The Hidden Monster of House Vale

Princess Verna rose from her seat, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade—clear, steady, and utterly resolute as she addressed the entire arena.

"I give up."

Silence.

Absolute, utter silence descended upon the colosseum like a physical weight. Thousands of spectators sat frozen, their breath caught in their throats, unable to process what they had just witnessed. The royal banners fluttered weakly in the wind, as if even they were confused by this unexpected turn.

Queen Cynthia's composed mask cracked for just a moment—her eyes widening with genuine shock. She had prepared herself for many outcomes, had steeled her heart against the possibility of Norrik's death, but this? Her daughter surrendering without a single blow being struck? The queen's fingers tightened around the armrest of her throne, a rare display of uncertainty.

Norrik's reaction was instantaneous. He bolted toward Princess Verna, his armored boots pounding against the stone floor, his face a mask of barely contained panic.

"Princess Verna!" His voice was raw, desperate. "What happened? Do you not believe in me? Did someone force you to do this? Tell me who—"

Verna caught his hand in hers, her fingers cool and trembling slightly against his gauntlet. "No one forced me," she said softly, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that silenced his protests. "This is my own decision."

Norrik's jaw tightened. "But why? I could have—"

"I have a feeling," she interrupted, her voice dropping to barely a whisper meant only for him, "that if I let you fight today's match, something unforeseen would happen. Something terrible."

"Verna—"

"Please." Her grip on his hand tightened. "I want you to survive. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. I need you to live, Norrik. I need you to protect me." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "What does it matter if I can't rule Valtheria? I'll still be a princess. And that will always be enough for me."

Norrik's head bowed, his shoulders slumping with defeat. Deep down, in the darkest recesses of his heart, he knew the truth—Verna had stopped him because she understood something he refused to acknowledge. She had seen Lucien Vale kill his opponent with horrifying ease, had witnessed the casual cruelty in his eyes, and she could not bear to watch Norrik meet the same fate.

Helplessness washed over him like ice water. Powerless. Completely and utterly powerless. He couldn't even start the fight, couldn't even attempt to prove himself worthy of her hand. And yet, buried beneath the shame and frustration, somewhere deep in his chest, there was relief. A small, shameful part of him was grateful.

He didn't know—couldn't know—that this was his one and only chance. That if he had won, he would have been granted permission to marry the princess. That the opportunity to prove his love through combat had just slipped through his fingers like sand, never to be recovered.

Verna led him from the arena, her hand still clasped around his, her head held high despite the whispers that followed them. She settled beside her mother, her posture rigid with shame, her eyes fixed on the ground.

"It's fine, Verna," Queen Cynthia said, her voice surprisingly gentle. She reached over and placed her hand on her daughter's. "There is no need to feel shameful. It is not easy to send someone you care for—someone who is your friend, someone close to your heart—to their death. Never look down on your decision. Be proud of it instead. Once a decision is made, it can never be undone, so you must look forward, not backward."

Verna's eyes widened. She had not expected such kindness from her mother, not after witnessing her obvious disappointment.

"But do not be mistaken," the queen continued, her tone cooling. "As a mother, I support you. As a queen..." She paused, her eyes hardening. "As a queen, I am deeply disappointed."

Despite the sting of those words, Verna smiled—a fragile, watery smile—and wiped her tears away. She turned her gaze back to the arena, watching as the royal minister stepped forward to address the crowd.

"Princess Verna is lost," the minister announced, his voice carrying across the stunned silence. "She is now out of the Trial of Imperial Succession. The winner is Princess Sylvie and her champion, Lucien Vale."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd. The minister raised his hands for silence.

"Let us not wait another moment," he declared. "Let us begin the final fight of this generation's Trial of Imperial Succession—the battle that will decide who shall become the future Emperor and Empress of Valtheria!"

Lucien Vale yawned openly, utterly unimpressed by the proceedings. He had watched everything unfold with mild interest, finding it all rather tedious. The drama, the tears, the desperate pleas—it was all so predictable. So boring.

"On this side," the minister continued, gesturing grandly, "we have Lucien Vale! And on this side, we have Anne—once a mortal, now a realm master of incredible power! Former protector of Princess Sylvie and current retainer of Prince Andrin. Since becoming a realm master, she has never been defeated—not even once! Let us see who shall become the next emperor!"

