The Mercenary King Nelson accepted Caron's proposal without hesitation. He had already come to a firm conclusion about the young man's true identity.
That has to be Caron Leston, Nelson thought.
He didn't know how the pirate had managed such a flawless disguise, but the evidence all pointed to one thing—this so-called hero Xenon was, without a doubt, Caron Leston.
In this world, there was no such thing as a mysterious, nameless powerhouse. The strong always earned a reputation, one way or another. Especially pirates, who lived as if every day could be their last.
A pirate capable of cleaving through a fully-enhanced 7-Star mercenary in a single stroke was such a figure that could only exist in rumors. And the only one who had ever wielded such overwhelming might was the Queen herself. If there had truly been another pirate like that out there, the seas wouldn't have belonged to Queen Kynda alone.
Nelson raised a hand and summoned one of his aides. A robed figure in black stepped silently to his side. Nelson ordered, "Administer the Eve. I want all variables erased from this field."
The subordinate smiled and nodded, then replied, "It looks like we'll be able to get a good test subject."
"This isn't some petty experiment," Nelson said coldly. "That one's a monster. He must be cut down before he grows stronger."
"We understand perfectly. Then, with your permission..." the subordinate answered.
Even as he gave the order, Nelson couldn't shake a creeping unease.
Caron Leston wasn't someone to be dismissed as a mere youth. Despite his age, he had already produced results. Tangible, terrifying results. To ignore such evidence was something only a delusional fool would do.
I won't make that mistake, Nelson thought grimly.
Now fully prepared, he stood up and shouted down at Caron, "The arrogant always die young! But I'll give you this much—you've got guts, so I'll allow it. Queen! Your subordinate is getting cocky. I trust you have no objections?"
Kynda shrugged in response, then said, "Why would I complain? Xenon wants the spotlight. If I stop him now, I'll just be the bad guy."
"So you trust him that much?" Nelson asked.
"No," Kynda said, smiling mysteriously. "I'm just that curious."
With nine enemies to face, there would be no way for Caron to keep hiding his swordsmanship. It was clear now—he had no intention of keeping his identity secret any longer.
This meant only one thing. Caron had decided to end the farce here and now. It would be his final act on this stage.
That was why Kynda decided to watch and see how far Caron would go. It was a good opportunity to witness just how fierce the successor to Halo Leston's sword was.
"Everyone, go!" Nelson roared.
At his command, the waiting mercenaries leaped down into the arena.
Caron adjusted his grip on Guillotine and calmly observed them, muttering, "They're all doped-up junkies."
Even from a distance, Caron could sense it—distorted waves of mana pulsed erratically from the mercenaries' cores. The energy resembled something forcibly overloaded, like an engine about to explode.
"Owner, that one earlier was the same, but this reeks of Slaughter's power," Guillotine informed Caron.
The dark mana of Slaughter was a twisted force. It filled its users' minds with endless bloodlust and turned them into berserkers, oblivious to pain or injury. The mercenaries before Caron now had fallen into that exact state.
"Grrrrhh..."
"You arrogant pirate scum! Think you can mock us land-fighters after spending your life coasting around the sea?"
"I'll rip your body apart and feed it to the dogs!"
Their bloodlust was palpable. Eyes bloodshot, some even flickering with traces of violet, they brandished their weapons—spears, swords, axes—each one humming with corrupted mana.
Caron looked them over and smirked. Then, with a stretch of his arms, he yawned before saying, "Alright. Let me warm up a little."
To any onlooker, it appeared to be one man against nine—a hopeless match. But truth be told, Caron could have taken all of their heads with raw strength alone. However, that would be too risky—and too boring.
"Let's finish this quickly," Caron continued.
Whoosh.
Caron's ocean burst forth. The dark blue mana unique to him surged outward in a wave. A sea of power unfolded at his feet, crashing against the arena walls.
"Attack!"
The mercenaries charged.
Caron calmly chose his first victim—the one leading the charge, whose crimson mana blazed around him like fire.
The mercenary's sword bent unnaturally as he swung. It shimmered with dangerous unpredictability, clearly trained through countless battles. The erratic motion was designed to disorient, to blur into a feint—and just as Caron's eyes locked onto it, another mercenary thrust a spear straight through the space behind it.
