It wasn't about fairness. It wasn't even about marriage anymore. It was about making it impossible to say no. If the Duke rejected this sudden surge of interest, if he tried to block these entrants, the backlash would be immense.
Accusations of discrimination.
The kind of stain no kingdom could afford in front of the Empire.
He would be forced to open the gates.
And once that happened, there was no telling what else might flood through.
Still… all was probably not lost yet.
Duke Evermoon's eyes flicked briefly to the man beside him.
Mage Lian stood calmly, gaze locked on the arena below, where dust still lingered in the wake of Michael's display. There was a glimmer in his
eyes..Duke Evermoon didn't speak, but he followed that line of sight.
A name unfamiliar to the Duke's reports.
But he remembers hearing rumors of a certain mysterious youth
This boy… he might be the one from the rumors.
But if that was true…based on the operation that happened weeks ago, there was only one person who would have the full story.
Mage Lian might know too but the grand mage wanted nothing to do with him after getting a grasp of the current situation.
Duke Evermoon was just about to address Mage Lian when a voice echoed in their come.
They turned to look at eachother.
A great mage of the LionHeart Kingdom.
The people below didn't know what was happening in the kingdom.
Not even most nobles did.
Thanks to Michael's overwhelming show of power, something shifted—not in the arena, but behind the scenes.
The commentator—normally flamboyant, excitable, the voice of the people—sat rigid in his private section of the stands. His hat had been removed.
He wasn't speaking now.
Beside him sat a middle-aged man clad in blue robes lined with silver trim. One of the officials overseeing the tournament.
His brows were furrowed deep, his mouth drawn into a tight line.
The commentator looked at him sideways.
"Well?" he whispered, voice dry.
The robed man didn't answer at first. His fingers drummed on his knee, rhythm tight, anxious.
"…It's complicated," he finally muttered. "We've had… disruptions."
The commentator blinked.
The man rubbed his forehead. "Withdrawals."
Now that made the commentator pause.
"…FIFTY-THREE?" he hissed, barely able to keep his voice down. "
"Thirty-one remaining now," the man replied, grim. "Not counting the teams that won."
The commentator leaned back, stunned.
He wasn't new to competitions . Withdrawals were normal. Cowards existed. Injuries happened. But fifty-three? All at once?
"…Because of him?" He tilted his head slightly toward the arena.
He didn't need to finish.
"People don't want to be the next sacrifice," the official muttered. "Especially the ones who thought they had a chance. Now they're scrambling, making excuses, talking about family matters or personal limits or no use competing. The only good thing I can say it's only the capable ones that remain."
The commentator looked down at the arena.
"…So what now?" he asked softly. "Still continuing?"
The blue-robed man didn't answer at first. He stared out at the arena, lips twitching like he was chewing something bitter.
Then he finally said, "We continue the team battles."
The commentator raised a brow. "But the numbers are low."
"I know," the man muttered. "We'll rotate as needed. But none of them will proceed to the finals. Only four will."
The commentator blinked. "Why? I thought the team rounds were a qualifier for the next stage."
The man gave him a look.
Then he added, quieter, "But the current state of things changed everything. Those four… they're different."
Michael sat quietly in the waiting room of Group B.
The air was different now. Not heavier—just thinner. Emptier.
Only a few participants remained in the room, scattered across the wide chamber like uncertain shadows.
The benches that had once been filled with nervous tension were now silent.
Not just metaphorically.
There was a wide berth around him—an invisible boundary the others seemed too afraid to cross. They stole glances when they thought he wasn't looking. A few stared outright. Some with fear. Others with bitter curiosity.
In fact, he preferred it this way.
The less time he spent here, the better. He leaned back slightly, arms resting over the bench, letting the stillness settle around him like armor.
He imagined it was the same in the other waiting rooms.
He stared at the illusion showing the situation outside just to see the commentator that was previously absent return.
But before he could say anything, the illusion display switched to white.
Michael wasn't the only one taken aback.
The other participants were too.
What they had no idea of was that the officials didn't want them to see or hear what was going to happen next.
Back in the arena, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation.
The massive coliseum, which had briefly gone quiet following the delay, roared back to life as the commentator's voice rang out once more.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, voice booming with renewed energy as he stepped onto the floating stage platform. "There has been a slight change."
The audience shifted uneasily. The nobles leaned forward. The commoners straightened up.
"The team battles will continue as planned," the commentator said, raising a hand. "But—" he paused for effect, "—they will now be purely for entertainment and demonstration."
A stunned silence settled.
"No one from these matches will advance to the finals," he said. "Instead… the final stage of the competition will be fought between four individuals selected by the officiating council. A decision made due to the overwhelming difference in power displayed thus far."
There was a brief murmur, some confusion rising from the stands. He pressed on.
"These four participants are not just contenders—they are the strongest. The finest the tournament has produced. Their abilities are beyond the expected scope. They have… surpassed the original scale of this competition."
"Among them is Mic Nor."
A ripple of reactions followed. Some gasps. Others cheered. A few muttered indignantly, no doubt unhappy with what they saw as favouritism.
But before anyone could voice those thoughts too loudly, the commentator clapped his hands together with a grin and declared, "Now then! Back to the stage! For those still fighting—for glory, for honor, or just to prove a point—your time has come!"
"Next up, we have again… Group A versus Group C!"
The names of the participants appeared in bold script across the skies above the arena, and the stage began shifting, adjusting for the upcoming team match.
The crowd's uncertainty began to melt away as cheers returned, swept up in the motion and momentum. The commentator had expertly redirected their focus. That was his job after all.