Chapter – 52 – There is No Next Battle For You
"What's the hurry?"
The voice carried effortlessly across the now-silent arena, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. Lucien Vale stood where the void had torn open, the rift sealing behind him as if it had never existed. He was a vision of refined power—a dark black suit with intricate golden designs and borders that caught the fading sunlight. The suit extended long, almost like a skirt, with dark black boots and matching pants that hugged his form. A cape was joined to the suit, flowing behind him like shadows given form. Black gloves covered his hands, and the suit rose to his neck like a turtleneck, emphasizing the sharp lines of his jaw. His blonde hair, the color of spun gold, flowed freely in the evening breeze.
He turned to the Royal Minister, one eyebrow raised with casual arrogance. "I hope I'm not too late."
The minister swallowed hard, his ancient eyes scanning the young man before him. Something about Lucien Vale radiated danger—a coiled serpent waiting to strike.
Lucien's gaze swept across the arena, taking in the shocked faces of the nobility, the commoners, and his family. His eyes found Delian seated among the Alde family, her expression one of genuine surprise. Their arrangement with Princess Sylvie had been a secret—not even Lord Vale knew about it. Beside Delian sat Novius Alde, her husband, completely unaware of the deep connection between his wife and the young man below.
Delian's lips curved into a knowing smile. Lucien returned it, a flicker of warmth in his otherwise cold demeanor.
His gaze shifted to Princess Sylvie, who stood frozen at the edge of the arena. Her eyes were wide, tears glistening at the corners. She had been certain—absolutely certain—that she was about to be betrayed once again, that Lucien had abandoned her just as Anne had.
"You came," she breathed, her voice barely audible.
Lucien walked toward her, his boots leaving faint impressions in the sand. "I gave you my word, didn't I? Don't worry. Just sit back and enjoy."
Prince Falber, his face twisted with desperation and fury, stepped forward. The loss of his champion, Koldin, would mean disqualification. He had to win this fight, had to secure his future—and this arrogant newcomer was standing in his way.
"It doesn't matter even if your champion came," Falber spat. "I'll just have to defeat him, and after that, I'll make sure he won't be able to fight in the next battle."
Lucien turned to look at Prince Falber, his expression one of mild amusement. "What are you talking about? There is no next battle for you. After facing me, a person can only survive if I allow them to survive."
The arrogance in his voice was absolute, unwavering. It sent a shiver through the audience.
Koldin, the massive warrior standing beside Prince Falber, stepped forward. He was a battle-hardened man, wearing heavy armor and a leather eyepatch that covered a scarred eye socket. His face was a roadmap of old wounds, each one earned in service to the emperor. He had survived countless battles, served Prince Falber for years, and had never—not once—been defeated except by Anne.
"You bastard," Koldin growled, his voice like grinding stones. "Don't think too highly of yourself. I'm not going to lose to someone so young."
"Match begin!" the Royal Minister declared, his voice carrying across the arena.
Koldin moved instantly, drawing his twin swords with practiced ease. The blades gleamed in the fading light as he charged forward, his first strike already in motion.
"Twin Fang Slash!"
Two arcs of astral energy ripped toward Lucien, but the young man simply shifted his body—a fraction of an inch, nothing more—and the attack passed harmlessly by. Koldin didn't relent; he pressed forward, his blades becoming a blur of steel and light as he unleashed a relentless barrage.
But Lucien danced through it all.
Every strike missed by a hair's breadth. Every slash found only empty air. It was as if Lucien could see every attack before it was made, predicting Koldin's movements with supernatural precision.
How is this possible? Koldin thought, his mind racing. How can he see through my attacks? No one in war has ever seen my attacks—he's dodging them as if they're nothing! Only Anne has ever defeated me, and that was twice. That bitch...
Koldin's eyes narrowed. He realized now that Lucien was no ordinary opponent. This was a fight that required everything he had.
He stepped back, his body glowing with concentrated astral energy. "Dance of a Thousand Swords!"
The arena trembled as a thousand spectral swords materialized in the air around Lucien, each one sharp enough to pierce steel. They surrounded him completely, a cage of gleaming blades that left no room for escape.
Koldin raised his hand. "Attack!"
The thousand swords converged on Lucien from every direction.
