Adam, now fully in control of Prince Eric's body, stood tall in the center of the chaotic, maze-like arena.
The weight of thousands of eyes was on him, the silence heavy with stunned disbelief after his sudden recovery and the powerful kick that had sent the Royal Knight flying.
He took a calm breath, feeling the air fill Eric's lungs – his lungs, for now. It felt good. Real.
As he moved, something extraordinary began to happen. The tips of his fingers, Eric's fingers, started to shimmer. It wasn't just light; it felt like the very substance of his hand was shifting, transforming with a strange, unnatural elegance.
A warm, golden light, bright and pure, surged towards the ends of his fingers, gathering there like liquid sunlight. This wasn't Eric's faint blue aura; this was Adam's own immense power manifesting, leaking out carefully into this physical world.
The golden energy condensed rapidly, swirling and spinning until it formed a small, perfect sphere hovering just above his open palm.
It glowed intensely, radiating a brilliant light that seemed to push back the shadows in the arena.
The sphere wasn't stable; its shine grew stronger and brighter with every passing second, flickering and pulsing like a tiny, newborn star trying desperately to break free and explode outwards. The air around it hummed with contained power.
People in the stands gasped loudly, their earlier shock replaced by fresh astonishment. Many instinctively shielded their eyes from the sudden, intense brightness radiating from Adam's hand.
Murmurs broke out again, louder this time, whispers of "What is that?" and "Incredible!" and "Is that magic?" spreading like wildfire through the arena.
Everyone's attention was locked onto the strange, glowing ball forming at the fingertips of the prince they thought was powerless. But this dazzling display, Adam knew, was only the very beginning.
While the crowd was mesmerized by the golden light, dozens of thin, sharp needles – almost invisible against the bright sky – were still hurtling through the air towards Adam.
These weren't physical needles; they seemed made of pure, malicious energy or perhaps solidified shadow. Adam recognized them instantly.
They were the same deadly projectiles that "Esse," the mysterious opponent who had likely been the assassin mentioned earlier, had launched at him while he was still just observing from his domain, the attack that had likely triggered his forceful takeover attempt and Eric's collapse.
They were incredibly fast, racing through the wind with a faint, high-pitched whistle that sliced through the tense quiet of the arena, aimed directly at his chest and head.
Then, without any warning, without Adam even seeming to command it, the golden orb hovering above his fingers detached itself. It didn't just fall; it zipped away from his hand as if it had its own mind, its own purpose.
It darted into the open space between him and the incoming needles with unbelievably erratic, zigzagging motions.
It moved so fast, blurring against the air, that even the highly trained knights and sharp-eyed nobles in the crowd could only catch fleeting glimpses of golden afterimages, like trying to follow a lightning bolt.
In less than a blink of an eye, the golden sphere intercepted the deadly flight of the incoming needles. It didn't just block them; it seemed to pass through them, or perhaps slice them apart with pure energy.
Mid-air, with absolute, impossible precision, the needles shattered, dissolving into harmless motes of dark dust that vanished before they even hit the ground. Having neutralized the threat in an instant, the golden sphere didn't stop.
Its light flared even brighter, and it surged forward, now a streak of pure golden vengeance, aimed straight towards the area where Adam sensed Esse and his magical copies, his clones, were hiding amongst the trees and shadows.
Fresh gasps, louder this time, erupted across the entire stadium. People pointed, their faces filled with awe and disbelief as the golden light streaked across the battlefield like a divine spear, like a shooting star brought down to earth.
Its speed was simply unreal. None of the spectators could follow its exact path – Adam doubted even the King, whose sharp gaze was legendary across many kingdoms, could track its movements precisely.
All anyone could see was the brilliant, luminous trail it left behind, a blazing streak of gold cutting through the backdrop of the chaotic arena, weaving through the walls and trees with impossible agility.
One after another, the clones of Esse – Adam sensed at least ten of them scattered around, perfect copies meant to confuse and distract, completely indistinguishable from the real person – were hit. The golden sphere pierced through each illusionary copy with surgical speed and devastating force.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Like bubbles bursting, each clone exploded in a brief flash of light and dissolving energy the moment the sphere touched it.
Within a fraction of a second, maybe less time than it took to draw a single breath, all ten clones were utterly obliterated, leaving only the real Esse suddenly exposed and alone near the center of the arena, his camouflage apparently failing under the sphere's intense energy.
Esse's eyes, wide with panic, barely caught a glimpse of the golden spear rocketing towards him after it had wiped out his duplicates.
He had been relying on his clones and invisibility, perhaps preparing his next attack, completely unprepared for such a swift, targeted counter. The golden light was far, far too fast. He had absolutely no time to dodge, no time to raise a shield, no time to even think about reacting.
WHAM!
