The Hidden Monster of House Vale

Lucien was a little surprised to hear his name announced alongside Sarric's—but only a little. After a moment's thought, he realized he wasn't surprised at all.

These so-called random matches aren't so random after all, he thought.

It seems like a plot orchestrated by Sarric Mordric to humiliate me. Hmm… what should I do?

He smiled—a slow, devilish curve of his lips.

Oh, that's a great idea. I'll use this to my advantage.

The crowd buzzed with impatient excitement. Everyone expected this match to end instantly. Lucien was weak—everyone knew that. A late bloomer who had only recently crawled into the Mid-Tempering Realm. Sarric was a Peak Tempering warrior, a rising star, a future pillar of the kingdom.

They weren't here to see a fight.

They were here to see a comedy. A humiliation. The Vale family brought low once again.

Lucien stepped onto the arena floor.

He looked bored. Indifferent. His World Root Spear was in his hand, his crimson coat catching the green-gold light from the shattered dome above. His golden hair moved slightly in the stale air of the arena.

Sarric smiled.

“It's been a while, Lucien,” he said, spreading his arms in a mockery of welcome. “How are you doing?”

“I'm doing well,” Lucien replied, his voice calm.

Sarric's smile tightened.

“I heard you finally opened your Realm. Still, you're just Mid-Tempering.”

Lucien tilted his head. “Hmm… maybe that's still better than your useless brother with no Realm powers.”

Sarric's face darkened.

Darson was a stain on the Mordric family—a black dot that no amount of scrubbing could remove. Sarric forced himself to calm down. He was Peak Tempering. After he gained admission to the academy, he would personally ask for Seraphina Thornveil's hand in marriage.

He had always had a crush on Seraphina. But as children, she had only had eyes for Lucien—beautiful, golden, gentle Lucien. Sarric had burned with jealousy for years. But time had rewarded him. He had grown strong. He had grown close to Seraphina. Now it was an open secret that he would propose.

After all, he was Peak Tempering. No one in the next generation had reached such a height.

Or so he thought.

“Don't worry,” Sarric said, forcing a laugh. “I'm not angry at your words. After all, I'm going to steal Seraphina right in front of your eyes. Hahaha.”

Lucien's expression didn't change. “Maybe… if you hadn't fought me. But even if you did, I don't think what I'm about to do would change. Trust me—today, I'll make you very miserable.”

Sarric frowned.

Lucien had changed. The soft, apologetic boy who accepted every insult was gone. But it didn't matter. Sarric was Peak Tempering.

“I'll be the one making your life miserable today,” Sarric said, his voice dropping. “I've always hated you. Ever since we were kids. Because of you, Seraphina never even noticed me.”

Lucien sighed. “Can we just fucking start? You're rambling like some sage. You must be thinking you're very deep.”

The crowd gasped at his language.

“You talk too much, Sarric, and do too little.” Lucien's voice was cold now. “I really want to make you Quiet. And I promise you—I will.”

It was a family treasure—an heirloom blade passed down for generations, sharp enough to cut steel, imbued with fire aspect magic.

He moved.

For mortal spectators, it was like teleportation. One moment he was ten meters away. The next, his blade was descending toward Lucien's skull.

Lucien vanished.

He reappeared three meters to the left, his spear already in motion. The World Root Spear —moved like an extension of his body.

Metal clashed against metal.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The crowd's murmurs died.

Eyes widened.

Because Lucien wasn't losing.

He was dodging. Parrying. Countering. Fighting Sarric Mordric—Peak Tempering Realm, rising star, future pillar—on equal footing.

Eliss and Maisy watched together from the Vale family section, both gripping the stone railing.

“Wow…” Eliss breathed. “Lucien is so fast.”

Maisy said nothing. Her knuckles were white. Her red eyes never left Lucien's form.

She was worried. Sarric was Peak Tempering. No matter how skilled Lucien was, the difference in Realm power was enormous.

But Lucien kept fighting.

And Sarric began to realize—he had underestimated his opponent.

He started throwing orbs of blue fire—concentrated astral energy shaped into projectiles. They streaked toward Lucien like small suns.

Lucien dodged them like a child playing a game.

