At first, the scene appeared to repeat itself for a third time. Orlando lunged at Enea, attempting to cut his opponent with a swift swing of his sword, but Enea effortlessly dodged the attack. A moment later, a new cut appeared somewhere on the elf's body—this time across his right shoulder—once again slicing cleanly through his armor.
But this time, instead of retreating, Orlando noticed that his opponent seemed to be limiting himself solely to evasion. Seizing that observation, he pressed forward, continuing his assault without giving Enea any time to breathe.
Seeing this, the sadistic smile on Enea's face widened noticeably.
Naturally, Orlando's attacks were still avoided with ease, and with each failed strike, another wound blossomed on the Royal Knight's body. Yet it was clear that Enea had no intention of ending the fight quickly. None of the injuries he inflicted were severe enough to finish the battle outright, even though—judging by the devastating blow he had delivered earlier in the fight—he was more than capable of dealing truly crippling damage by cutting through the elf's defenses. Enea was merely toying with his opponent.
As expected, Orlando found this infuriating. With every strike that met only empty air, his pride was wounded further and further. Still, in his mind, surrendering would be far worse. And so, enduring both the pain of his injuries and the damage to his pride, he refused to stop his relentless barrage of attacks.
Even after another fifteen minutes had passed—more than two-thirds of the maximum duration allowed for matches that day—the confrontation had devolved into what could only be described as a macabre spectacle.
"Not yet! Not yet! Not yet! Not yet..." the Royal Knight shouted over and over again.
Orlando had still failed to land even a single hit on his opponent, and a growing pool of blood had formed beneath his feet. Yet throughout all those long minutes, his arms—like the rest of his body, now riddled with sword wounds—had never ceased moving.
The audience was beginning to struggle with watching the elf continue to fight. Even the young women who, at the beginning of the match, had waved banners proclaiming "I love you, Orlando," their eyes shining with excitement, now looked on with nothing but tender concern and mounting tension etched across their faces.
But it wasn't only the spectators whose mood had shifted so drastically. Over those same fifteen minutes, the twisted, sadistic smile that had once adorned Enea's face had slowly faded, replaced instead by a bitter one. In the single eye visible beneath his hair, there was no longer amusement—only genuine respect for his opponent.
Orlando was certainly not the kind of person Enea would normally befriend. He was elitist, overly serious, and clearly held the belief that humans, as a species, were inferior to elves. However, during their brief exchange at the start of the match, he had also demonstrated that this belief did not translate into underestimating Enea—and that, in itself, had immediately caught Enea's interest.
Moreover, it wasn't anger alone that had driven Orlando to challenge him despite the warning; honor had played just as strong a role.
Still, despite the respect he now felt, Enea was beginning to grow bored. That respect had erased his desire to tease Orlando any further, and although the elf's approach was thoughtful and undoubtedly effective against opponents of similar speed, Enea found it boring to deal with.
Unfortunately, it was time to bring this encounter to an end.
Another sword strike from Orlando came rushing toward Enea. Almost everyone in the stadium assumed that this attack, like all the others before it, would be effortlessly dodged by the stronger adventurer.
Everyone except one person.
This time, Enea raised his katana and chose to block the blow.
Orlando's now barely functioning eyes widened. Before he could even begin to understand why he had finally managed to force his opponent to block one of his attacks, Enea spoke to him.
"I don't think the respect of someone like me is worth much," he said calmly, "but know that you have earned it. You were really cool."
Before Orlando could even process those unexpectedly sincere words, a pillar of ice erupted from the ground. It rose with terrifying speed and overwhelming force, slamming directly into Orlando's armored stomach. The reinforced armor was pulverized instantly, and the Royal Knight was knocked unconscious by the single, devastating blow, finally bringing an end to the macabre encounter.
'So he uses ice magic as well...' Aislyra thought, her expression tense. That, in itself, was not unusual. Along with lightning magic, ice magic was one of the most common type of derived magic. However, there was still something deeply unsettling about what she had just witnessed. The spell Enea had used was not one she recognized. It bore a strong resemblance to Ice Column, a spell she herself could cast, but that spell was primarily used for movement. It normally lacked both the destructive power and the density required to produce such an impact. If it truly had been Ice Column, the ice should have shattered harmlessly against Orlando's armor.
Moreover, Aislyra was certain of something else. Enea had not spoken at all when the spell was cast. After delivering his words to Orlando, his mouth had not moved even a millimeter. And Ice Column—like the vast majority of spells—required its name to be spoken in order to activate.
Since detecting the mana of a spell like that should have been relatively easy, Aislyra turned her gaze toward Katerina. The maid immediately understood what she was being asked and gently shook her head in response. This confirmed Aislyra's growing unease: once again, Katerina had been completely unable to perceive any trace of mana from Enea's spell.
She felt a twinge of pity for Orlando. He had fought like a model Royal Knight, embodying discipline, pride, and unyielding resolve. Like many others, Aislyra had long believed that if Fortore ever ceased to be the captain of the Royal Knights, Orlando—not Gilciso—should be the one to inherit that position. Yet the more she watched this boy fight, the more mysterious he became. And the more mysterious he became, the more her body trembled with excitement and the stronger her desire to challenge him grew. For that reason, she could not help but feel glad that Enea had emerged victorious.
