Zeke marveled at the steadiness of their ride as he gazed over the wings of their mount. The massive Moonlight Crow glided effortlessly between colossal branches, carrying its passengers without the slightest disturbance. Somehow, even at such high speeds, he didn’t feel so much as a breeze.
He would have to find out how these birds managed such a feat.
Even Maya, usually clinging for support, stood on her own, her face glowing with awe as she took in the beautiful sights all around them.
Even for Zeke, who had witnessed many of the world’s wonders, the elven realms possessed a quality unlike anything else. It felt as though nature’s abundance had fused seamlessly with the precision of a master architect.
Wasteful pragmatism, he would call it.
There was so much of everything—space, shelter, food, resources.
The elves clearly wanted for nothing in their sacred domain. No wonder they had grown indulgent, so far removed from the struggles of ordinary people.
The crow carried them higher and higher, unhindered by man or obstacle.
As they gained altitude, the nature of the dwellings shifted. The smaller, practical homes carved into the tree gave way to sprawling mansions.
Near the crown, only a handful remained—enormous estates, each the size of a small city, positioned to command the greatest views of the surrounding land. From this vantage, Zeke counted half a dozen of these colossal mansions, though he had no doubt the other side of the tree held just as many.
It wasn’t hard to guess who lived here.
“We are here,” Lyriel said, confirming his suspicion.
They soon landed on an open patch beside a vast structure clearly built for public gatherings.
Did all the Matriarchs own private arenas? Wasteful indeed.
Yet he couldn’t deny being impressed. To his knowledge, no human city could come close to the opulent display before him.
The amphitheater had been carved from living wood, its tiers rising in perfect spirals around a central platform. Thousands of elves filled the space, their whispers weaving together into a sound like wind through leaves.
Zeke counted the banners. Seven Matriarchs had sent representatives—far more than he had expected for what should have been a simple ceremony. Attendants clustered beneath them, their faces tight with displeasure.
Maya walked at his side, her eyes wide as she took in the scale of the gathering. Her fingers twitched—a habit she had when overwhelmed. Zeke resisted the urge to take her hand. She needed to appear strong here, even if she wasn’t.
“They’re staring,” she murmured.
“Let them.”
Lyriel led their party to seats near the platform’s edge. The placement was deliberate—close enough for all to see, yet apart from the elven nobility.
Lady Goldleaf already stood at the platform’s center, her golden hair catching the filtered sunlight. Her robes shimmered between green and gold with each movement.
“Everyone looks so young,” Maya whispered.
Age meant little to elves. A Matriarch could have lived ten centuries or twenty, and still their faces would remain unchanged.
But Zeke had larger concerns. It would begin any moment now—certainly before the ceremony itself.
As if summoned by his thoughts, a figure rose from the crowd. Male, which was rare among the elven hierarchy. His movements bore the discipline of a warrior rather than the polish of a politician. And the sword at his hip was no ornament.
"Human." His voice carried across the amphitheater without effort. "I am Caelum Starweaver, Blade of the Third House."
The title meant nothing to Zeke, but the crowd's reaction spoke volumes. Even Maya straightened in her seat.
"You honor us with your acknowledgment," Zeke replied, his tone flat.
Caelum's jaw tightened. "You misunderstand. I come not to honor, but to challenge."
Silence fell. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Lyriel shot to her feet. "This is neither the time nor—"
"When else?" Caelum spread his arms. "When else should we answer the insult of a Matriarch bowing to human demands? When else should we show that the children of Yggdrasil answer to no one?"
Voices rose in agreement. Not all of them, but enough to matter.
Zeke stood slowly. His chair scraped the wooden floor—the only sound in the vast space. There was no avoiding this anymore, not if he wanted to keep his reputation intact.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
"Single combat. Here. Now." Caelum's hand went to his sword's pommel. "Prove you deserve the consideration Lady Goldleaf extends."
"…And if I refuse?"
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"Then you confirm what many already suspect."
Zeke studied the elf. The trap was transparent, almost insultingly so. Someone had arranged this, likely one of the Matriarchs.
But so what?
Whoever pulled the strings had clearly not bothered to look past appearances. Despite his deceptively young age, Zeke was no pushover.
If things could be settled with violence, then violence he would wield.
Zeke vanished from his stop and reappeared in the center of the stage in the same instant.