He didn't even look worried.

He moved through the storm of fire with lazy grace, stepping just far enough to avoid each blast, never wasting a single movement.

Then he was close.

Sarric swung his sword. Lucien parried. Sarric swung again. Lucien ducked. Sarric thrust. Lucien sidestepped.

And then—in a motion too fast for even Sarric to follow—Lucien switched his spear to his left hand, reached out with his right, and closed his fingers around Sarric's throat.

He lifted him off the ground.

Sarric's feet dangled. His sword clattered to the stone. His hands clawed at Lucien's grip, but it was like trying to bend iron.

Lucien smiled coldly.

“Such strength,” Evelyn whispered from the mortal section, her mouth hanging open.

“That's not how it was supposed to go,” Seraphina said, her voice barely audible, her hands trembling.

Lady Vale watched her son with tears in her eyes. She felt proud—so proud that her chest felt like it would burst.

Lucien tightened his fingers.

Then he slammed Sarric into the arena floor.

The stone shattered. A crater formed around Sarric's body. Cracks spiderwebbed outward in a three-meter radius.

Lucien looked down at him without a trace of mercy.

He kicked Sarric in the face.

The impact cracked the ground beneath Sarric's head. Blood sprayed from his broken nose and split lips.

Lucien stepped back, giving him room to stand.

Sarric rose slowly, shaking with rage and pain. His handsome face was ruined—swollen, bleeding, barely recognizable.

“Let's see how you dodge this, you fucker,” he spat.

A magic sigil blazed to life beneath Lucien's feet—complex, glowing, hungry.

A giant ray of blue-white energy erupted from the sigil, engulfing Lucien completely.

“Got him!” Sarric shouted.

The Vale family cried out in alarm.

But when the ray faded, Lucien was still standing.

His clothes were singed. A wisp of smoke rose from his shoulder. But his skin was unmarked. His expression was unchanged.

How can a mere Peak Tempering Realm harm someone in the Late Vein Opening Realm? Lucien thought. We're worlds apart.

“Now it's my turn,” he said.

He vanished.

Sarric spun, searching—but Lucien was already behind him. The spear came down. Sarric raised his sword to block.

The family heirloom shattered.

Blade fragments rained across the arena floor. Sarric stared at the hilt in his hands, his mind unable to process what had just happened.

He fell back, desperate. He gathered every scrap of astral energy he had left and formed five yellow rays—each one dense with power, each one capable of punching through stone.

They shot toward Lucien.

And followed him.

Wherever he moved, the rays turned, tracking him like hounds on a scent.

Lucien stopped running.

He raised the World Root Spear—still disguised as a cheap weapon—and channeled nature energy through its core. A pulse of green light expanded from the spear tip. The yellow rays struck it and dissolved like mist in sunlight.

Child's play.

Lucien was holding back. He could have ended the match in seconds. But he wanted something more.

People remember long fights, he thought. Painful fights. Humiliating fights.

I want Sarric's defeat to be unforgettable.

Sarric's face twisted—ugly with rage, pathetic with fear. His arrogance had crumbled. His confidence was gone. He couldn't understand how Lucien, the weakest of them all, was dominating him so completely.

Lucien appeared behind him again.

Sarric threw a wild punch.

Lucien caught his fist—and smashed his own palm into Sarric's face.

Then he kicked upward.

Sarric shot into the air like a arrow released from a bow. He flew straight toward the arena's glass dome, his body a projectile of broken bones and spraying blood.

I've been noticing this from the start, Lucien thought, watching him rise. These so-called Realm Masters in this world just rely on their Realm. They don't learn actual combat. They have swords, but they only use their Realm to make the swords powerful. They never learn techniques.

Fucking stupid people.

Not a single Realm Master here knows how to fight with actual technique. They just burn their energy like screaming monkeys.

Sarric crashed through the glass dome.

Shards rained down like diamonds, catching the sunlight. The green-tinted ceiling now had a gaping hole, and golden light poured through it, illuminating the arena in a single focused beam.

Sarric fell.

Lucien leaped.

He caught Sarric by the collar mid-fall and hurled him downward even faster. Sarric's body struck the arena floor with a sound like a sack of meat hitting stone. More bones shattered. Blood pooled beneath him.

