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Chapter 276: You need to be much stronger for that

As Valeria and Lucavion returned to Mariel's inn, the shift in the atmosphere was impossible to miss. The usually lively space was now bursting at the seams, patrons crowding tables and filling every corner. The hum of conversation was louder, more charged, a tension simmering just beneath the surface. Even the air seemed heavier, laden with unspoken questions and hushed speculation.

The moment Lucavion stepped through the door, dozens of eyes turned toward him. Some gazes carried admiration, others suspicion. A few burned with anger, and others lingered with a strange mix of pity and curiosity. The once-private world of the inn had become a public stage, and Lucavion its reluctant star.

Valeria frowned, her sharp eyes sweeping over the room. The sudden crowd wasn't a coincidence. This was the aftermath of Lucavion's fight with Lira—the whispers of his words, the secrets he had laid bare for the world to see. The very reputation he had built on the arena floor now followed him here, a storm of opinions and judgments that wouldn't be ignored.

"Seems I've made an impression," Lucavion muttered, his smirk faint but unmistakable as his dark eyes flicked to meet Valeria's.

She sighed, brushing past him as she made her way toward their usual table by the fireside. It was still free, though it was clear that even here, their presence wasn't going unnoticed. The weight of the crowd's stares followed them as they crossed the room, whispers flaring and dying as they passed.

Valeria dropped into her seat, her expression tense as she folded her arms and waited for Lucavion to join her. He took his place across from her with his usual air of nonchalance, leaning back slightly as if the stares and whispers were nothing more than background noise.

"Do you even realize the kind of attention you've drawn?" Valeria asked, her voice low but firm.

Lucavion raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Of course. That was the point."

She shot him a look, one that carried equal parts frustration and disbelief. "And you're fine with this? With people watching you like some kind of spectacle?"

He shrugged, reaching for the tankard of water left on the table by a passing attendant. "People always watch. It's what they do afterward that matters."

Valeria huffed, leaning forward slightly as she gestured subtly to the room around them. "And what happens when one of those people decides to act? When it's not just stares and whispers but blades and poison?"

Lucavion's expression didn't falter, though his smirk softened slightly. "Then I deal with it. Just like I've dealt with everything else."

Their conversation was interrupted as Mariel herself approached, her usually calm demeanor carrying a hint of unease. "Your meals will be out shortly," she said, her gaze lingering on Lucavion for a moment longer than necessary. "You've stirred up quite a crowd tonight."

Lucavion's smirk returned, sharper now. "So I've noticed."

Mariel hesitated, her eyes flicking between him and Valeria. "Just… be careful. Not everyone here is a friend."

Lucavion inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "Appreciate the warning. But, Miss Little Bear. With you here, I shouldn't be worried right?"

Mariel's lips thinned at Lucavion's casual remark, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded him. "You're reckless," she said bluntly, her tone cutting through the hum of the room. "I've seen a lot in my time, but I've never met anyone like you. You keep this up, and it's going to get you killed."

Lucavion's smirk widened, undeterred. He raised his uninjured hand in a mock toast. "I'm honored to be such a singularity," he replied, his tone light and teasing. "Hehe… it's nice to stand out, don't you think?"

Mariel huffed, her gaze softening despite her irritation. "Really something," she muttered, shaking her head as she turned to leave. "Just don't make me regret sticking my neck out for you, Iron Matron or not."

Lucavion chuckled, watching her retreating form as she disappeared into the bustling crowd. "Ah, Miss Little Bear," he mused, leaning back slightly. "Always so protective."

Valeria rolled her eyes, dropping into her seat across from him. "You act like it's funny, but she has a point. You're reckless, Lucavion. One day, it's going to catch up with you."

"Maybe," he replied, his smirk softening as he lifted his tankard. "But not today."

As their meals arrived and the crowd's whispers continued to buzz around them, Valeria's sharp eyes drifted to Lucavion's arm. She frowned, her brow furrowing as she noticed how fluidly he moved it, the earlier stiffness and strain seemingly gone. She remembered the unnatural angle of his shoulder, the swelling, the sheer damage it had endured.

"You shouldn't be able to use your arm like that," she said abruptly, her tone laced with suspicion. "Even with a high-grade potion, it should take longer to heal. How did you manage it?"