Princess Sylvie's hand flew to her mouth, her heart seizing with fear. Elora Vale, Lucien's mother, closed her eyes, unable to watch. Rosabeth, his stepmother, watched with bated breath, her trust in her stepson warring with her fear for his life.
Only Delian smiled, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Lucien reached into his suit and produced a small dagger—a blade of crimson red that seemed to pulse with an inner light. His body moved with impossible grace as he began to deflect the incoming swords, spinning and weaving through the storm of blades like water flowing around rocks.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Each deflected sword clattered to the ground. Within moments, the dance was over. Every single blade lay scattered across the arena floor, and Lucien stood in the center, completely unharmed.
He bent down, picked up one of the fallen swords, and tested its weight with a few casual swings. "Oh, these are very sharp," he remarked, his tone conversational.
Koldin's face contorted with rage. "You'll not survive my next att—"
He never finished the sentence.
Lucien appeared in front of him, the stolen sword already in motion. The blade sang through the air, clean and precise, cutting through Koldin's armor and flesh alike at a forty-five-degree angle.
The upper half of Koldin's body slid away from the lower half, blood erupting from the wound like a crimson fountain. The severed torso hit the ground with a wet thud, followed a moment later by the legs. The arena floor became a lake of blood, the red liquid spreading outward like a macabre carpet.
Silence.
Then the screaming began.
The audience had come for entertainment, and now they had it—more than they had ever expected. People covered their mouths, some vomiting, others cheering with bloodlust. It was a spectacle, a brutal reminder that in this world, power was the only currency that mattered.
Princess Verna and Norrik exchanged a look, both of them realizing with cold certainty that they had been fortunate. If they had faced Lucien, there would have been no chance to throw gloves for surrender, no mercy—only death.
Princess Sylvie stared at the scene, her mind struggling to process what she had just witnessed. She had seen executions before—she was a princess, after all—but never had she seen such efficiency. Lucien had never even used his own weapon. That was how weak Koldin had been in his eyes.
Lucien flicked the blood from the borrowed sword, then drove the blade into Koldin's lower half, leaving it there like a grave marker. He turned and walked back to Princess Sylvie, his expression serene.
Prince Falber collapsed to his knees in the sand, not from grief over Koldin's death, but from the realization that his path to the throne was now closed. He had lost. It was over.
Who is this monster that Princess Sylvie has found? Anne thought, her mind racing as she watched from the stands. I knew he was increasing his power, but this much? Could it be...?
Prince Andrin's face was pale. He now understood who he would face in the final match. The thought sent a chill down his spine.
"The winner is Lucien Vale, representing Princess Sylvie!" the Royal Minister announced, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Prince Falber has been disqualified from the Trial of Imperial Succession. The next fight will be in three days—it will be the final day of Trial of Imperial Succession."
Lucien stopped before Princess Sylvie, his face softening just slightly. "Congratulations, Princess, on your first win."
Sylvie's eyes glistened with tears. She had never thought anyone would help her—a daughter of a concubine, overlooked, underestimated. She had doubted Lucien, feared he might abandon her, but he had come. Not only had he come, but he had won—decisively, brutally, unquestionably.
Her maids rushed forward, their voices a chorus of congratulations and gratitude. But Lucien barely heard them. His gaze drifted to the stands, where his family sat in stunned silence. He smiled at them, a brief, fleeting expression, and then—
He vanished.
No ceremony. No waiting for recognition. He had come, done what needed to be done, and left as if the entire affair was beneath his notice.
In a private chamber far from the arena, Anne and Prince Andrin sat in troubled silence. The setting sun painted the room in shades of orange and gold, but neither of them noticed.
"Who is this Lucien Vale?" Andrin asked, his voice strained. "He killed Koldin as if he were nothing. We didn't even see any of his real skills. What if this becomes disadvantageous for us?" He turned to Anne, his eyes desperate. "Can you find a solution using your system, my love?"
Anne's expression was thoughtful, her fingers drumming against the armrest of her chair. "It's true he's not an ordinary realm master. But don't worry—I'm not going to lose. I'll see what I can do. We still have three days. We just need to gather as much information as possible and use it against him."
Andrin's shoulders relaxed slightly, but his mind was still troubled. He had seen how Lucien had cut Koldin in half—one clean strike, no hesitation, no remorse. What if Anne lost? What if he lost both the throne and her?
He pushed the thought aside. He loved Anne more than any throne. He could lose the crown—but not her.