Lucien's gaze drifted toward his opponent. Anne stood across from him, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. Behind her, Princess Sylvie watched with barely concealed contempt.

Sylvie had never forgiven Anne for her betrayal. She could understand falling in love, could even sympathize with the desperate ache of it. But to betray her? To steal one hundred thousand gold coins from her to fund Prince Andrin's ambitions? To abandon years of friendship for a man?

They had been friends since childhood, Sylvie and Anne. Anne had helped her build confidence, had taught her to stand tall, had protected her from the cruelties of court life. And now, watching Anne step onto the arena floor, Sylvie didn't know if she wanted to kill her or save her.

The tension in the arena was suffocating. Thousands of spectators held their breath, their hearts pounding in unison. Everyone was terrified—everyone except Lucien.

Anne studied her opponent carefully, her instincts screaming at her. There was something about Lucien that felt familiar, as if she had known him for ages, though she had only seen him twice in her life. Her eyes narrowed.

I should use one of my strongest attacks immediately, she decided. End this as quickly as possible. If he underestimates me, that will only work to my advantage.

From the royal box, Prince Andrin watched with bated breath. Don't die, Anne, he thought desperately. Please, don't die.

The minister raised his hand. The crowd fell completely silent.

"Fight begin!"

Anne moved like lightning. Her sword sang through the air as she activated her ultimate technique—Frozen Heaven Blade. The temperature in the arena plummeted instantly. Frost spread across the stone floor, crawling up the walls, crystallizing in the air itself. Her blade gleamed with an otherworldly light, and then—

The audience gasped.

Behind Lucien, a massive figure materialized. A giant ice lady, her form emerging from the frost, from head to chest, hovering like a vengeful goddess. Her hair was pure white, cascading like frozen waterfalls. A cloak of shimmering ice draped over her shoulders. Her eyes were endless voids of dark blue, her lips painted with frozen lipstick.

She raised her hand, vast and terrible, and reached for Lucien.

This was not just a fight. This was a battle between two great realm masters, and the power on display was breathtaking.

The ice lady's fingers closed around Lucien, not to crush him, but to imprison him. A cage of crystalline ice materialized around him, trapping him within its frozen bars. Simultaneously, countless icicles formed in the air, sharp and deadly, all aimed at the man trapped within.

Lucien raised his hand lazily. Raw power exploded from him, shattering the ice cage as if it were made of glass. He stepped free just as Anne lunged forward, her sword aimed at his throat.

He dodged.

Again and again, Anne attacked, her blade a blur of deadly motion. And again and again, Lucien evaded, his movements almost casual, as if he were swatting away flies.

Then he activated his World Tree Heart ability. Nature itself answered his call. Vines erupted from the ground, thick and thorny, writhing like serpents. They shot toward Anne, seeking to ensnare her.

She dodged the first few, but there were too many. Nature was everywhere. The vines wrapped around her arms, her legs, digging their thorns into her flesh. She struggled against them, her sword still clutched in her hand, but she couldn't move her limbs.

Lucien stood before her, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"How..." Anne gritted her teeth, her voice strained. "How are you still standing? After my Frozen Heaven Blade... it should have—"

She couldn't finish the sentence. The ice lady was still there, looming behind Lucien, raising her hand for another attack. Icicles of pure crystal shot toward him at impossible speed.

Lucien deflected them with his bare hands.

Faster and faster they came, and faster and faster his hands moved, a blur of motion that seemed almost inhuman. The audience watched in awe, their eyes wide, their mouths agape. Lucien's face betrayed nothing—no exhaustion, no pain, no effort. He looked at the giant ice lady with complete indifference.

Then he raised his hand.

"Emperor's Execution."

A giant sigil bloomed in the sky above, dark red and terrible, pulsing with demonic energy. The clouds twisted, the wind howled, and a beam of pure darkness fell upon the ice spirit.

The impact was catastrophic. Astral energy and electric currents crackled through the air, illuminating the arena with terrible light. The ground beneath them shattered, huge chunks of stone floating upward as if gravity itself had been reversed. Rocks lifted into the air, suspended in an unnatural stillness.