Glass shards fell around Lucien like snow.

The sunlight hit him directly, outlining his form in gold. He stood over Sarric's broken body like an avenging god—beautiful, terrible, merciless.

The crowd was dead silent.

The King of the country opened his mouth, then closed it.

Eliss felt a thrill of horror mixed with something else—admiration, perhaps.

Evelyn stared, her jaw hanging open. She had thought Lucien was kind when he bought her sword. Now she realized—he had been gentle with her. This was what he looked like when he wasn't holding back.

Seraphina's mind was chaos.

If I had known he would become like this…

She had rejected him. Humiliated him. Chosen Sarric because he was stronger.

Now Lucien was stronger than Sarric. Stronger than anyone had anticipated. And she had thrown him away.

What if he comes after the Thornveil family? she thought, cold dread settling in her stomach.

“I accept…”

Baam.

Vines and Giant Roots erupted from the ground.

They wrapped around Sarric's wrists and ankles, pulling him spread-eagle against the stone. More hands emerged from above, grasping his shoulders, his head.

The hands were giant—each one the size of a grown man's torso. They were made of living roots, cold and insubstantial yet impossibly strong.

“I promised you, didn't I?” Lucien said, walking toward him slowly. “That I would make you Quiet today.”

He moved his fingers.

One hand grabbed Sarric's tongue and pulled it out of his mouth.

Sarric's eyes went wide with terror. He tried to scream, but the hand held his tongue taut.

Lucien drew his spear.

One clean cut.

The tongue fell to the arena floor.

The hands released him. Sarric collapsed, clutching his mouth, blood pouring between his fingers. He tried to speak, tried to form words, but only wet, gurgling sounds emerged.

He looked up at Lucien.

Lucien was already raising his spear, ready to strike again.

Sarric ran.

Broken bones. Crushed ribs. A missing tongue. He ran on pure terror, dragging himself across the blood-slicked stone.

Lucien cut off one of his legs.

Sarric fell, crawling now, leaving a trail of crimson behind him.

In the stands, Lady Vale covered her eyes. She could not watch anymore.

Seraphina watched. She could not look away.

Every kindness, she thought. Every gentle word he ever gave me. I remember it all now.

Eliss watched with wide eyes, her heart pounding. She understood now—the world of Realm Masters was brutal. This was not a game.

Maisy watched with relief. Her young master was safe. That was all that mattered.

Evelyn watched with something like recognition. She understood revenge. She had her own scores to settle.

Lucien stopped walking.

Sarric lay crumpled on the ground, his body ruined, his mouth a fountain of blood. He could not speak. He could not surrender. He could only crawl.

Lucien squatted down in front of him.

“How are you feeling, Sarric?” he asked, his voice almost friendly. “Not going to brag about your Peak Tempering Realm?”

Sarric's eyes were wild with pain and fear.

“Oh, I can't hear you, Sarric. Maybe… you're missing something?” Lucien tilted his head. “Tell me—what do you want more? How does it feel?”

He laughed.

It was a beautiful sound, bright and cold, echoing off the arena walls.

“I told you,” Lucien said softly. “I'd make your life miserable. Starting today.”

He stood up.

Sarric's gaze drifted toward Seraphina. She sat in the noble section, her face pale, her eyes distant. When their eyes met, she looked away.

No pity. No concern. Nothing.

She only loves power, Sarric realized. She never loved me. She never loved Lucien. She only loves whoever is strongest.

His own family wasn't looking at him either. The Mordric section was turned away, their faces hidden, their shoulders stiff with shame.

Sarric crawled toward Lucien.

He bent over. He grasped Lucien's leg.

The surrender was official.

Medical Realm Masters rushed onto the arena floor. They gathered Sarric's leg, his tongue, his broken body, and carried him away.

Lucien walked toward the exit.

His face was indifferent. Calm. The blood on his coat was not his own.

He had left his mark. No one would forget this fight. No one would forget him.

He was smiling as he walked—a small, satisfied curve of his lips.

Then a voice stopped him.

“Can I talk to you? Please.”

Lucien turned.

Author Note:

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