the chaos, low and swift, Mike Echo's voice crackled with excitement over the Hall and plaza:

"SLICKER THAN A GHOST IN A STORM, FOLKS!! THAT'S ETHAN PEIRCE FOR YA—SLIPPIN' RIGHT THROUGH THE CRACKS BEFORE ANYONE CAN EVEN BLINK!!"

The nobles leaned in, murmuring at the unusual, predatory movements, so different from the rigid, formal styles they'd seen so far.

"Reckless," Omen muttered darkly in Ethan's mind. "You leave your flanks wide open."

"Look."

Ethan risked a glance, and saw Ceris.

She was still holding her ground, but the sheer number of frontliners pressing against her was growing.

Without thinking, Ethan surged back toward her.

He slipped behind the front-liners, crippling them with precise, disabling strikes,hamstrings, joints, weak points, breaking their momentum.

And Ceris, sensing the opening, finished them off with clinical precision, her blade moving like a flash of silver lightning.

Together, they carved through the enemy lines.

Soon, only one figure remained.

The mini-boss, an agile armored figure, wielding dual daggers.

It moved differently, fast, precise, dangerous.

Ethan tightened his grip on his short sword.

"I'll disable its hands," Ethan said, voice sharp. "You finish it."

Ceris gave a single nod, no hesitation.

The agile enemy darted toward them, faster than anything they'd faced yet.

But Ethan was already moving.

With a snap of his wrist, the grapple launcher mounted on his left forearm fired, the hook anchoring itself into the enemy's ankle.

Before the armored figure could react, Ethan yanked,both arms pulling hard—

The enemy's footing gave way, it slammed into the ground with a heavy crash.

And Ceris was already there.

Her blade flashed once—

CLANG—!!

A single, clean strike, and the enemy's movements ceased.

The Trial was over.

The Hall erupted with a fresh wave of cheers and murmurs, but none louder than Mike Echo's exuberant roar blasting through the arena and across the plaza:

"WHOOOO!! FOLKS, DID YOU SEE THAT?! DUSKMERE'S SECOND BLADE STRIKES TRUE!!"

"THE TRICKSTER AND THE RISING BLADE—SWIFT, SHARP, AND RELENTLESS!!"

"HOUSE DUSKMERE'S DARK HORSE JUST KICKED DOWN THE GATES, FOLKS!! REMEMBER THOSE NAMES—CERIS VALEN DUSKMERE AND ETHAN PEIRCE—'CAUSE THEY AIN'T JUST SURVIVIN'—THEY'RE THRIVIN'!!"

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, their cheers carrying across the Grand Plaza.

The butler, ever composed, stepped forward once more. His voice, unwavering and clear, carried across the Hall:

"Next to step forth, House Veylin."

A ripple of whispers moved through the gathered nobles.

In one of the higher booths draped in green and gold, Lord Severin Veylin stood slowly from his seat. His sharp eyes glinted beneath the shadow of the balcony canopy.

A thin, satisfied smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"Let them watch," he murmured to himself, more to the silence than to anyone present. "The world will know who the next true King shall be."

He watched calmly as Jack Veylin and Zeek prepared to step into the light, his confidence unshaken, his trap already laid.