He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. The sunset painted them in warm light, and Anne melted into his embrace, her fingers threading through his hair.
"I don't want anything to happen to you, Anne," Andrin whispered into her ear. "Just be safe."
Anne hugged him tighter. "Don't worry, my love. Nothing will happen to me."
Evening had fallen by the time Lucien stood in Lord Vale's office. The room was dim, lit only by a few oil lamps that cast dancing shadows across the walls. Lord Vale sat behind his desk, his eyes studying his son with a mixture of pride and concern.
"I saw your fight with Koldin," Lord Vale said. "Good job."
Lucien bowed respectfully. "Thank you, Father."
"Lucien, I have something to discuss with you." Lord Vale leaned back in his chair, his expression turning serious. "Your cousin Rena is coming from the branch family. I know your history with her is not good, but try to get along with her."
Lucien's expression remained neutral. "Yes, Father. To be honest, I'm too busy to even see her, so I don't think there will be a problem."
"That's good." Lord Vale nodded. "Focus on the Trial of Imperial Succession. You can go now."
Lucien left the office and made his way to his chambers. But even as he walked, something churned in his chest—an old wound, a forgotten memory, stirring to life. The souls he had absorbed in the Ancient Breach were taking their toll. Every soul he consumed brought with it a lifetime of memories, emotions, and pain. It was wearing on his mind, and he knew he needed to reach the fourth realm—the Abyss Core Realm—as soon as possible.
All the memories and emotions are catching up to me, he thought as he entered his room. I need to start my Trial of Heavenly Tribulations as soon as possible, but it'll still take time. First, I need to grab as much attention as possible before starting.
He sat on his bed, his eyes closing as another memory surfaced—not from the souls he had consumed, but from the original Lucien's past.
The relationship between the branch family and the main family had never been good. And Rena Vale... she was the main reason for the original Lucien's humiliation.
The memory unfolded like a waking dream.
Rena had been the one to discover Lucien's lack of cultivation talent. The main family had hidden it, focusing all their resources on Riven Vale, Lucien's eldest brother. But Rena had found out through Riven, and at first, she and Lucien had been friends—genuine friends, untainted by politics.
Then she learned the truth.
And everything changed.
She had grown closer to Riven, drawn to his power and status. And when she realized the political advantages of aligning with the strong, she had spread the word of Lucien's weakness, humiliating him at every turn. He couldn't speak at the dinner table without being mocked. His father, who now showed him favor, had once lavished all his attention on Riven. His mother, who now closed her eyes to his suffering, had once praised Riven's every achievement.
People changed when power changed. Even your own family.
Lucien had been destroyed, forced to eat alone in his room, avoiding people for years. The only light in those dark times had been Seraphina—until even she had abandoned him.
And Rena? She had never missed an opportunity to humiliate him. There was no grudge between them, no personal vendetta—she had simply done it to secure her position in the branch family by ingratiating herself with Riven.
The original Lucien had considered ending everything. But then, in a final act of desperation, he had performed the Soul Resonance Ritual, gambling everything on a single chance.
And the current Lucien had been born.
So that's what happened to the original Lucien, he thought, his eyes opening in the darkness. And now she's coming here. Riven is already aligned with the branch family—so why is she coming now?
He frowned, his mind turning over the possibilities. Interesting.
"I guess I'll see and wait," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sleep claimed him, but even in slumber, the souls' memories continued to stir, their echoes haunting his dreams.
In a forest camp, the last light of day faded into twilight. A young woman sat beside a crackling fire, her black hair cascading over her shoulders like a silken veil. She wore a white dress with no sleeves, the skirt long but short in the front, revealing dark tights that hugged her legs from thigh to boot. Black boots completed the ensemble, and the outlines of her dress were trimmed in matching black.
Rena Vale stared into the flames, her thoughts distant.
A maid sat beside her, her voice hesitant. "Lady Rena, do you think Lord Lucien will help us?"
Rena's lips curled into a confident smile. "Don't worry, he will. He used to admire me a lot. I know that after hearing our situation, he won't be able to stop himself from helping us."
A soldier approached, his armor gleaming in the firelight. He bowed respectfully.
"Lady Rena, by dawn we will reach Clafton City."
Author Note:
If you'd like to support the novel and read ahead, my Patreon is linked below. Thank you for reading!
/cw/thenoctvale