Naomi stood in the center of the arena, breath heavy, the taste of iron still on his tongue. He had won. The duel was over.
But instead of the cheers of victory, a cold murmur swept through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.
Then came the shouting.
"Coward!"
"COWARD! COWARD!"
The voices grew louder, angrier, until it felt like the whole arena had turned on him. They weren't just upset—
They were disgusted.
All because of one thing: the weapon Naomi had chosen.
It wasn't forged in any noble forge or blessed by a royal knight. It was a simple, practical blade—one that peasants used. Efficient. Brutal.
Unworthy, by their standards.
To them, winning with that weapon made him a coward.
Naomi didn't care.
He didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He simply raised his eyes to the high platform where the Duke sat.
He took a breath and said, calmly:
"I fulfilled my promise… Now it's your turn."
A hush fell over the arena. Even the insults died down for a moment.
The Duke remained still for a long while, eyes locked on Naomi. Then—without a word—his hand clenched the armrest of his chair. The wood creaked under the force, then snapped with a loud crack.
Gasps echoed.
He stood up slowly. Majestic. Towering. His presence swallowed the noise in the arena like a wave crashing over a fire.
He inhaled deeply.
And then, he roared:
"SILENCE!"
It wasn't just loud—it was powerful. It rattled the bones. Even Naomi felt it in his chest, like thunder rolling through his soul.
The entire arena froze.
Then, the Duke's voice came again—steady, commanding:
"It was a fair match."
He turned to face the crowd.
"Naomi—Nel—fought with skill. With courage. And he won."
A pause. He glanced back at Naomi, something unreadable in his gaze.
"As Duke and Protector of this kingdom… I grant him admission to the Royal Academy."
Naomi stood still. His fingers clenched at his sides.
This was it. The first step. The place where everything would begin.
Once I enter the Academy… I'll uncover the truth. I'll learn why my mother's past is so deeply tied to this world.
But just as the weight of his victory began to settle, the Duke spoke again.
His tone had changed—calmer, but colder.
"However…"
He turned fully toward Naomi now.
"You chose to use a peasant's weapon. You dishonored the tradition of the duel. And though you won, that choice comes with consequences."
Naomi felt it coming.
"You will enter the Academy… alone. No soldiers will escort you. No carriages. No financial support from my house. You are to go by foot, by will, and by yourself."
The words landed heavy, but Naomi didn't show it. Not yet.
The Duke finished:
**"This is your punishment. Let it remind you: victory is not just about the end. It's about the path you take to get there.
Once you've proven yourself—truly earned your place—I may reconsider. Until then...
You're on your own."**
The crowd was silent now. Not out of respect. Not yet.
But out of shock.
Naomi lowered his head for a moment, closing his eyes.
Then he nodded.
"Understood."
The stadium had emptied.
Naomi stood alone in the center of the dusty arena. The silence now felt louder than the crowd's screams moments ago.
Across the field, Murin Darkstar—bloodied and unconscious—was being carried away by healers. The Duke had already left. His decision had been made.
And yet… it wasn't over.
From the VIP balcony, a tall, elegant figure stepped down. The crowd parted without a word.
Lady Elanora Darkstar—Murin's mother. The Duchess.
Her eyes blazed with fury as she approached. Her steps were sharp, heels echoing with every stride. When she reached Naomi, she didn't hesitate.
She stood in front of him, her voice like ice:
"You filthy peasant… how dare you lay a hand on my son?"
Naomi stayed calm, meeting her gaze without flinching.
"It was a fair duel, Miss Duchess. I won—by the rules."
Her nostrils flared. Her voice cracked like a whip:
"Fair duel?" she growled.
But before she could continue, her personal knight stepped forward and whispered something in her ear.
A pause.
Then, she laughed.
Not a laugh of amusement.
A laugh that sent a chill through the air—sharp, cruel, and venomous.
"You poor boy… you forgot something," she said, a wicked grin spreading across her face.
Naomi raised an eyebrow.
"What did I forget, Miss Duchess?"