It was a perfectly synchronized double strike.
Several pirates let out deep sighs at the sight. It was clearly an inescapable angle, no matter who looked at it.
But...
Boom!
Caron dismantled the attack with insulting ease.
With just a few steps, he stomped on the ground—summoning five whirlpools of mana that erupted like geysers.
The sea raged, and the stone floor of the arena shattered like dry clay. Razor-sharp shards scattered through the air, and the whirlpools consumed them—twisting them into storms of debris.
Those vortexes—those deadly currents—were hungry for blood. The overwhelming pressure swept across the arena like a tidal wave.
And within that rising storm, a faint mist began to bloom—curling between the mercenaries like silent, ghostly predators.
The pincer attack collapsed almost instantly, and chaos began to spread among the mercenaries.
Ssshhhh.
Pluto's shadow fell over the entire arena.
The easiest way to deal with a group was to keep them from attacking together. And in this space, saturated with Caron's mana, the only one who could move freely was Caron himself.
Now that the mercenaries were completely separated, Caron began the hunt in earnest.
I'll start with the ones with the longest reach, he thought.
There were two mercenaries wielding spears. While it wasn't difficult to take them on at close range, if left unchecked, they would prove a nuisance if they could hide behind others and jab from afar.
The more battle experience one had, the more effectively one could exploit the range of a spear.
So Caron went for the spearmen first. Even though the arena was steeped in darkness, his vision remained sharp. In fact, thanks to their mana running wild from the drugs, the mercenaries practically glowed in his senses—so clearly that he could've fought them with his eyes closed.
Sshrrk!
Guillotine tore through the air and pierced straight through one spearman's throat. The man didn't even have time to scream before he crumpled to the ground.
Now for the next one... Caron continued.
Just as he began pulling his blade free, a mercenary behind him, having sensed the disturbance, instinctively swung his sword toward Caron's back.
Clang!
However, his attack failed to cut through Caron.
"Well, well," Caron said, raising an eyebrow. "Reflexes like a beast. Must be the drugs. I didn't expect that."
Then, turning his head, he addressed the mercenaries with swords and said, "You swordsmen wait your turn. You're last."
With that, Caron handed them off to his clones and blasted forward, mana surging from the soles of his feet.
At full speed, he drew a line through the air with his sword. A shimmering arc of dark blue light carved itself into the shadows.
Clang!
The remaining spearman responded with impressive reflexes, lifting his weapon to parry.
But that was as far as he got.
Shhkk!
Guillotine, pulsing with mana, sliced through the shaft of the spear as if it were pudding. In the same motion, it passed clean through the spearman's neck.
Thud.
The man collapsed with his bloodshot eyes still wide open.
But at that very moment...
Squelch!
The spearman's right arm twisted grotesquely into a blade and drove itself straight into Caron's thigh.
Even for Caron, the sneak attack was too sudden to react in time.
He looked down at the weapon now impaled through his leg. It was a blade he could never forget. It was nearly identical to the sword that had once pierced his chest near the Southern Great Forest—when he'd first faced the power of the Demon King of Slaughter.
"How nostalgic," Caron muttered with a grin.
Burning pain flared up from his thigh. Blood trickled freely down his leg, crimson and bright. But the smile on Caron's face didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.
Caron drew more mana into himself and chuckled, then said, "A real fight's not a fight unless someone bleeds."
From beyond the darkness, a white light shimmered through his body. The immense holy power flowing from Seria surged into him, purging the Demon King's dark mana on contact.
Caron grinned as he pulled the violet blade from his leg. The wound closed almost instantly.
"I've dealt with the spearmen," he muttered.
Everything that was in his way was gone. Caron would need to conserve energy, at least a little, if he wanted to be ready for the Mercenary King afterward.
...Sometimes, how you win is more important than simply winning, Caron thought.
The Mercenary King Nelson had seized the throne through sheer, merciless violence. The nobles of the Neon Kingdom hadn't knelt out of loyalty—they had bowed before overwhelming force.
Caron wondered what could possibly overturn that fear.
An even stronger power, he thought.
All he had to do was deliver a shock that far surpassed the fear the Mercenary King had instilled. After all, fear always gave way before an even greater fear.