Lucavion glanced at her, a glimmer of amusement flashing in his dark eyes. "Secret," he said simply, taking a slow sip from his tankard.

Valeria's frown deepened, her patience wearing thin. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting," he replied, his smirk returning. "Some things are better left a mystery, Valeria. Keeps life interesting."

She stared at him, her frustration mounting as she tried to decide whether to push further. But the smug, unbothered expression on his face made it clear she wouldn't get anything more out of him. With a huff, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms.

"Bastard…..Out of all things, you can at least reveal this, don't you think?"

Lucavion's dark eyes, usually glinting with amusement, locked onto hers with an intensity that caught her off guard. For a fleeting moment, his gaze seemed honest, almost vulnerable—a rarity she wasn't prepared for.

"Maybe someday," he said, his voice low, almost tender, "but you'll need to be much stronger if you want to know that."

Valeria blinked, her frown deepening. "Stronger?" she echoed, her confusion apparent. "What does that mean? Stronger how?"

But just as quickly as the moment of sincerity appeared, it vanished. Lucavion leaned back in his chair, his signature smirk returning, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper. "It's not the kind of thing you can rush, Valeria. Let's just say… it's a story for another time."

His dismissal sparked a fresh wave of frustration, but she hesitated, her usual sharp retort catching in her throat. Something in his tone, in the way he looked at her, left her unsettled. As much as she wanted to demand answers, she couldn't shake the feeling that pushing further wouldn't yield anything useful.

Instead, she fell silent, her thoughts swirling. 'Stronger… What could he possibly mean by that? Does he think I'm not capable now? Or is there something more to this?' Her mind raced, trying to make sense of his cryptic words, but the answers eluded her.

Lucavion, ever the enigma, simply reached for his tankard and took another leisurely sip. "You'll figure it out eventually," he said casually, as if their entire exchange hadn't just thrown her world slightly off balance.

Valeria huffed softly, leaning back in her seat as she tried to push down the strange, gnawing sensation in her chest. But her thoughts remained restless, circling back to his words over and over again.

'Why does it feel like he knows something I don't? And why… why does it bother me so much?'

For the rest of the evening, the noise of the inn and the warmth of the fire faded into the background as Valeria wrestled with her unease, her mind consumed by questions she couldn't yet answer.

*******

The following morning dawned with an air of electric anticipation that crackled through the city. The streets of Andelheim were alive with activity, as people from all corners of the region gathered to witness the grand finale of the Ventor Martial Tournament. Merchants lined the streets, hawking food, drinks, and souvenirs, their voices competing with the cheers and chatter of the throngs moving toward the arena.

By the time the gates opened, the arena was already teeming with spectators. Word of Lucavion's audacious revelations and his masterful victories had spread like wildfire, drawing even those who had shown little interest in the earlier rounds. The stands filled quickly, the energy of the crowd building to a deafening crescendo as the final match approached.

The arena itself was a grand spectacle, adorned with banners bearing the crest of House Ventor and surrounded by rows of torches that flickered despite the midday sun. The seats were packed to the brim, with nobles, commoners, and foreign dignitaries alike vying for the best view. Even the highest balconies, reserved for the most esteemed guests, were filled with figures of importance, their presence underscoring the gravity of the occasion.

The chants began even before the fighters were announced.

"Varen! Varen! Varen!" The name of the Silver Flame Sect's rising star echoed through the arena, a powerful wave of support for the fiery prodigy who had dominated his path to the finals.

But then, another chant rose, cutting through the first with equal fervor.

"Lucavion! Lucavion!" The enigmatic swordsman, who had taken the tournament by storm with his boldness and skill, had clearly captured the imagination of the crowd. His unconventional style and sharp tongue had earned him both admirers and detractors, but his name was now a rallying cry for those who sought to see the unexpected prevail.

The two chants clashed in the air, a chaotic symphony of loyalty and excitement that only served to heighten the anticipation.

In the center of the arena, the stage for the final battle stood ready, its surface pristine despite the countless clashes it had borne witness to in the days prior. The air around it shimmered faintly, a testament to the protective enchantments placed by the Marquis to prevent collateral damage from the powerful combatants.

