"Master… the Imperial forces have gathered at Thalvion's front gates," reported Gubel Veynor, the commander of the gatekeepers, his breath heavy and his face tight with tension. "They've amassed a massive army and are preparing to attack… unless Smokeland gives them an answer soon."
Master Veynor Lauxi stood silently before the window in his private chamber, reserved only for his command. His gaze reached far, toward the misty mountains that framed the horizon. His eyes were sharp, but his expression was as calm as a still lake.
"So... they've truly come to this," he murmured. "After Thaldrim's defeat, they've lost their grip. Now, they're desperate to capture Rogg—no matter the cost."
He turned around and fixed his eyes on Gubel, unwavering.
"Make sure the Doliex warriors remain at their posts. No panic. No retaliation. Remember, they're trying to corner us with hollow threats. Don't grant them the victory of fear. We stand on our own land… and as long as I draw breath, not one of us shall cower."
"Yes, Master… but… their numbers have reached two hundred thousand," Gubel said quietly but firmly. His eyes locked with his master's, searching for reassurance.
"Two hundred thousand?" Veynor Lauxi let out a cold, confident smile. "Gubel… even if they came with a million, would you tremble?"
Gubel fell silent. His breath caught.
"No, Master."
"Good." Veynor nodded. "Let's show them… who the Doliex truly are. One of us is worth a thousand of them. Never forget that."
Gubel clenched his fists. "Understood, Master! Please send the command immediately so I can ready my troops."
Veynor Lauxi stepped toward a black wooden table and began drafting the command order. His hand moved steadily—not rushed—as if even time itself bent to his composure.
"They gave us five days… and now they try to intimidate us into an early surrender," he muttered as he wrote. "They think we'll cower because Thaldrim has fallen… but it's they who are losing their footing. The Empire is gambling… and that bet could be their undoing."
He sealed the order with the sigil of the Doliex Night Eye and handed it directly to Gubel.
"Go. Take this—and guard Thalvion's gate with your life."
"Yes, Master!" Gubel bowed deeply, then turned and left the room with resolute steps, carrying with him the hope and courage instilled in every word of his master.
The Round of Sixteen was about to begin. Thunderous cheers erupted from the packed grandstands of Lumindale. But in the center of the arena… stood a lone figure.
Rogg.
Tall. Still. Unshaken. His gaze pierced through the morning mist with razor clarity.
The knights watching from the sidelines were struck silent. Confusion and disbelief etched across their faces. Normally, from the Round of Thirty-Two to Sixteen, battles were one-on-one—drawn by chance, sometimes favoring the weak, sometimes eliminating the strong early. But today… one man stood against fifteen.
"What in the world…?" whispered one knight. "He's… alone?"
Something had changed. Deliberately. A shift in the rules—charged with schemes and manipulation.
Then, from the seat of honor, a deep, commanding voice rang through the arena.
"You all know the man standing at the center of the arena."
It was the voice of Sigido Covarthis, a revered master—former servant of the Empire, and the grand instructor of the Doliex knights and assassins.
"He is Rogg Robelix. A blood-mixed son—Doliex and Robelix. Many among us have refused to acknowledge him. Many have called him a traitor to the Empire, a stain upon our blood. But…"
He paused, eyes locked on Rogg with penetrating intensity.
"He is one of us. Half Doliex. And for that—I stand here to declare: until he is proven guilty, not a single one of us has the right to cast him out, nor can the Empire take him from us. Not from this arena. Not from our blood."
A rumble swept through the stands. Some clapped. Others stared at Rogg, uncertain. Conflicted.
Rogg looked at Sigido… and gave a slight smile. In that smile was relief. Understanding. Sigido hadn't remained silent out of hatred—but out of patience. He had been waiting. Waiting for Rogg to choose his own path.
Sigido raised his voice once more.
"This is the deciding match! If Rogg can defeat the other fifteen knights… then we, the Doliex, will stand with him. We will recognize him. Protect him. Support him."
He clenched his fist. His voice ignited the air.
"But if he falls… then he must face his fate alone. We will not intervene."
Silence followed. Knights glanced at one another. Some scoffed. Some gritted their teeth. But others… lowered their heads, quietly admitting that Rogg's triumph over Thaldrim was no fluke—it couldn't be denied.
Meanwhile, masters, elders, and knights from all corners of Smokeland had gathered. The sky was turning gray. Cold winds swept down from the icy peaks.
Suddenly, the arena bells rang out.
Duum… Duum… Duum!
As the gong echoed, signaling the start of the battle, a shift swept through the arena. Heavy, reverent footsteps thundered across Lumindale's ground—the arrival of the Grand Elders from Aeternum Vale.
Every eye turned. The focus, once locked on the lone figure in the center of the ring, now shifted in solemn awe toward the elders who had just arrived.
A sacred silence blanketed the arena as every spectator, master, knight, and citizen lowered their heads in unison. None dared to lift their gaze—except to look upon the scene with reverence. Even Mother Zeeva, a constant presence at momentous events, had arrived today alongside the other High Elders—those who, for decades, had never descended together.