Having made up his mind, Caron poured a tremendous amount of mana into Guillotine. There was a constant supply of dark mana flowing from the dead mercenaries, so there was no risk of running out.
"You might as well walk around letting everyone know that you're Caron Leston," Guillotine's voice rang out in his mind, laced with sarcasm.
Caron gave a soft snort and replied, "No one here is being fooled anyway. Only the ones doing the fooling."
"At least pretend you care," Guillotine said.
"I'll just say I learned from Caron Leston," Caron said, grinning as he drew a moon in the air.
In the pitch-black darkness, a dark blue moon rose. And at the heart of the royal palace, an eclipse began.
***
"...Ha."
Kynda Reynolds, the Pirate Queen, took in every moment of the battle unfolding in the arena with unwavering eyes. Though the arena had been consumed by darkness, she could see Caron's every move with perfect clarity.
Night had descended upon the field. And with the night, a moon had risen.
Kynda let out a faint breath of admiration as she gazed at the moon Caron had drawn into the sky.
It was breathtakingly beautiful. The moon, cloaked in a dark blue light, gleamed with the holy energy flowing from Saintess Seria.
"That's not the Oceanwolf Sword Arts," Kynda murmured under her breath.
She prided herself on knowing more than most when it came to the Oceanwolf Sword Arts.
There had been a time when she crossed blades with Sabina Leston, and once, she had even measured her strength against Halo Leston himself. Both of them had mastered the Oceanwolf Sword Arts to its pinnacle. And because of that, there was no way Kynda wouldn't recognize its unique traits.
But what she was seeing now—Caron's swordplay—couldn't be called the Oceanwolf Sword Arts.
Kynda remembered hearing from Sabina that the eighth form of the Oceanwolf Sword Arts was a self-created technique, a personal style born of the wielder's own journey.
So perhaps that moon Caron had summoned was his version of the eighth form—his signature technique.
The Oceanwolf Sword Arts wasn't flashy. It was about pure, overwhelming force. But this kid's sword... Kynda thought.
It was dazzling. And yet, it was somehow incredibly restrained. It was straightforward, yet ever-changing.
Knights usually focused their swordsmanship on a single trait—heaviness, agility, unpredictability—based on their personal inclinations.
But in Caron's sword, Kynda felt as if dozens of different styles were alive, weaving through each strike.
She wondered if any other knights could even attempt to imitate this. But the thought made Kynda scoff and shake her head.
No. That's something only that kid can do... No—he's not a kid anymore, is he? Kynda thought.
Soon, the sea rose to meet the moon, and as they clashed, the moon shattered into a thousand radiant shards. Glistening fragments fell like light across the arena floor.
It was stunning, like a meteor shower of blade and beauty.
But the aftermath was far from beautiful.
Splat, splat, splat.
The flesh of the mercenaries still standing in the arena was ripped apart, shredded without mercy. The metallic tang of blood rode the breeze and filled the air.
Of all the signature techniques Kynda had seen from the Ducal Family of Leston, none could compare to Caron's.
Not even Halo's—regarded as the strongest in the continent—had ever displayed something of this magnitude.
Kynda replayed Caron's technique in her mind and thought, If it were me... Would I have been able to block that completely?
Lost in quiet contemplation, she eventually shook her head, thinking, He wasn't underestimated because of his age.
On the contrary, it was that sly devil who had been hiding behind his youth all along.
And Kynda had no doubt now that Caron would soon surpass Halo. She'd always known he would surpass him eventually, but now... She realized that the monstrous boy would reach Halo's level verysoon.
As her mind spiraled into thousands of tangled thoughts, the darkness that had blanketed the arena began to fade. A breeze swept through from somewhere, clearing the air and dispersing the dust.
And on the bloodstained arena floor, only one man remained standing: The pirate who was clad in black armor. All around him lay the mangled bodies of mercenaries, yet not a speck of blood stained his body.
"Mercenary King," the lone man on the field said as he raised his sword with a smirk. "I heard the one who defeats the Mercenary King becomes the next Mercenary King."
A gasp of disbelief rippled through the spectators.
But Caron ignored the noise. He pointed his blade directly at Nelson and bellowed, his voice infused with mana, "I challenge you! Accept my challenge!"
Caron had thrown the bomb—loud, clear, and without hesitation.