"Sigh." After a few short, awkward minutes of stunned silence, Ethan finally pulled himself together and shrugged off his top coat, revealing a black spandex shirt fitted tightly against his frame underneath, the fabric shifting easily as he moved.
With his blade in hand, he walked forward and came to stand in the middle of the throne room, the space around him suddenly feeling much larger than it had a moment ago, every eye in the hall now fixed on him. There he bowed first to the king, formal and unhurried, then turned to face the young man waiting off to the side.
"I accept your challenge. Please, come forth." Ethan wasn’t entirely certain whether Arian’s decision had been purely strategic, a means to an end, or whether she genuinely wanted him to take responsibility for both girls going forward. Either possibility carried weight he hadn’t fully processed yet, and he pushed the thought aside for now.
But that question didn’t matter right now. What mattered was pulling them free from their grandmother’s grip before this hearing dragged on any longer, before Liana found some other clause buried in family law to exploit.
Seeing Ethan respond, the young man stepped forward gracefully as well, his hands clasped loosely behind his back in a display of practiced composure.
"Paul Dracontis, youth leader of the Dragon Pagoda. Dying by my hands will be an honor you should be grateful for." The young man spoke with a faint smile, flicking his wrist to summon a dagger into his open palm, the blade catching the light from the tall windows above.
The Dracontis family, despite its ongoing decline among the truly exceptional talents of the kingdom, remained a significant force to be reckoned with, one whose reputation hadn’t yet caught up with its slowly fading influence. Someone like this young man standing across from him was already tier 6, remarkably young for that level of achievement even by noble family standards.
In terms of raw talent, he sat very close to Hela’s own level, only a handful of steps behind her, close enough that most within the clan considered him one of the true prodigies of his generation.
"Ethan Algar, White Tower." Ethan didn’t waste words on him. He drew his blade from its sheath, letting it rest briefly at his side before slowly settling into the Judgment style’s first stance, weight low and centered, breathing already steady.
"Head on, huh? No matter." Paul smiled at the thought, though the smile carried more confidence than it probably should have. He’d heard whispers about this man from the younger generation circulating through the clan for some time now, whispers that had grown louder in recent months.
Ethan’s name had caused a considerable stir within the household following the events of the Black Flame Dungeon’s summoning rituals. His demonstrated ability to bend dragons to his will had become something of a legend almost overnight, prompting several branches of the family to forcibly arrange betrothals in his direction, each one hoping to secure some claim on his rising talent before rival branches could act first.
This had naturally infuriated a great many people within the clan, Paul included, watching outsiders and lesser branches suddenly leapfrog ahead through connections rather than merit. So when the opportunity arose to steal his intended bride away entirely, he’d jumped at the chance without much hesitation, seeing it as both personal satisfaction and a chance to reclaim standing.
But he hadn’t expected a direct, head on confrontation like this, one where blades met before either side had a chance to size up the other from a distance.
After all, Ethan’s greatest strengths were supposed to lie with his dragon summons, particularly that formidable tier 6 mind dragon everyone had been talking about since the incident at Blackwater had spread through noble circles.
Without waiting for Ethan to respond further, Paul moved first, appearing directly in front of him with his dagger cocked and aimed squarely at center mass, targeting his chest with practiced precision honed through years of formal training.
Ethan parried the strike with relative ease, his sword moving in a single long, unbroken tempo that gradually pushed Paul backward and off his intended line, the deflection almost lazy in how little effort it seemed to cost him.
Thrown slightly off balance, Paul frowned, his gaze snapping back to Ethan as he quickly repositioned himself, the dagger trembling faintly in his grip, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his expression for the first time.
’Tyrant Blade?’
He thought it to himself, his eyes flicking briefly toward the man from the Punishment Hall standing off to the side, watching the exchange with quiet interest, arms folded loosely across his chest.
It made a certain amount of sense. The Punishment Hall maintained a close relationship with White Tower, so sharing classes between the two institutions wasn’t entirely unusual, especially for a summoner already flagged as promising.
However, Tyrant Blade was different. Special in a way that set it apart from ordinary shared techniques, rare enough that most cultivators went their entire lives without encountering a genuine practitioner.
Not many people, even within the Hall itself, could actually wield it, because the class had originally been a direct gift from the royal family to the Hall generations ago, passed down under conditions few outside the inner circle understood.
Yes. Tyrant Blade was, at its core, a royal class, and seeing it in the hands of someone this young only deepened the unease settling into Paul’s chest.
"This is going to be harder than I expected." He muttered it to himself as an apparition materialized behind him, slowly taking shape into something half lizard, half human, scales catching the light as it fully formed.
An A-ranked Medusa.
If he was already pulling out something at this level so early in the fight, it meant he had no intention of holding anything back for the rest of this confrontation, whatever the consequences of that decision might be.
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