The Hidden Monster of House Vale

The arena fell into an abyss of silence so profound that even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Lucien's descent was slow—almost ethereal—as if time itself had softened around him. The massive sword protruded through his torso, suspending his body in a grotesque tableau of defeat. Blood, dark and viscous, trailed down the gleaming steel in lazy rivulets, staining the blade with the evidence of what should have been a fatal wound. His feet dangled inches above the arena floor, swaying slightly with the diminishing momentum of his fall.

"Is... is he dead?" a voice whispered from the crowd, barely audible yet carrying through the oppressive stillness.

But then, movement.

Lucien's fingers twitched. His body, still impaled, began to shift with an autonomy that defied all reason. The spectators watched in collective disbelief as he straightened, his half-suspended form rising as if pulled by invisible strings. His hands found the blade protruding from his stomach, gripping it with casual familiarity.

Then he looked at Anne.

And he smiled.

"Is that all?"

The words fell like stones into still water, rippling through the arena with devastating mockery. Anne's face, already pale from exertion, drained of what little color remained. Her eyes widened—not with fear, but with the dawning horror of absolute impossibility. Every wound she had inflicted, every blow she had landed, every drop of blood she had drawn—all of it was vanishing. The gashes on his arms knitted together; the puncture in his chest sealed as if it had never existed. His skin, once marred with the evidence of her assault, became pristine.

The crowd erupted.

"Lucien can heal on his own!"

"Is that really Lucien from the Vale family?"

"How? It was like a miracle!"

Queen Cynthia observed from her elevated throne, her fingers drumming against the ornate armrest in a rhythm only she could hear. As I thought... this Lucien is no ordinary cultivator. He is something else entirely. Her eyes narrowed with calculating interest. I need him on my side. I must not make an enemy of him.

Across the royal platform, the Emperor's composure cracked ever so slightly. He had witnessed countless battles, seen realm masters rise and fall, but cultivators like Lucien Vale—those who could defy the very laws of life and death—he could count on one hand. The Vale family swelled with pride; Lord Vale's usually stoic expression softened into a rare, satisfied smile. His son had not merely fought—he had transcended.

But in the arena, the atmosphere remained charged with tension.

Lucien's gaze locked onto Anne with predatory stillness. "Now it's my turn."

Anne moved before the words fully registered, her body reacting on pure instinct. She lunged forward, her blade arcing through the air in a desperate strike. But Lucien was no longer there—he was simply elsewhere. One moment, ten feet away; the next, inches from her face.

She tried to retreat, her feet scrambling against the stone floor. Too slow. His hand closed around her throat like a vice, and before she could process the sudden shift, her body was airborne. The world spun—the crowd, the sky, the gladiatorial arena—all blurring into a whirlwind of color and sound.

Lucien looked upward to meet her eyes, the height of her suspended form forcing him to crane his neck. "Well," he said, his voice carrying an almost bored quality, "it seems the fun times are over. I'm getting bored now."

Anne clawed at his hand, her nails raking against skin that felt more like iron than flesh. She kicked, punched, bit—anything to break free. Nothing worked. His grip was absolute, immovable, like the hand of a statue given life. Every struggle only served to tighten the noose of his fingers around her windpipe.

Rena watched from the Vale family's section, her heart hammering against her ribs with violent intensity. This wasn't the Lucien she remembered—the shy boy who'd stammer when she spoke to him, the awkward young man she'd so easily manipulated. She had come here expecting his defeat, hoping to use his vulnerability to strengthen her own position. But this... this was something else entirely.

What happened to you, Lucien? The question burned in her mind. You are completely different.

Anne's vision began to blur at the edges. Her lungs screamed for air, but each desperate gasp was met only with the crushing pressure of his hand. Through the haze of suffocation, she turned her head, seeking salvation in the one place she believed it would be.

Prince Andrin.

She had trusted him. He had told her he loved her, that she meant more to him than the throne itself. He had whispered promises in the dark, sworn oaths of devotion that had melted the ice around her hardened heart. He would rather give up the throne than see me hurt.

But he wasn't moving.

His hand remained at his side.

Andrin watched with tortured eyes, his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached. He saw the fear in Anne's expression, the silent plea that pierced his soul like a blade. But then his gaze shifted to Princess Sylvie—her desperation, the raw, unguarded pain in her eyes as she watched the scene unfold. She wanted to intervene, he could see it. She would save Anne. For old times' sake. For friendship. For love.

If I throw the glove, I sacrifice the throne. If I don't, I sacrifice Anne.

But surely Sylvie would stop the fight. She wouldn't let Anne die. She would be the hero, and Anne would live, and Andrin would have everything—the crown and the woman he loved, both secured by Sylvie's kindness.

He told himself this. He convinced himself it was true.

But Anne, suspended in Lucien's grip, felt the truth like a blade between her ribs.

Why isn't he throwing the glove?

The question echoed in her mind, growing louder with each passing second of suffocation.

Was that all a lie?