Lucas, on the other hand, felt a quiet sense of unease. Enea frightened him, at least a little. Considering that he had warned his opponent before the match even began, he was probably not a bad person. Still, judging by the condition Orlando had been left in, he was certainly someone Lucas had no desire to face. And to make matters even more frustrating, nothing Enea had said or done during the match brought him any closer to understanding why the young man was wearing what were very clearly Bluetooth headphones from his world.
Pinusal approached Enea, raised his arm, and announced loudly, "The winner of this match is Enea Draghi!"
Only a few scattered claps followed. Most of the spectators remained silent. From beginning to end, it had been painfully clear that the hero's bodyguard had been playing with his opponent. And although the match had certainly been preferable to Buio's earlier fight—no one had died, and Enea had shown genuine respect for Orlando—it still left an unpleasant aftertaste lingering in the crowd's minds.
Before leaving the arena, Enea walked over to Orlando's unconscious body. Using one of his nails, he made a small cut at the base of his own index finger. A single drop of blood fell from it, landing directly on one of Orlando's wounds. Then, speaking softly to the fallen Royal Knight, he said, "I can't say it was entertaining match all the way to the end, but I didn't dislike it at all"
With that, he turned and left the arena.
Moments later, the medical team rushed in and carefully lifted the unconscious knight onto a stretcher. However, as they carried him away, one of the doctors noticed something deeply strange. Although Orlando's body was still stained with blood, every single wound he had suffered during the fight had completely disappeared.
Before long, the arena was prepared for the next matches.
The sun was slowly sinking, its light turning a deeper shade of orange. It had to be around half past five in the evening.
Ladies and gentlemen, we are getting closer and closer to the end of this first day of preliminaries. There are only three matches left, and the one about to begin is the third to last. I'm sure there are still some participants you're hoping to see, so I say we waste no more time and immediately call the two fighters who will compete in this match!" Chiacchera announced, briefly glancing at the setting sun before pointing decisively toward the left side of the arena.
"Another pillar of our nation is about to enter through that gate. The youngest among the ministers, his inventions are used throughout our entire country. A master inventor and alchemist, he may seem a little awkward at times, but he is certainly not to be underestimated in battle. Please welcome the current Minister of Technology..." Chiacchera continued with growing enthusiasm.
One of the gates on the left side of the arena rose slowly, and from it emerged a young elf with short, slightly tousled light-blue hair. He wore thick yet crystal-clear glasses that revealed beautiful ocean-blue eyes behind them. He had left behind his oversized laboratory coat, which would have been far too cumbersome for combat. Instead, he was dressed in a simple black short-sleeved T-shirt and light-blue pants held up by a belt. Both garments were clearly chosen for freedom of movement, something that would have been impossible in his usual attire. The shirt, slightly tight-fitting, revealed a surprisingly well-trained body—an unexpected sight for someone known to spend most of his time buried in research and experiments. Attached to his belt was a small brown pouch, secured with what appeared to be a golden cord.
"Macro Basento!" Chiacchera concluded loudly.
Macro walked slowly toward the center of the arena, his body trembling faintly with every step, though his eyes shone with unmistakable determination. He was clearly nervous, which was hardly surprising given his gentle personality and the fact that this was his very first time participating in the Tournament of the Golden Trees. In previous years, he had deliberately chosen not to take part, he didn't feel ready yet. This time, however, he had resolved to prove something—to himself, to others, and perhaps most of all to his beloved queen. If the need ever arose, he wanted to show that he, too, was capable of protecting the people he cared about.
When Macro finally reached the center of the arena, his hands were still shaking slightly. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and clenched his fists tightly. The trembling ceased at once, leaving behind only a steady posture and a resolute gaze.
"On the right side of the arena, we have a prodigy from the Frassino Magic Academy, the largest and most prestigious magical institution in the kingdom of Yggdora. Now a member of our kingdom's special magic unit known as Sambuco, he continues to demonstrate his exceptional talent. It is said that at the tender age of ten, he had already learned and mastered is Derived Magic. Due to his noble origins and his Derived Magic, he earned the nickname Count Bordò..." Chiacchera announced, pointing toward the opposite gate.
That gate rose, revealing another young-looking elf. He had long, wavy hair the color of fire and blood-red eyes that immediately drew attention. His ears were slightly longer than those of an average elf, adding to his striking appearance. He wore a burgundy tunic adorned with various golden details, including a distinctive ornament depicting a bird similar to a sparrow.
Macro recognized that symbol instantly. He knew exactly what kind of bird it represented. It was a shrike—a small but ruthless predator known for preserving its prey by impaling it on the thorns of especially thorny trees.
"Vala Bloodhory!" Chiacchera exclaimed.
Vala walked toward the center of the arena with elegant, confident steps, radiating arrogance with every movement. The moment his eyes landed on his opponent, a smile formed on his face—a smile that blended amusement, cruelty, and joy.
"Well, well," the red-haired elf said as he quickened his pace, his voice dripping with cheerful venom, "if it isn't the greatest failure ever to crawl out of the Frassino Academy… my beloved classmate, Macro."