She leaned in slightly, her voice low and taunting:
"You're walking to the Royal Academy, aren't you? Do you even realize which path that means? That road is a graveyard without protection. Monsters, bandits… That trail only leads to death without elite knights."
Naomi didn't blink.
"Thank you for your concern. I'll remember your warning," he replied evenly.
But she wasn't done.
Her voice dropped, poison lacing every word.
"Before any monster gets to you…" she whispered, eyes narrowed.
"I'll make sure I end your life. You touched my child—my son—and for that, you'll pay. I'll drag your corpse through the mud, and when I'm done—"
She took a breath, voice curling into something darker.
"—I'll turn your precious knight into a—"
SHING!
She froze.
Naomi's sword was already drawn—its tip just inches from her face.
In that instant, the Duchess's personal knight moved faster than the eye could follow, stepping between them.
CLANG!
Metal clashed as Naomi's blade was blocked.
The knight held firm. His tone was apologetic, yet firm:
"My lord… I'm sorry. But I cannot allow you to harm my mistress."
Naomi's eyes didn't leave the Duchess.
He slowly lowered his blade, then said quietly:
"Miss Duchess… I grew up without a mother. But I always imagined a noble woman like you would carry herself with grace."
He sheathed his sword with a quiet click.
"Please be careful with your words. Because I'm not always good at holding my temper."
The Duchess stood frozen.
She had expected rage, maybe a shout. She hadn't expected steel. She hadn't expected a boy—just a peasant—to ever dare raise a weapon at her.
For the first time in years… she felt a flicker of fear.
Naomi walked slowly toward the large iron doors at the far end of the arena—the exit that led out into the world.
Behind him, the stadium had gone quiet again.
But just as he reached the doorway, a voice sliced through the still air.
"I will kill you myself… mark my words, Nel!"
It was the Duchess. Her voice was cold, sharp—like a curse hurled into the wind.
Naomi paused… but didn't turn.
He placed a hand on the heavy door… pushed it open… and walked through, letting it shut behind him with a quiet, final thud.
As the door closed, a black lizard poked its head up from atop Naomi's shoulder—small, dragon-like, with curious eyes and a mischievous grin.
"Master," it said, tilting its head. "You looked really angry back there…"
Naomi didn't answer immediately. His footsteps echoed as they moved through the empty corridor beyond the arena.
Then he replied, calmly:
"It's nothing. I just don't like people who talk too much."
The lizard gave a little snicker.
"Ohh, is that it? Because I think you really lost your mind the moment that old hag started talking about your girl—"
Before the lizard could finish, Naomi grabbed it by the tail and hurled it forward. It tumbled midair with a squeaky yelp, landing with a roll and a bounce.
"Don't joke around about that," Naomi muttered.
From the shadows of the hallway, a soft laugh floated in.
"Talking to yourself now?" came a gentle voice.
Naomi turned to see Seraphina—his knight, his companion—walking toward him. Her smile was kind, her presence as steady as ever.
"No, of course not," Naomi replied, straightening up quickly. "Just... refreshing myself. Clearing my head."
She smiled knowingly.
"Well, allow me to offer congratulations, young master. You did it. Just as you said you would—you won."
Naomi gave a faint nod, but his expression didn't carry victory. His mind was elsewhere.
Seraphina noticed the shadow in his eyes.
What Naomi couldn't tell her… was that he wasn't worried about the duel. Or even the threats. It was something else.
The Duchess's hatred wasn't idle. And Seraphina—loyal, brave Seraphina—was supposed to protect Nel. But what she didn't know… was that Nel no longer existed.
Not the way she believed.
He looked at her now—really looked at her—and something in his chest twisted.
He didn't want her to risk her life for a ghost. For someone who had already died, long ago, on the inside.
He took a slow breath. Then, steady and quiet, he said:
"I'm not Nel."
She blinked.
"Pardon?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer.
He just looked at her for a moment longer.
Then turned his eyes toward the horizon, where the road to the Royal Academy—and whatever fate waited—lay ahead.
To be continued...
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