********
And then, the worst thing happened.
Someone shouted:
"Hey—Isn't that Scarlette Overland?!"
Silence fell.
Scarlette's eyes twitched dangerously.
You loudmouthed idiot.
Whispers rippled across the crowd. People turned, gazes sharpening, murmurs swelling. Recognition spread like wildfire.
There was no hiding now.
Her different cloak—meant to disguise her—was useless now thanks to one careless voice.
She sighed sharply.
Fine.
She would join.
Not because she wanted to.
But because at this point, avoiding the spotlight would only make things more irritating.
"Fine," she muttered. "Don't expect me to win. I'm just bored."
Every adventurer around her froze.
'Is she mocking us…? She says she won't win. Then what about us?'
Scarlette did not care about their silent protests. She simply turned and strode toward the registration booth.
She registered under a fake identity—something she had done many times before for convenience—and joined the competition as an anonymous participant.
The rules were simple:
Whoever dropped their sword or surrendered first lost.
Violence outside acceptable sparring was prohibited. Anyone caught cheating or deliberately injuring another participant would be punished severely.
When the matches began, Scarlette watched quietly from the sideline.
Many challengers displayed skill. Some lost quickly. Others became too excited, resorting to dangerous tactics. Nobles, unsurprisingly, were the most troublesome—many cheated or attacked viciously out of pride.
Pathetic, Scarlette thought, expression cold behind her veil. These rotten nobles think themselves mighty, but without talent, all they can do is resort to violence. What a disgrace.
Scarlette thought as she watched the event from the sidelines, hiding her presence within the crowd while waiting for the next round.
......….
...............
.....................
By the time the semi-final round was about to begin, Scarlette had already become one of the finalists. It wasn't because she tried. In fact, she regretted ever stepping into this event at all.
She had held back—truly held back—yet every single opponent she faced fell in three moves or less.
'I tried not to be exposed too much, but these people… they're too weak. Barely any of them can withstand even three of my strikes.'
Scarlette sighed, mentally exhausted rather than physically. More than anything, she wanted to go home, curl up in her little corner, and rest. Instead, she was stuck here, surrounded by overly energetic spectators cheering at the top of their lungs.
'I regret joining this event. What a waste of time.'
She looked toward the other contestants who made it to the semi-finals. Unsurprisingly, most of them were nobles—dressed in fine fabrics, holding polished weapons, wearing looks of arrogance. A few commoners managed to slip through, but their chances against the noble-trained finalists were slim.
Scarlette didn't care. She didn't plan to stay long enough to witness any of their glory or their humiliation.
"Yo! What are you doing here? Hiding from the crowd?"
The sudden voice didn't startle her. She had already sensed this person's presence long before he opened his mouth. She simply chose to ignore him.
Unfortunately, he had the audacity to continue.
"Hey, why don't you take off that hood of yours and let people see your appearance? What's there to hide?"
'The nerve…!'
Scarlette suppressed the urge to snap. Slowly—very slowly—she turned her head toward the source of the annoyance.
And raised an eyebrow.
'Marquis Asterion Varyn Valehart. Of all people… I didn't expect the revered Marquis to join this competition.'
Scarlette's crimson‑lilac eyes narrowed behind her veil. Asterion looked young—too young—for a Marquis. If one didn't know better, they would assume he was a teenage knight-in-training. But Scarlette knew his reputation. Who in the Empire didn't?
She had watched several of his earlier matches. Most of his would-be opponents forfeited immediately after seeing who they were up against. The Marquis didn't even need to fight. His name alone was enough to make fully grown knights tremble.
'Geez! This person didn't even bother to hide his identity.'
Scarlette clicked her tongue mentally and ignored him entirely. There was no point engaging in conversation. She simply stood quietly, waiting for the announcer to declare the next round.
......…..
................
.....................
'This is quite boring. Tsk!'
Asterion exhaled and slid his sword's scabbard back into place after effortlessly defeating yet another opponent. Honestly, he had no business participating in this event. He was a Swordmaster—one of the strongest in the Empire. These people were knights, apprentices, or commoners with basic sword skills at best.
