“Have you heard? They’re fighting over whose poem is better.”
“Victor and Philip are going to duel in the Arena!”
“Are they crazy? Just over a lousy poem?”
“Lousy poem? That’s a Poem of Praise dedicated to the Second Princess! This is about honor!”
The noble circles of Yelin City had completely descended into a maddening frenzy.
The cause was two young viscounts from rising families.
At a recent Court Salon, both unveiled their painstakingly crafted epic poems.
Both poems had the same theme—praising Sylvia’s beauty and purity.
Soon after, to determine whose work was more “worthy” to be presented before the young princess, their literary rivalry quickly escalated into a physical confrontation.
Victor, a viscount with a warrior’s background, drew his sword on the spot.
Philip, a viscount with a mage’s lineage, conjured a fireball in response.
Just as a bloody clash seemed inevitable, both forcibly restrained themselves.
They agreed—
In three days’ time, a sacred Honor Duel would take place in the royal Arena.
The stakes were the futures of their respective families, and the possession of the Right of Supreme Praise for the Second Princess.
This absurd matter soon reached the ears of the Eldest Princess, Avira.
Instead of stopping it, she tapped her lips with her fingertips, her crimson eyes gleaming with the excitement of finding a new toy.
“Oh? A duel for my sister?”
“Interesting. Very interesting!”
Avira immediately declared she would personally oversee the duel as referee.
***
The Arena was packed, buzzing with noise.
Nearly every noble in Yelin City had turned out, crowding the stands to the point of no room to move.
But they weren’t here merely to watch the duel.
They came to watch the “judge” of the duel.
Sylvia sat expressionless in the most prestigious seat, feeling as if her soul was slowly drifting away.
Her sister Avira had physically dragged her out of the warmth of bed.
“Sis, get up! Someone’s fighting for you!”
“You must witness this honor with your own eyes!”
Honor?
What honor?
Sylvia just wanted to go back to sleep.
Wrapped in a thick blanket, her pale face devoid of color, her gaze vacant, staring blankly at the sandy battlefield below.
Beside her, Avira was brimming with enthusiasm.
The nobles around them cast awed, feverish glances.
“Look at how composed the Second Princess is!”
“Of course! At this level of flattery,”
“Her Highness has surely grown accustomed to it.”
“The expression on her face isn’t coldness, but sacred indifference!”
“The gaze of a superior looking down on petty squabbles!”
“Exactly! For those two fools, having Her Highness present is an honor spanning three lifetimes!”
Listening to the chatter, Sylvia felt no emotion—if anything, she was close to yawning.
Please, she thought.
I’m not looking down on anything.
I’m just tired.
Just finish this quickly, kill whoever, I want to sleep.
“Sis, don’t rush.”
Avira seemed to see right through her thoughts.
Leaning close, her breath carried a sweet, metallic scent of blood.
She pinched a peeled Blood Grape between long fingers, its flesh deep red.
Then, gently placed it between Sylvia’s lips.
Sylvia instinctively parted her mouth to accept it.
The cold, syrupy juice exploded inside.
Watching Sylvia’s subtle cheek movement, Avira smiled with satisfaction.
The curve of her lips carried a hint of twisted affection.
Leaning closer again, she whispered where only the two could hear:
“Sis, watch.”
“When the fight breaks out, the blood will splatter everywhere. It’ll be a beautiful sight.”
Sylvia’s chewing abruptly stopped.
“Ding—”
The bell signaling the start of the duel rang out.
Below, Viscounts Victor and Philip faced each other from across the Arena.
“Philip! Retract your clumsy words! That’s an insult to Her Highness!”
Victor roared, gripping his greatsword.
“Victor! You idiot! Her Highness’s purity is not something your brute force can praise!”
Philip raised his staff, lightning crackling around him.
Words failed; the fight began!
Victor charged like an enraged rhino, kicking up dust.
Philip chanted spells in place, unleashing a torrent of chain lightning and acidic arrows.
The battle immediately entered a white-hot phase.
More than a duel, it was a real fight to the death.
Both were bloodthirsty.
The roar of spells and clash of steel filled the air without pause.
The nobles in the stands gasped repeatedly.
This wasn’t an Honor Duel; this was a massacre!
Sylvia’s stomach churned at the sight.
Splattering blood and torn flesh
brought back memories of a recent bloody tea gathering.
She felt like vomiting again.
Avira, however, watched with relish.
She even pulled out a small notebook, jotting notes with a quill.
“Hmm… this warrior’s fighting spirit is too crude, wasting power.”
“The mage’s casting rhythm is off; several spells were interrupted.”
“So weak.”
She commented while peeling another Blood Grape to feed Sylvia.
“Here, sis, open your mouth.”
Sylvia opened her mouth mechanically.
The duel turned brutal.
Philip’s magical shield shattered under Victor’s sword strike.
He was blasted backward, coughing blood.
But before falling, he unleashed a vicious Blood Rot Curse, striking Victor’s left arm.
Victor’s entire left arm rapidly blackened and rotted before their eyes.
In agony, Victor let out a roar.
Using his right hand, he fiercely severed his own left arm with the greatsword!
Severed arm for survival!
Dragging his grievously injured body, Victor charged Philip before the mage could cast again.
“Pfut!”
The greatsword pierced Philip’s chest.
The fight was over.
Viscount Victor, the warrior, had won the duel at the cost of an arm.
The Arena fell deathly silent.
Everyone was stunned by the sheer brutality.
Victor withdrew his sword, letting Philip’s corpse fall at his feet.
He staggered forward, leaving bloody footprints with every step, then knelt on one knee beneath the stands.
He raised his right hand high.
Clutched tightly was not his sword, but a scroll of parchment soaked halfway in blood, covered in poetry.
He lifted his head and shouted with all his might, voice trembling with emotion:
“Your Highness!”
“My loyalty and praise, please accept them!”
The shout echoed through the silent Arena.
All noble gazes instantly fixed on Sylvia.
The final outcome of this high-stakes gamble was about to be revealed.
Would the victorious viscount rise to greatness?
How would the young princess respond to this bloodied loyalty?
Sylvia looked down at the bloodied man, at the blood-dripping scroll.
The turmoil in her stomach could no longer be contained.
She only wanted to say—
Don’t come any closer!
But before she could utter a single word,
Avira spoke first.
She lazily leaned back in her seat, twirling a strand of silver hair between her fingers.
Her voice light and airy:
“Oh? It’s over?”
“Congratulations, your shout was indeed louder than the other one’s.”
“But…”
Avira paused, shifting her gaze away from the ecstatic Victor.
Returning it to Sylvia’s face, she reached out and gently stroked her sister’s furrowed brow.
“You’ve disturbed my sister.”
“She seems… not very happy.”
What a waste