Alen Celestia POV:
The dirt in the center of the Erzel Stadium was still scorched and broken from the first round.
Alen stood in the dark tunnel, waiting for his name to be called. He wore a simple, unbranded leather combat suit. He didn't wear a royal cape or carry an expensive weapon. He just had a standard iron sword strapped to his hip.
He had pitch-black hair and bright golden eyes. He was the Third Prince of the Velmer Empire. But nobody treated him like royalty. To the nobles, he was just an illegitimate child born from a commoner maid.
He watched the arena crew quickly fix the broken ground with earth magic. He wiped sweaty palms on his pants.
'That guy Rias was amazing,' Alen thought, his eyes wide with genuine awe. 'He took down an entire crowd by himself. I didn't know the Leonhart family was that strong.'
Suddenly, a booming, ancient voice echoed directly inside his head.
[Stop gawking like a country bumpkin, boy! He merely used a basic elemental compression trick! It was sloppy!]
Alen flinched, tapping the side of his head.
'It wasn't sloppy, Ancestor Valerian!' Alen argued back in his mind.
'He beat four hundred people without taking a single scratch! That is incredible!'
Another voice, much calmer and older, chimed in next.
[The boy is right, Valerian. That Leonhart kid fought with absolute killing intent. He did not hesitate. Something you currently lack, my foolish descendant.]
'I don't lack it, Ancestor Caelus,' Alen sighed, scratching his cheek.
'I just don't want to hurt anyone too badly. This is just a tournament. We don't need to kill each other.'
[Fool!]
Ancestor Valerian roared in his mind. [You carry the blood of the First Emperor! You possess the ancient power of the Celestia line! You should be crushing these peasants beneath your heel, not worrying about their broken bones! If you embarrass our legacy today, I will personally torment your dreams for a decade!]
Alen groaned quietly.
Ever since he awakened his bloodline a few months ago, these ancient ghosts had taken up residence in his mind space. They taught him incredible fighting techniques and gave him massive power, but they were incredibly bossy. They constantly yelled at him for being too soft.
"Batch B!" the head referee shouted from the center podium.
"Step into the ring!"
Alen took a deep breath. He walked out of the dark tunnel and into the blinding sunlight.
The moment he stepped onto the dirt, the crowd's reaction was completely different from Rias's match. There was no roaring hatred. There were no death threats.
Instead, there were just confused whispers and mocking laughter.
"Who is that kid?" a man in the stands asked loudly.
"I think that is the Third Prince. You know, the illigimate son."
"Why is he even here? I heard he doesn't even have a proper magic tutor. He is going to get crushed by the mercenaries."
Alen heard the whispers. He always heard them. He just kept his head down and walked into the massive white chalk circle.
He found a spot near the edge of the ring. All around him, four hundred and ninety-nine other fighters took their positions. There were heavily armored knights, fast-looking bandits, and a few minor nobles.
Unlike the first match, this batch didn't form an alliance to target one person. They all looked at each other with intense suspicion.
"Begin!" the referee shouted, swinging his hand down.
The gong echoed. The crowd screamed.
The arena instantly turned into a massive, chaotic brawl. Fighters swung swords, threw fireballs, and smashed shields together. The noise was deafening.
Alen stood in his spot, watching the chaos unfold. He didn't draw his iron sword.
A massive mercenary carrying a spiked club noticed the boy standing still. The mercenary grinned, thinking he had found an easy target.
"Go to sleep, little prince!" the mercenary yelled, swinging the heavy club right at Alen's ribs.
Alen didn't panic. To his eyes, the heavy club looked incredibly slow.
He casually took half a step backward. The spiked club missed his stomach by an inch. Alen gently tapped his foot behind the mercenary's leg and gave the man a light push on the shoulder.
The massive mercenary lost his balance entirely. He tripped over Alen's foot and crashed face-first into the dirt, sliding completely out of the white chalk ring.
"One eliminated!" the referee called out.
Alen smiled apologetically at the angry mercenary. "Sorry about that."
[What are you doing?!]
Ancestor Valerian screamed in his mind. [Why did you push him? You should have shattered his ribcage with your fist! You are fighting like a dancing clown!]
'He is already out of the ring! I don't need to break his bones!' Alen argued back.
Three more fighters rushed at Alen from the side. They saw him push the mercenary and realized he had good reflexes. They attacked together, swinging two swords and a heavy axe.
Alen ducked under the first sword. He stepped to the side, grabbed the wrist of the second attacker, and used their own momentum to throw them into the man holding the axe. All three of them tumbled out of the ring in a tangled mess of limbs and weapons.
[Pathetic!]
Ancestor Valerian roared.
[Draw your sword, boy! Unleash your aura!]
'No!' Alen thought stubbornly.
'I can win without hurting them!'
He kept moving through the outer edges of the brawl. He dodged every single attack with completely unnatural grace. He didn't fight back with force. He just deflected attacks, tripped people, and gently pushed them out of bounds.
He was incredibly fast. His instincts were flawless. But his gentle fighting style was starting to draw unwanted attention.
A group of twenty elite fighters from a prominent mercenary guild noticed him. They had formed a tight circle in the center of the arena, working together to clear out the weaker targets.
"Look at that kid," the leader sneered, pointing a massive glowing sword at Alen.
"He is making a fool of everyone. He isn't even attacking. Let's show the little prince how a real fight works."
The twenty elite mercenaries broke away from the main brawl and charged directly at Alen.
They didn't attack blindly. They spread out, completely surrounding him in a tight circle. Five mages stood behind the swordsmen, raising their staffs.
"Don't let him dodge!" the leader shouted. "Lock him down!"
The five mages cast their spells at the exact same time. Thick vines of solid earth erupted from the dirt, wrapping tightly around Alen's ankles and pulling him firmly to the ground.
Alen tried to pull his legs free, but the earth magic was incredibly dense. He was stuck.
"Now! Crush him!" the leader yelled.
Fifteen heavily armed mercenaries leaped into the air, bringing their swords, axes, and hammers down toward Alen's head.
[You stubborn idiot!]
Ancestor Caelus finally yelled, his ancient voice echoing with pure disappointment.
[If you hold back now, you will die! This is not a game! If you want to protect people, you must first show them absolute, terrifying strength!]
Alen looked up at the fifteen weapons falling toward his face.
He finally realized the Ancestors were right. Dodging and pushing wasn't enough. If he didn't show them his power, they would never stop trying to kill him.
Alen stopped pulling against the earth vines. He closed his golden eyes.
He took a deep breath, reaching deep into the very bottom of his soul. He found the ancient, locked gate containing his bloodline power.
He threw the gate wide open.