Why was he even here?
He already knew the answer.
'That carrot-headed Crown Prince! That bastard tricked me into joining this farce…!'
Asterion gritted his teeth at the memory. A ridiculous bet had been made, and he—unfortunately—became the unwilling victim who ended up signing his name for this competition. By the time he realized he'd walked into a royal prank, it was too late.
And then, as if the humiliation wasn't enough, most participants dropped out of their scheduled matches the moment they discovered they'd been paired against him.
He wasn't even trying to be intimidating. In fact, he wished they would stay and at least give him a warm-up. But no—one look at his name, and they ran.
Still, a handful of competitors challenged him seriously. They looked nervous, terrified even, but each time they stepped onto the stage to face him, Asterion respected their resolve.
He still defeated them in seconds, but respect was respect.
Eventually, he grew tired. He wanted to withdraw, return home, or maybe take a long nap—anything but continue entertaining an event that didn't challenge him.
But then—
Something stopped him.
A presence.
A clash.
A movement.
A mysterious black‑hooded woman stepped onto the stage.
Asterion froze—not in fear, but in astonishment. She moved with precision. Her footwork flowed like water, her strikes carried intention without force, and her control over her wooden sword was so refined that not even a splinter broke off.
His eyes widened slightly.
'This woman…'
He focused intently on every movement, every breath, every flick of her wrist. She was fast—far too fast for someone pretending to be an average participant. Her posture was relaxed, yet her aura—subtle, suppressed, almost invisible—brushed faintly against his senses.
'I could tell… she is a Swordmaster.'
Asterion felt something stir inside him.
Excitement.
He hadn't felt this in a long time.
She wasn't just skilled. She wasn't merely hiding her strength. No—she was suppressing it so thoroughly that only someone of his level could detect it.
The wooden sword she used should have snapped under the sheer pressure of her aura. But it didn't.
That alone made Asterion's blood rush.
'She's using her aura so delicately that the weapon doesn't even crack… at all. Incredible.'
He looked down at his own scabbard. He had tried holding one of the competition's wooden swords earlier. It broke in his hand before the fight even began.
But this mysterious woman could wield one flawlessly.
He couldn't help it—his lips curled into a grin.
For those who recognized that grin, panic immediately set in. Spectators who knew Asterion's personality gulped nervously. They knew that look. It meant the Marquis found something—someone—interesting.
From the royal platform, the Emperor and Crown Prince watched the scene unfold.
The Emperor raised an eyebrow at the familiar glint in Asterion's eyes, then sighed.
'There is no doubt he's Asterielle's grandson… Tsk! The way he gets excited when he meets someone powerful, it's exactly how Asterielle used to act. Mischievous brat.'
He shook his head, smiling bitterly yet fondly.
Who was this hooded woman who managed to catch Asterion's full attention?
The Emperor leaned forward, eyes narrowing in intrigue. And when he followed Asterion's gaze, his eyebrow twitched.
'Hmmm… those movements are familiar. Don't tell me…'
Asterion's focus didn't waver once. His eyes locked onto the stage, watching the mysterious woman dismantle her opponent in mere seconds. Her fluid steps, unfaltering balance, and the natural way she held her blade sparked something in him.
Respect.
And fascination.
He wanted to fight her. He wanted to know her strength. He wanted to test his blade against hers.
Not out of arrogance.
But out of genuine admiration.
For the first time since this event began… he wanted to stay.
.......
..............
..................…
Scarlette and Asterion stood side by side as the semi-final round was about to begin. The crowd buzzed with excitement, but Scarlette couldn't care less.
Asterion noticed the cold silence around the hooded woman. He sensed her disdain for attention. He sensed her annoyance with him. But oddly enough, he found it entertaining.
"Since you're not willing to remove your hood," he said quietly, tone unusually gentle, "then I'll respect that."
Scarlette didn't respond immediately. A brief silence stretched between them.
Finally, she sighed.
"Thank you for understanding, Marquis Valehart."
***********