The golden light slammed directly into his left shoulder with incredible force.
A sickening crack of breaking bone echoed loudly across the now dead-silent arena. Esse was launched backward as if hit by a giant hammer, a strangled scream of pure agony ripping from his throat.
He flew several yards through the air before crashing hard onto the ground with a heavy thud, sliding across the dirt and stone tiles, leaving a smear of blood behind him. He landed in a crumpled heap, clutching uselessly at his shattered shoulder, his body convulsing in pain.
And then, just as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared, the golden sphere simply… vanished. One moment it was there, hovering briefly over the fallen Esse; the next, it dissolved into nothingness, leaving no trace, as if it had never existed at all.
The entire sequence—the sphere forming, intercepting the needles, destroying ten clones, hitting the real Esse, and vanishing—had taken less than a single second.
Maybe half a second. It was over before most people even fully registered what had begun.
Yet in the aftermath of that blindingly fast, devastatingly effective attack, the entire stadium was frozen solid in a state of collective disbelief. Time seemed to stop.
Every single spectator—the high-and-mighty nobles, the disciplined soldiers standing guard, the wise-looking magicians in their special sections, even the skilled swordsman who had been momentarily forgotten but was still struggling to get his weapon back from Adam's earlier grip—stood or sat with their mouths hanging open, their eyes wide with shock and confusion.
The bright afterimage of the golden attack still seemed burned into their vision, a phantom echo of a power so immense, so precise, so alien, that none of them could begin to comprehend it. What kind of magic was that? Who was capable of such a thing?
Even the Royal Knight swordsman, who had been focused entirely on getting his sword back from the prince's surprisingly strong grip just moments before, completely halted his efforts.
He, too, had seen that blinding golden light rip through the air. And though he hadn't been its target, a cold, primal fear had instantly gripped his spine. He knew power when he saw it, and that was power on a level he had never encountered before.
For the first time since engaging the prince, he stopped trying to pull his sword free. Maybe getting his sword back wasn't the most important thing right now. Maybe surviving was.
Far above the silent arena floor, high up in the royal box, the usual calm composure of the royal family was shattered. Leonard—Adam's second eldest brother, the brilliant magician prince—literally leaped to his feet, his elegant robes swirling around him.
His eyes were wide with utter astonishment, his mouth slightly agape as he stared down at the spot where the golden sphere had vanished.
Forgetting all royal manners for a moment, he instinctively extended a single, trembling finger towards the arena floor, his voice booming out, filled with shock and disbelief.
"That attack… That golden sphere… That wasn't just advanced magic! That control, that speed, that power… that was beyond master level! I… I don't think anyone in recorded history has ever performed such a spell before! The calculations required, the energy manipulation… it's theoretically impossible!"
His voice carried immense weight in magical matters. He was considered a genius, perhaps the most knowledgeable mage in the kingdom despite his youth.
Those sitting beside him – his father the King, his mother the Queen, and even his older brother Raven – listened intently to his outburst.
They remained silent, their own expressions unreadable masks again, but it was clear from the sudden tension in the air that they, too, understood the incredible meaning behind Leonard's shocked words.
This wasn't just an ordinary attack, not even a particularly strong one. This was something fundamentally different. Something that broke the known rules of magic.
It wasn't just the raw power of the spell that stunned them—it was the shocking revelation it represented. Eric—their youngest son, their little brother, the boy everyone had pitied or dismissed as talentless and weak—had apparently been hiding this level of ability.
Not just hiding it, but hiding something that seemed to rewrite the very definition of power in their world. How could he have kept such a secret? For how long? And why?
The King's expression shifted again, subtly, but meaningfully. The flicker of alarm was gone, replaced by something else.
The newfound respect he had felt earlier when Eric (Adam) stood up began to bloom rapidly in his heart, growing deeper, stronger with every passing second as he processed the implications of what he had just witnessed.
Along with that respect came something else, something he hadn't felt regarding his youngest son in a very long time—hope. A powerful, surging hope that perhaps the future strength and glory of the kingdom didn't just lie with Raven's sword or Leonard's magic.
Perhaps it lay with the boy who had been underestimated, ignored, and nearly discarded. Perhaps Eric held the key to Alinor's future greatness.
Down below in the stands, the nobles who had so often mocked Eric behind his back, who had whispered cruel jokes and plotted ways to ensure his failure and exile, now sat in stunned, terrified silence. Their faces were pale, some visibly sweating despite the mild temperature.
Many of them had actively hoped the title of prince would be stripped from him today, perhaps even hoping he would suffer some 'accident' during the trial. Now, watching him wield such casually destructive, incomprehensible power, cold fear slithered into their hearts like a venomous snake.