Marquis Aldrich Ventor himself sat in his elevated box, his expression one of composed satisfaction as he surveyed the crowd. His presence alone was a reminder of the tournament's prestige, and his sharp gaze betrayed his keen interest in the upcoming match. Beside him sat representatives from both the Cloud Heavens Sect and the Silver Flame Sect, their expressions varying between guarded and confident.

Elder Kael, seated among his sect's representatives, leaned back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he listened to the chants. "Quite the turnout," he remarked to no one in particular, his tone light but tinged with satisfaction. "It seems the boy has stirred up more than just the competition."

Elder Xue, seated with the Cloud Heavens Sect delegation, said nothing, her expression cold and unreadable. Yet her eyes flickered toward the arena with an intensity that betrayed her thoughts.

As the noise of the crowd reached its peak, the announcer stepped forward, his voice magically amplified to carry over the cacophony.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Esteemed guests and honored spectators! Welcome to the grand finale of the Ventor Martial Tournament!"

Chapter 277: Varen Drakov

Varen Drakov.

The quintessential male lead trope that somehow managed to stand out in a genre overrun with cliché archetypes. As I remembered his earlier fight playing out in the arena, I found myself reflecting on the kind of character he represented. Unlike many of the others in this world, Varen was a character I couldn't help but respect—or, dare I say, even like.

In most female-oriented novels, you could practically predict the male leads by their personality templates. The cold, domineering CEO type who somehow melted into a doting puppy in front of the main character. The obsessed magician who buried himself in arcane studies and was willing to burn the world down for the heroine. The arrogant crown prince, treating everything as his possession until the MC inevitably humbled him. And, of course, the beastkin thug—wild, unpredictable, and strangely romantic when it came to the female lead.

Then there was Varen: the betrayed young man who had lost faith in the opposite sex entirely, only to have that faith gradually restored by the main character's kindness and determination. The trope wasn't new by any means, but it was his execution that made it different. He wasn't some mindless ball of angst or a brooding, two-dimensional archetype. He was layered, and the novel didn't shy away from exploring those layers.

Varen wasn't just angry at women because of his betrayal—he was angry at himself. He despised the naive boy he used to be, the one who had trusted so easily, the one who had given his heart away without hesitation. His pride, his dignity, and his sense of self had been shattered when he discovered his fiancée, Lira, in an illicit relationship with someone else. In a moment of blind rage, he had ended that man's life, a decision that set him on a path of bitterness and self-loathing.

He wasn't cold for the sake of being cold. His actions weren't motivated by some ridiculous need to dominate or control. He simply didn't trust anymore, not just women but people in general. And that mistrust extended to himself. He saw his failure to protect his pride and his naivety as weaknesses to be purged.

That's where Elara, the true female lead, came in. She didn't "fix" him, at least not in the traditional sense. She didn't swoop in and miraculously heal his wounds with her charm or beauty. No, her role in his story was to challenge him, to force him to confront the walls he'd built around himself. It was her unwavering resolve, her authenticity, that slowly chipped away at his cynicism. It was a gradual process, filled with tension and setbacks, but it was real.

And that's why Lira hated her.

Lira wasn't just jealous of Elara's talent or her connection to Varen—she was terrified of her. Elara represented everything Lira couldn't be. Where Lira had manipulated and deceived her way through life, Elara stood as a beacon of genuine strength. She didn't need to tear others down to rise. She just… rose. And in doing so, she made Lira's existence feel hollow.

But back to Varen. What I appreciated most about him was how grounded his character felt. His journey wasn't about becoming some perfect hero. It was about learning to live with his scars, to rebuild himself into someone who could trust again—not blindly, but cautiously, thoughtfully. His interactions with Elara weren't just about romance; they were about mutual growth. She wasn't there to "save" him, and he wasn't there to "possess" her. They were equals, pushing and challenging each other in ways that felt natural.

'Honestly,' I thought, leaning back as I watched the arena being prepped for my fight. 'He was one of the few characters I actually enjoyed following in the novel. A little melodramatic at times, sure, but at least his arc had depth.'

