The Imperial Duel II

Quinn's brows knitted as he observed the duel unfold. His keen eyes, honed over decades of battle and governance, dissected every movement.

Arthur had already transcended the boundaries of Integration-rank in raw capability. His Gifts and artifacts elevated his stats to rival those of an Ascendant-ranker. Of course, artifacts were not forbidden in this duel—Nolan himself wielded an Ancient-grade sword, a symbol of the Imperial Knights' elite status. But that wasn't what made Arthur's performance remarkable.

It was the fluidity. The precision. The relentless unpredictability.

The Imperial Knights were undeniably strong in theory. They possessed immense mana, practiced Grade 5 arts, and bore the finest weapons humanity could offer. But strength without fire-testing was brittle. These knights were prodigies raised in the safety of the empire, untested by the crucible of life-or-death combat.

They were, in Quinn's unspoken judgment, soft.

Nolan, for all his rank and accolades, exemplified this weakness. He was listed among the top three hundred combatants in the world purely by virtue of his rank, but that was a technicality. Against hardened warriors who had weathered centuries of conflict, who had battled in the brutal chaos of the Northern, Southern and Western fronts, Nolan would crumble.

And crumble he did.

Arthur, despite his peak Integration-rank, fought with the ferocity and cunning of someone who had survived wars, not training grounds. He had faced a mid Ascendant-rank Vampire Elder—a creature forged in the fires of a war-torn Eastern continent, an era of blood and battle—and emerged victorious.

This was no greenhouse sapling. Arthur was a tempered blade, honed by relentless combat, striking with surgical precision and unyielding aggression.

Nolan was not prepared for that. Arthur's unpredictability, his refusal to follow conventional forms, left the knight reeling. Every movement of his sword felt deliberate, as though it was a continuation of a strategy Nolan couldn't see but was trapped within. Each strike carried intent, every feint an opportunity to exploit.

Quinn's frown deepened. He hadn't expected this. It wasn't just raw power or talent Arthur displayed—it was a level of refinement and ruthlessness that even seasoned knights often lacked.

Nolan was a flower of the empire, bright and cultivated. Arthur was the storm that tore such flowers from their roots.

This was precisely why Quinn had always hesitated to send reinforcements to the East. Like their counterparts in the empire, many of the Eastern warriors had grown complacent, softened by centuries of relative peace. When they faced the vampires—immortals who had spent centuries honing their craft in the crucible of battle—they crumbled. Skill and experience overwhelmed mere strength and mana rank.

This softness was the East's greatest weakness, the reason they had struggled so profoundly against their vampiric adversaries. Warriors who hadn't fought a true war in two centuries were no match for creatures whose lives were forged in endless conflict. The vampires wielded not just mana but a profound understanding of how to fight, how to win.

Still, even with all that in mind, what unfolded before Quinn's eyes was far from ordinary.

Nolan Wright, a peak Ascendant-ranker, was no weakling by any standard. He was a knight of the Second Division, capable of crushing most opponents below high Ascendant-rank. Yet he was being driven back, pushed to his limits, by a boy who hadn't even scaled the Wall.

But Arthur Nightingale was no ordinary opponent.

There was something chilling in Arthur's movements. They were precise, deliberate, and ruthless. His strikes weren't just attacks—they were statements. Every slash, every feint, every pivot carried an uncanny weight, a sense of inevitability.

Quinn felt a shiver run down his spine as he watched. These were not the movements of a typical eighteen-year-old. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Instead, there was a predator's focus, the cold efficiency of someone who had walked the edge of death and learned to master it.

'There's a reason the boy had garnered so many achievements.'

Quinn's respect for Arthur deepened. He had already recognized the gap between Arthur and his peers, particularly Lucifer. But now, seeing him in action, that gap seemed insurmountable. Where Lucifer was a storm, powerful and chaotic, Arthur was a blade—sharpened to perfection, designed for one purpose.

The duel before him was proof enough. This wasn't just about strength or mana rank. It was about experience, determination, and an understanding of combat that transcended age. And Arthur had all of it in spades.

The battle reached its conclusion as Arthur executed a flawless God Flash, the sheer brilliance of the strike leaving Nolan unconscious. The Vice Captain's sword fell from his grasp, clattering against the enchanted training ground as his body slumped to the floor.

Quinn's sharp eyes narrowed as he analyzed the aftermath. Not only had Arthur won, but he had managed to knock out a peak Ascendant-ranker without causing any grievous injuries. That feat alone spoke volumes. Ascendant-rankers possessed bodies far stronger than those of lower ranks, their resilience honed by mana metamorphosis. Yet Arthur had delivered the exact amount of force needed to incapacitate Nolan without overstepping the line.

'Precise. Methodical. Ruthless,' Quinn mused. Arthur's control over his strength was unnervingly refined for someone so young, almost unnatural in its perfection.

But what stood out even more was how much Arthur had held in reserve. Though he had been forced to exert himself, it was clear he hadn't been pushed to his absolute limit. Every movement, every technique, had been calculated not just to win but to win cleanly. The young Nightingale had made it look almost surgical.

If Arthur hadn't cared about leaving Nolan unharmed, he could have ended the fight even faster.

Quinn folded his arms, his expression unreadable as he watched Arthur calmly sheathe his sword and step back from the unconscious knight. There was no arrogance in the boy's posture, no showboating or self-congratulation. Just quiet confidence, like the tide retreating after a storm.

'So,' Quinn thought as he straightened his posture, the weight of realization settling over him, 'he wasn't truly tested, was he?'

Arthur Nightingale had proven himself a force to be reckoned with—not just through his strength, but through the measured way he wielded it. And in the Emperor's eyes, that was far more terrifying.

"You performed exactly as I expected," Cecilia said, her voice carrying a teasing lilt as she approached Arthur.

"I had to, didn't I? For you," Arthur replied, his tone light but earnest.

"Oh, and not because you're getting that little reward from Father?" she asked, arching an elegant brow.

Arthur met her gaze with a calm sincerity. "I would have done it without the promise of a reward. That's just an extra perk—compared to you, it hardly matters."

Cecilia's smile softened, a rare flicker of warmth breaking through her usually confident demeanor. "Well, I suppose I'll allow that answer."

"Well done," Quinn interjected, clearing his throat as he approached the pair. His tone was gruff, but there was a begrudging nod of approval in his posture. "You'll receive your reward within the week."

"Thank you for your generosity, Your Majesty," Arthur said, bowing with practiced respect.

And with that, the whirlwind of Arthur's visit to the Imperial Palace—for Cecilia's birthday, no less—came to its conclusion. It had been a day of battles, banter, and bruised egos, but as Arthur straightened from his bow, he couldn't help but notice Cecilia's hand slipping into his, grounding him in the simplest, yet most meaningful, triumph of all.