These were the same people who had spoken ill of him in the palace hallways, who had conspired behind closed doors to push him further into disgrace. Now, a single, terrifying question echoed in their minds:
What will he do to us now that he has revealed his power? Would he remember their insults? Would he seek revenge? Their political futures, perhaps even their lives, suddenly felt incredibly precarious.
Esse, the assassin or illusionist, lay broken on the ground where Adam's golden sphere had thrown him.
He screamed again, a raw, animal sound of pure pain. He clutched desperately at his wounded shoulder with his good hand, trying in vain to stop the bleeding, his face twisted into a mask of agony.
The injury was clearly severe – his shoulder joint looked shattered, unnatural angles visible even from a distance.
It might even be fatal if not treated immediately. Bright red blood poured freely through his fingers, pooling on the ground beneath him as he writhed weakly.
And in that moment of intense agony and helplessness, the magical camouflage that had surrounded him, hiding him from most people's sight, finally faded completely.
The illusion, perhaps sustained by concentration he could no longer maintain due to the pain, simply shattered like thin glass. His true form was revealed clearly to everyone in the stadium for the first time.
Until now, Esse had likely remained invisible or blurred to the untrained eyes of the common spectators and many nobles, moving like a ghost, hiding behind veils of magic, launching attacks from unseen locations. But now, the veil was ripped away.
He was just a man, bleeding and broken, lying exposed in the center of the arena.
The crowd stared, stunned again, finally seeing the opponent who had been battling Adam from the shadows.
Even Esse himself, through his haze of pain, seemed shaken by something more than just the physical injury. As his vision cleared slightly, his eyes flicked towards Adam, who stood calmly watching him. A horrifying realization seemed to dawn on his face.
Was he… was he watching me? The entire time?
That thought struck Esse like another dagger, colder and sharper than the physical pain. Could it be possible? Could this prince—this boy everyone thought was weak—have actually seen through all his camouflage, all his illusionary clones, right from the very start? Had Esse's stealth attacks, his hidden movements, been completely pointless? Had he been observed, tracked, and played with like a mouse by a cat? The thought was more terrifying than the injury itself.
At that exact moment, Adam's gaze slowly turned away from the defeated Esse, dismissing him as no longer a threat.
His attention returned fully to the Royal Knight swordsman, who still stood frozen a short distance away, having wisely abandoned his attempt to retrieve his sword. Adam's gaze was calm, chillingly cold, and sharply focused.
The swordsman felt that gaze land on him immediately—it felt like physical pressure, like ice water trickling down his spine.
He saw the look in the prince's eyes, the absolute confidence, the effortless power held in check. He felt the subtle signal that the game had changed entirely. It was too late.
He had missed his chance while Adam dealt with the other opponent. He couldn't run, he couldn't retreat.
He stopped thinking about his sword altogether. Instead, he made a split-second decision – his only remaining option was to attack with his bare hands, hoping to use his superior strength and training in close combat.
Maybe he could overpower the boy before more magic came into play.
But before the swordsman could even fully let go of his weapon to launch his desperate hand-to-hand attack, Adam spoke. His voice was quiet, barely a whisper compared to the earlier shouts in the arena—yet somehow, it cut through the heavy silence like a clap of thunder, reaching every ear.
"Now," Adam said softly, locking eyes with the knight, "it's your turn."
And with those chillingly calm words, Adam deliberately released his grip on the hilt of the swordsman's blade, the one they had both been holding onto earlier.
The warrior suddenly found the sword free in his one hand – his other hand was now also free, ready to strike. For a crucial fraction of a second, he was confused. Why would the prince just let go? Was it a trick? Arrogance?
That single moment of hesitation cost him everything.
Adam moved. There was no wasted motion, no sign of effort. He twisted his torso with blindingly swift precision, his movements fluid and economical, like coiled lightning unleashed. In the same smooth motion, he lifted his right leg—then slammed it forward in a powerful side kick.
His foot crashed into the swordsman's chest with explosive, devastating force.
There was absolutely no time for the knight to react, to block, or even to brace himself. The impact landed squarely on the man's armored torso, sending visible ripples through the thick metal breastplate.
A loud CRUNCH echoed through the arena as armor dented and ribs likely shattered underneath. The knight was launched backward, not just pushed, but violently flung off his feet, his body tearing through the air like it weighed nothing.
He flew across the stadium, maybe twenty or thirty yards, like a broken arrow shot from a powerful bow.
He crashed violently into a raised section of the arena wall, one of the artificial cliffs created earlier. Dust and stone fragments exploded outwards from the point of impact. The crowd collectively flinched at the sheer brutality of the hit.
The swordsman hit the wall and dropped limply to the ground below, unmoving.
Silence returned to the arena once more—heavy, absolute, and filled with stunned awe and a healthy dose of fear. Two opponents taken down in mere seconds, with terrifying ease and power.