As I waited in the preparation room, the final match loomed ahead. My mind wandered, not just about the fight but about Varen Drakov, the man who was soon to be my opponent. As much as I respected his backstory, his growth, and the depth of his character, there was one thing that lingered on my mind.

Sure, Varen's distrust for women and his own self-loathing were understandable, given what he had gone through. The betrayal, the broken heart, the damage to his pride—those were powerful catalysts for shaping who he was now. But was it really only Elara who could fix him? Was it only the main female character who had the right to heal his wounds, to challenge his cynicism, and ultimately help him find peace?

I wasn't so sure.

I leaned back, glancing at the stone walls of the room, focusing on the thoughts that had been nagging at me. I understood why Varen turned to Elara. She represented everything he had been unable to reconcile: authenticity, trust, and emotional connection. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something—Elara was simply a catalyst, not the cure.

Varen had to come to terms with his emotions himself.

Wasn't Varen afraid of feeling those same emotions he had once believed in so blindly? He had spent so much time hiding from them, burying them under layers of cynicism and anger. In doing so, he became just like Valeria in a way—someone obsessed with the concept of being righteous, following a good path, and upholding pride at all costs. But wasn't that just another way of avoiding the real issue? Wasn't he just escaping from the rawness of his feelings, just like Valeria had been running from her own doubts and fears about her place in this world?

For Varen, it wasn't just about letting someone in—it was about allowing himself to feel vulnerable again, to drop the walls he had built around his heart. He had internalized his fear so deeply that he isolated himself, turning to righteousness as a means to escape what he truly feared: feeling unworthy of love, or worse, needing love.

But in a way, wasn't that the same trap Valeria had fallen into? She believed that by following her family's honor and expectations, by always being the perfect knight, she could remain untouchable, and above reproach. She thought she could maintain control over her emotions, over her destiny. But that too was a form of escape—a way to avoid confronting the uncertainty and weakness she felt inside.

I almost smirked to myself, thinking of the paradox. Varen's journey of healing wasn't a straight path. It wasn't just about Elara "fixing" him or helping him regain trust in women; it was about his willingness to accept the vulnerability that came with trusting anyone again, even himself.

And that was something he would have to do on his own.

'As fellow men,' I thought, a smirk tugging at my lips, 'let's give each other a little push, shall we?'

Why should everything be left to Elara, after all? She might be the destined one to help him heal in the novel's grand scheme, but there was no rule saying I couldn't step in, was there? If anything, it would be rude not to. Varen might be a fictional character in another life, but here, he was a real man standing at a crossroads. And I had the tools to make him face what he'd been running from—his pride, his pain, and the fear he so desperately buried beneath his strength.

I stood, gripping the hilt of my estoc loosely, feeling the comforting weight of it at my side. The thought of the coming fight sparked a strange sense of anticipation in me. This wasn't just about the tournament anymore, nor was it about proving myself as some unbeatable contender. It was about what my master had always taught me.

My master… and his wish.

He had given me this power, the training, the teachings, not just to wield but to act. To change something in this world, to leave an impact. And wasn't this part of it? The girl he called her daughter, the girl destined to mend the wounds of the broken—Elara. She had a difficult road ahead, and knowing what might come for her, shouldn't I do something about it now? Lay the groundwork, if nothing else?

A chuckle escaped me as I adjusted my stance and headed for the door. 'Varen, this one's for you,' I mused silently, stepping into the hallway that led to the arena. The path was dimly lit, each step echoing softly against the stone walls. But with each footfall, my resolve solidified.

The faint roar of the crowd reached my ears, growing louder with every step. They were waiting for us, for the final match—the fight that would decide the champion. But for me, it was more than that. This was my stage, our stage, where truths would collide and walls would crumble.

As I neared the entrance, I rolled my shoulders, loosening the tension in my muscles. The light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter, the noise swelling to a deafening crescendo. The arena awaited, the sands ready to witness the clash of two wills.

'Now then,' I thought with a sly grin. 'Let's see if we can't break through that fortress you've built around yourself, Varen Drakov. You're not getting out of this one unscathed.'

With that, I stepped into the light, greeted by the roar of the crowd, my gaze fixed on the figure waiting for me at the other end of the arena.