The world began to fade. Darkness crept into the corners of her vision, soft and welcoming. A weary smile touched her lips—bitter, broken. Who am I to talk about betrayal? she thought. I betrayed Princess Sylvie myself. I stole from her. I plotted against her. I sold her love for the promise of another's.

I'm sorry, Princess Sylvie. I'm so sorry.

And then—

A glove landed on the arena floor.

"I give up. "

Princess Sylvie's voice cut through the tension like a thunderclap. Lucien's grip loosened instantly, and Anne dropped to the ground in a heap, gasping for air that tasted sweeter than any wine she'd ever drunk.

Sylvie was at her side in an instant, cradling her head, pressing water to her cracked lips. "Are you okay, Anne? Are you hurt?"

Anne looked up at her—at the woman she'd betrayed, the friend she'd cast aside for ambition—and the tears she'd been holding back finally broke free. She sobbed, collapsing into Sylvie's embrace with the desperation of a drowning woman finding shore.

"I'm sorry, Sylvie. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for betraying you. I'm sorry for stealing from you. I'm sorry for everything." Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Why... why did you give up the opportunity? The throne... you could have taken it all..."

Sylvie held her tighter, stroking her hair with the same tenderness she'd shown since childhood. "Even if I won and became empress, I would always think that the throne I sit upon is made with your blood." Her voice was soft but resolute. "I could never rule like that."

The arena fell into stunned silence. Such a thing had never happened in the history of the Trial of Imperial Succession—a champion forfeiting, a princess showing mercy, a moment of humanity in a contest designed to crush it.

Queen Cynthia rose from her throne, her gown flowing behind her like liquid starlight as she descended to address her people. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the weight of divinity—charming, commanding, impossible to ignore.

"My people of Valtheria!" she declared. "The first part of the Trial of Imperial Succession is over, and the winner is Prince Andrin."

She paused, letting the announcement settle.

"As for the second part—the competition of wealth—both Prince Andrin and Princess Sylvie have already begun. Each was provided with one hundred thousand gold coins from the royal treasury, to be increased through investment or other means. The winner of the second part will be decided one week from today."

Her gaze swept across the crowd, authoritative and wise. "If Prince Andrin wins the second part, he shall be named the royal heir of Valtheria. If Princess Sylvie wins, there will be one more fight between their champions, which will decide the fate of our kingdom."

She spread her arms, a gesture of inclusive authority. "But do not worry, my people. Your future will always be in safe hands."

The crowd murmured its assent.

"Does anyone have questions?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Anne's voice, though still hoarse, carried a new edge—something sharp and bitter that cut through the noise. She stood on trembling legs, Sylvie's supportive hand on her shoulder.

"From this moment on, I would like to abandon my position as Prince Andrin's champion."

The words hit Andrin like a physical blow. "You cannot do that, Anne! We've won! All we have to do is secure the second part—"

"I gave you one win." Anne turned to face him, her eyes blazing with a cold fury that made him take an involuntary step back. "I think our paths should be different now, Prince Andrin."

Something inside Andrin shattered.

Prince Andrin. Not my prince. Not my love. She spoke his name like a stranger—like someone she had never known. The distance between them, once bridged by whispered promises and stolen glances, now stretched into an unbridgeable chasm.

He realized, with agonizing clarity, that he had lost her. He had won the match, secured his position, taken a step closer to the throne—but he had lost Anne forever. He had seen the pain in Sylvie's eyes and believed she would save Anne. He had calculated, strategized, convinced himself that compassion could be manipulated.

He had been wrong.

The moment he saw Sylvie's desperation and ignored Anne's pleading eyes, he had lost the only thing he truly had to offer—his love.

Anne had never needed his protection. She had strength, power, skill. The only reason she had aligned herself with him was because he'd offered her something she couldn't find elsewhere: love. But what was love worth if it failed when tested?

Every relationship, in the end, was a transaction. Even love.

Very well. The Queen's voice cut through the tension. "You are still a champion, Anne. You may choose whom you wish to serve." She floated down into the arena, her feet barely touching the ground, a goddess among mortals. "But remember this—a broken trust is exceptionally hard to repair. Do not delude yourself into thinking everything will return to how it once was."

Anne bowed her head, accepting the wisdom with silent reverence.

"You fought well, Anne." The Queen's approval was a rare gift.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Princess Sylvie and Princess Verna—I shall speak with you both in my chambers."

The Queen then turned her attention to Lucien, her expression softening into something warmer, more intimate. A smile played at the corners of her lips. "You did well, Lucien Vale. It has been decades since I witnessed such an awe-inspiring battle. I cannot wait to see more of you."

Lucien knelt, his head bowed. "It is my honor, Your Majesty, to be in your presence."

The Queen reached down, her fingers closing around his shoulder in a gesture that was both intimate and commanding. "It's fine. You need not bother with these formalities." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "I can tell you despise them."

Lucien's smile was carefully neutral. "No, Your Majesty, it's not—"

She stepped closer, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "And I know your secret."

Author Note:

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