The ice lady screamed—a sound like cracking glaciers—and then she was gone, dispelled into nothingness.

The sky returned to its normal state, though the clouds remained dark, bruised and angry. Lucien turned to face Anne again, his expression unchanged.

She had managed to cut herself free from his vines. Her sword was gone, replaced by a ball of pure white light that gathered between her hands, growing brighter and brighter with each passing moment.

Where did her sword go? Lucien wondered. Has she merged with her divine weapon?

Anne's orb was blindingly bright, like a miniature sun descending upon the arena. She was screaming, pouring every ounce of her power into the technique.

"Eternal Frost Funeral!"

She hurled it at him.

The attack was so heavy with power that the arena itself seemed to groan under its weight, chunks of stone breaking loose and trailing in its wake like a comet's tail.

Lucien smiled.

"Black Sun Annihilation."

His attack met hers in the center of the arena, and reality itself seemed to tear apart. A massive orb formed, half black and half white, the two opposing forces battling for dominance. The clash was deafening, the light so bright that spectators had to shield their eyes.

When the blast came, it was devastating.

The arena was consumed by a blinding explosion, stone and dust flying in every direction. When the smoke cleared, both combatants were gone.

"Where are they?"

"Did they... did they both die?"

"Look up!"

Everyone's eyes turned skyward.

Lucien and Anne floated in the air above the arena, locked in hand-to-hand combat. Their movements were too fast to follow, a blur of fists and kicks and impossible acrobatics. They had abandoned their grand techniques for something more primal, more personal.

At first, it seemed they were evenly matched.

But that was far from the truth.

How... Anne's mind raced as she parried another blow. How is he surviving these attacks? It was supposed to disintegrate him! There's no way... unless... could this man truly have a system? But I'm cultivating using my pure yin physique—I'm supposed to be the special one. I'm supposed to be the main character!

"Someone is really desperate to win this trial," Lucien observed with an infuriating smile.

"Aren't you the same?" Anne shot back.

Lucien laughed, a cold, dismissive sound. "I couldn't give a single fuck about royal matters."

He glanced briefly toward the queen's box before returning his attention to Anne.

"But I do have a question," he continued, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Do you really think you can beat me? Do you truly believe you have what it takes to defeat me?"

Anne was silent. She had no answer.

"Let me give you one more chance." Lucien's smile widened. "Attack me with everything you have. And this time... I won't fight back."

He descended to the ground, landing gracefully on the shattered arena floor, his arms spread wide in invitation.

Anne swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed that this was a trap, that there was no way he would simply let her strike him down. But what choice did she have? Perhaps his overconfidence would be her salvation.

She gathered every ounce of astral energy within her, drawing power from the air itself, from the water vapor that still lingered after her ice attacks. Nature responded to her call, as it always had.

"Absolute Zero Sword!"

The technique was her ultimate expression of power. All the energy in the arena coalesced around her, a storm of raw power that made the very air crystallize. Her sword materialized in her hand, gleaming with the cold light of a dying star.

"Why isn't Lucien attacking or defending?" someone in the crowd asked.

"Could he be exhausted?"

"Is he stupid?"

"It looks like this could be the final blow!"

Everyone tried to predict why Lucien stood there, unmoving, his arms still spread wide, that maddening smile still on his face.

Queen Cynthia watched, her face unreadable. Princess Verna clutched her mother's arm, her knuckles white. Princess Sylvie couldn't breathe.

None of them had drawn a single breath since the fight began.

And then it happened.

Anne appeared before Lucien in a flash of light, her sword singing through the air. She struck him a million times in the span of a few seconds—a blur of deadly motion that left no room for defense.

On the final strike, she left her sword embedded in his chest.

Lucien fell.

But his fall was slow, almost graceful, his body suspended by the massive sword that pierced him through. He didn't collapse completely, but floated there, impaled, his blood staining the blade.

The arena was deathly silent.

"Is... is he dead?"

Author Note:

If you'd like to support the novel and read ahead, my Patreon is linked below. Thank you for reading!

/cw/thenoctvale