Chapter 278: Varen Drakov (2)

Varen Drakov sat alone in the preparation chamber, his greatsword resting across his lap, its hilt still warm to the touch from his earlier battle. The faint hum of the crowd above filtered down through the stone walls, a constant reminder of the tournament's weight and the expectation it carried. His breathing was steady, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he thought about his final opponent: Lucavion.

The name alone stirred something within him—not fear, but a tempered excitement. He'd watched Lucavion fight earlier, observed the way the unaffiliated swordsman had dismantled Lira Vaelan with an almost casual ease. Varen had seen countless battles in his time, but Lucavion's performance lingered in his mind.

'Lira isn't weak,' Varen mused, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade. 'For all their faults, the disciples of the Cloud Heavens Sect aren't pushovers. They accumulate strength, relying on their cultivated power to dominate the battlefield. But they lack discipline, precision. They wield power without understanding its limits.'

And yet, Lucavion had swept through her defenses like a gust of wind scattering leaves. His movements had been fluid, his strikes devastatingly efficient. There was no wasted effort, no unnecessary flair. Just cold, calculated precision.

'He didn't just defeat her,' Varen thought, his grip tightening on his blade. 'He crushed her. Effortlessly.'

The memory of the fight replayed in his mind: Lucavion's sword flashing like a streak of starlight, his aura a quiet storm that seemed to bend the arena to his will. He hadn't overwhelmed Lira with sheer power, as Varen himself often did. Instead, he had dismantled her piece by piece, exposing her weaknesses and exploiting them with unrelenting focus.

'And he did it all without breaking a sweat,' Varen acknowledged. 'That's what makes him dangerous.'

Varen's thoughts shifted to the words Lucavion had spoken during the tournament. The enigmatic swordsman had made bold claims, dismissing the sects as self-serving and hypocritical, their teachings hollow. It was the kind of arrogance Varen couldn't stand, yet there was something about the way Lucavion carried himself that made his words difficult to dismiss outright.

'If what he says is true,' Varen reflected, his jaw tightening, 'then I can see why he fights the way he does. But it's still no excuse to disregard the discipline that makes us who we are.'

Despite his disapproval, Varen couldn't deny the thrill coursing through him at the prospect of their impending clash. Lucavion was unlike any opponent he'd faced in the tournament so far—a mystery, a force of nature that defied the conventions of the martial world.

'This is what I wanted,' he admitted to himself, his fiery mana flickering faintly in response to his growing anticipation. 'A true test. A fight against someone who doesn't just match my strength, but challenges everything I've built myself to be.'

He rose to his feet, his greatsword gleaming as he slung it over his back. The preparation chamber felt smaller now, the air charged with the weight of what was to come. The final fight wasn't just another match; it was the culmination of everything he'd trained for, everything he stood for as a disciple of the Silver Flame Sect.

Varen closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself. The fiery aura around him steadied, his resolve burning brighter with every passing second.

'Lucavion,' he thought, his eyes opening with a fierce determination. 'You're strong. Stronger than anyone I've faced here. But strength alone won't be enough. If you've truly transcended what binds the rest of us, then show me. Show me why you fight the way you do.'

With that, he stepped toward the arena, his fiery presence igniting as he prepared to face the man who had already proven himself an enigma—and perhaps the most formidable challenge of his life.

As Varen Drakov stepped into the arena, the roar of the crowd hit him like a tidal wave. The sound reverberated through the open space, shaking the very air around him. The chants were deafening, a singular voice of devotion and admiration rising above all else.

"Varen! Varen! Varen!"

Everywhere he looked, he saw faces filled with excitement and awe, people on their feet, their hands raised in praise. They called his name as though it alone could summon victory. Their belief, their fervor, was palpable, and for a moment, he felt the weight of every eye on him.

He paused at the edge of the ring, his fiery mana flickering faintly around him, and took it all in. The cheers, the stomping, the unrelenting adulation—it was overwhelming, yet not unfamiliar. This wasn't the first time Varen had been the center of attention. From the moment he was born as the heir of the Silver Flame Sect, as the son of the patriarch, this was his fate.

'This is who I am,' he thought, his expression calm but resolute. 'The one who carries the name of the sect. The one who cannot falter.'