Amid murmurs of disbelief, Master Thalion Velary stepped forward and declared, his voice ringing clear, "This is a blessing and a moment of greatness! The High Elders grace us with their presence. Let us offer them our deepest honor and glory!"
Elder Veynor Grauri strode ahead, his voice resounding like a heavenly decree. "The divine above, the mortal below. Purify your hearts and minds. Devote yourselves to life, to the world, and to greatness—that is the path to sanctity. We are a great people. A nation that stands on its own. And you, noble knights of Doliex, are its unshakable strength!"
Thunderous cheers erupted. The stomping of feet and roaring voices echoed off every wall of the arena. Lumindale seemed to come alive.
Then, Elder Veynor Lauxi stepped forward, raising his hand. "Now... let the ceremony continue, my brothers and sisters."
Rogg stood silently at the center of the arena. Yet a faint, meaningful smile appeared on his face as his eyes met those of his mother, Mother Zeeva. Beside him stood Yara, cradling Rex—the tiny infant who now symbolized hope and the enduring bloodline of Doliex. The moment became a still painting, unnamed but holding a thousand unspoken truths.
"Very well, let us proceed," Elder Lauxi said firmly. "Rogg has been waiting. If any of you believe yourselves worthy—step forward! Claim Vermithor, and defeat Rogg if you can. Only one will stand as the final knight!"
Balthros—tall and broad, wielding a massive axe—entered the arena. His face carried confidence, yet it couldn't fully mask the tremor in his fingers.
On the sideline, Mendrova watched in silence. Behind his enigmatic mask, a cold, calculating smile crept across his face. "As Lord Thaldrim commanded," Tarkhan whispered to him, "we'll wound him as deep as we can. You only need to wait for the right moment."
Azrakar nodded with conviction. "We'll make sure Rogg doesn't leave the arena unscathed."
Thaldrim, after his humiliating defeat, had returned to the Whiteheaven Empire with his elite forces. But his battle was far from over. The knights he still had in the final sixteen now bore a serious task: cripple Rogg—no matter the cost, even if it meant their own lives.
The sudden rule change had opened the floodgates, giving Thaldrim's loyalists free rein to strike Rogg in plain sight. Amid it all, Nyx cursed under her breath, unable to comprehend the Elders' decision.
"Why is Rogg the sole challenger?" she hissed. "Are the Elders and Masters so afraid of the Empire that they'd offer him as sacrifice to appease their fear?"
Elandra bit her lip, eyes still locked on the arena. "Or... could this be part of Rogg's own plan? But why now? There are still three days left."
"Let's just wait. If Rogg falls, we move in and claim the legendary axe," Brando said coolly.
But Brisena, her eyes sharp as blades, snapped back, "You don't believe my brother can win?"
Brando lowered his gaze. "I have faith in Lord Rogg. But if he falls, shouldn't we be ready to take over?"
"This is more than a duel," Brisena said with firm conviction. "My brother wants everything done by the rules. He's not afraid. What worries him is a war ignited without just cause—especially if his presence drives the Empire to investigate his origins. But the Empire has already made the wrong move."
The arena thundered once more.
The battle began.
Balthros charged, swinging his axe with all his might. The air howled. But Rogg—serene as a war god—spun his spear, deflecting and brushing off the axe as if it were nothing but a brittle branch. In one swift motion, his spear shot toward Balthros's throat. The giant froze, eyes wide in shock.
THUD!
A crushing kick slammed into his gut. The massive body was lifted off the ground, then crashed to the floor, shaking the arena.
One by one, challengers stepped into the ring: Vardrake, Kaelthorn, Zepharoth, Dornak, Ashwar, Korvath, Torgath. Each came with fire in their eyes. Each fell—one after another.
Against Vardrake, Rogg used a neck lock that left him gasping for air, begging to yield. With Kaelthorn, he danced an illusion—causing the knight to step out of the ring three times in a row. Zepharoth was dragged into a test of raw strength—and lost in a brutal shove. Dornak was thrown repeatedly until his body could no longer rise.
Despite the brutality, every move Rogg made was calculated. He was a dancer in the storm—a fighter armed not just with power, but with deadly intelligence and resolve.
The battle raged on. Rogg now faced his next trio—Ashwar, Korvath, and Torgath—in a deadly weapons duel.
Against Ashwar, Rogg chose a longsword. Sparks filled the air as steel clashed, and like a shadow, Rogg's blade swung again and again toward Ashwar's throat. Each strike came within a hair's breadth of skin. Ashwar's breath grew heavier, his steps unsteady. Fear crept into his eyes. One wrong move, and it would all be over.
Next came Korvath, known for his speed. But Rogg—with two short sticks in hand—moved in utter silence, striking again and again. Korvath had no chance to respond. Each blow from Rogg seemed preordained, arriving before time itself could react. Gasping, Korvath finally bowed his head slightly—a silent admission of defeat. The gulf between them was too vast.
Then came Torgath... a giant of a man, as big as an ancient tree. Rogg met him with a long staff, wielding it like a divine spear. He kept his distance. Every time Torgath tried to strike, Rogg's staff met him first. Torgath couldn't land a single blow. Only frustrated grunts and the clatter of wood on armor echoed again and again.
And yet—the battle was not over.