Varen closed his eyes briefly, letting the sound of the crowd wash over him. He could feel their expectations, their hopes, their belief in his strength. It was a heavy burden, one that could crush a lesser man, but Varen had long accepted it. He had been born into this role, shaped by its demands, forged by its fire.

'I don't fight for their approval,' he reminded himself. 'I fight because this is my responsibility. To carry the sect's name with pride. To prove its strength to the world. To show them all what the Silver Flame Sect stands for.'

He opened his eyes, his fiery gaze scanning the crowd before focusing on the figure across the arena.

Lucavion.

The enigmatic swordsman stood at the opposite end of the ring, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. Unlike Varen, Lucavion seemed untouched by the pressure, unaffected by the crowd's energy. If anything, he seemed to revel in the spectacle, his smirk playing at the edges of his lips as though he found it all amusing.

The contrast between them was stark. Varen, the heir of the Silver Flame Sect, burdened by duty and honor, stood as a pillar of strength and responsibility. Lucavion, the rogue swordsman, unaffiliated and untamed, radiated a carefree confidence that defied convention.

The crowd's chants grew louder, their voices swelling with anticipation as Varen stepped into the center of the arena. His greatsword rested lightly on his shoulder, its fiery edge catching the light. He met Lucavion's gaze, his fiery mana flaring briefly as he let the weight of the moment settle.

'This is my stage,' he thought, his resolve hardening. 'This is where I prove myself. No matter how strong you are, Lucavion, I will show you the strength of a warrior who fights not just for himself but for something greater.'

He raised his blade, pointing it toward Lucavion in a silent declaration of intent. The crowd erupted in another wave of cheers, their chants ringing out across the arena.

"Varen! Varen! Varen!"

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening as he casually stepped forward, his sword at his side. His aura was subtle, almost deceptive in its calmness, but Varen could feel the intensity beneath it—a quiet storm waiting to be unleashed.

The two warriors stood at the center of the arena, the air between them charged with the promise of an unforgettable battle. Varen's fiery aura surged as he prepared to face his greatest challenge yet, the weight of his responsibility and the chants of the crowd fueling his resolve.

'Let them see,' Varen thought, his eyes blazing. 'Let them all see why I carry the name of the Silver Flame Sect.'

*******

As the crowd's chants began to settle, the air buzzed with an electric silence. The magically amplified voice of the announcer rose above the diminishing cacophony, commanding attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Esteemed guests from across the realms! Prepare yourselves for the climactic battle of the Ventor Martial Tournament!"

The energy in the arena seemed to shift, each word pulling the audience closer to the edge of their seats.

"Facing each other in this final duel are two warriors whose strength has captured the imagination of all who have witnessed their journey."

The announcer turned toward one side of the arena, his voice swelling with reverence. "In this corner, hailing from the esteemed Silver Flame Sect, the heir to its fiery legacy, known for his relentless might and unyielding spirit—Varen Drakov, the Ferocious Flame!"

A wave of cheers and fiery chants erupted once more as Varen raised his greatsword high, the edge glowing faintly with his fiery mana. His gaze was fixed on his opponent, every movement radiating discipline and power.

The announcer shifted his focus to the opposite side of the arena, his voice lowering slightly, as if to match the enigmatic air of the next contestant. "And in this corner… an unaffiliated swordsman who has swept through this tournament like a phantom wind, carving his legend into our memories. To some, he is the Phantom Blade, a figure cloaked in mystery. To others, the rising moniker says it all: the Sword Demon."

The crowd's reaction was more divided this time, a mix of awe and curiosity. Lucavion stepped forward, his gait casual, almost lazy, as he flicked his blade to his side. The smirk on his face was as sharp as his sword, an unspoken challenge directed at both his opponent and the audience.

The announcer paused, letting the tension build. "Two warriors, each a paragon of their path. One bound by duty and honor, the other free of constraint and convention. Who will stand victorious when the dust settles?"

The crowd roared again as the announcer concluded. "Let the final match begin!"

The arena was consumed by a deafening crescendo of cheers as the two combatants stepped toward the center, their auras clashing like storm clouds. The protective enchantments surrounding the ring shimmered faintly, a reminder of the power about to be unleashed.