“First blood? Or to the death?” His tone was as casual as if he were asking about the weather.
“The Grace of Yggdrasil protects all beneath its branches,” Lady Goldleaf declared, her voice slicing through the tension. “No permanent harm can befall any elf here. Death itself retreats before the Tree’s will.”
Her gaze locked on Zeke. “Do not hold back.”
The words rang like a challenge in themselves. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps this was no trap from a rival Matriarch but a trial of his sponsor’s own making—a final test to see if she had wagered on the right man.
It didn’t matter.
Caelum strode onto the platform, his steps deliberate and measured. The crowd leaned forward, their anticipation heavy in the air. Zeke could almost smell it—their hunger to see the human humbled.
The elf drew his blade in one fluid motion. The steel sang as it cleared the sheath, enchantments flaring along its edge. Wind Magic, judging by the way the air bent and hissed around it.
Caelum‘s stance was flawless—steady posture, no wasted movement, not a single opening. His Mana was so perfectly controlled that Zeke couldn’t even determine his exact level, only that he had not yet stepped into the realm of an Archmage.
In martial skill, he was no match for this opponent. The elf radiated the hard-earned precision that came only from decades of tireless training.
Leo would have savored the chance to cross blades with such a master.
Zeke would not.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
Caelum nodded confidently.
Unbeknownst to him, it would be the last time he moved in this lifetime.
Zeke advanced. One step, then another. He walked as if he were out on a stroll, not engaged in a life-or-death battle.
Even so, Caelum stood frozen, as though trapped in amber. Entering the elf’s unguarded mind had been laughably easy—easier even than with the Frostscale tribe. And that was saying something, considering the Chimeroi had no Mana at all to shield themselves.
Pathetic.
Even the worst first-year at Elementium knew how to put up a basic defense against Mind Magic.
Zeke plucked the sword from Caelum’s paralyzed grip and, without hesitation, slashed it across the elf’s throat. The strike was brutal, severing flesh and bone in a single stroke.
Gasps erupted around the amphitheater.
The elf’s head and body toppled in opposite directions, hitting the platform with a pair of dull, thunderous thuds. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs across the polished grain.
For three heartbeats, silence reigned.
Then, golden light burst from the floor, wrapping around the broken form. Bones snapped back into place. Flesh knitted seamlessly. Within moments, Caelum shuddered, gasped, and rolled onto his hands and knees.
A low whistle slipped from Zeke’s lips. The so-called Grace of Yggdrasil truly lived up to its reputation. More than could be said for its chosen people, unfortunately.
With a flick of his wrist, the sword he still held whistled through the air and embedded itself in the wooden floor of the arena, a hair’s breadth from Caelum’s kneeling form.
“…Quite formidable,” Zeke said slowly, “this Blade of the Third House.” His gaze locked on Caelum’s trembling pupils. “Unfortunately, it is wasted on an incompetent wielder.”
Rage blazed in Caelum’s eyes as he dragged his freshly restored body to its feet, though the effort was plain. Still, his hand on the pommel was steady.
“Dishonorable tricks,” he hissed. “Cross blades with me, if you dare!”
Zeke raised his empty hands. “Do you see me carrying any weapons?”
“Don’t insult me with such pretenses,” Caelum spat. “It is known that Blood Mages are never unarmed. Through your tainted arts, you can even turn your own body into a weapon.”
Zeke nodded, finally understanding why they had chosen to pit a swordsman against him. They must have expected him to fight like the Bloodsword family. In that case, he might indeed have been humiliated.
Fortunately for Zeke, his methods could not have been further from those of the famed berserker Tristan Bloodsword.
Whoever had investigated his background had truly done a pitiful job. This kind of careless underestimation was precisely why the elves found themselves in such a miserable position.
Sheer fucking hubris.
“So, you’ve heard of that, huh?” Zeke mused aloud. “Alright then. If you insist, I’ll bring out my weapon.”
Caelum’s stance tightened, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. The fact that he truly believed this second round would end differently, after being slain without even being able to move, was baffling.
It spoke of a worrying level of delusion that had no place in a warrior.
No matter. Before this was done, Zeke would strip him of such foolish notions.
With a slash of his nails, Zeke opened his right wrist. The act wasn’t strictly necessary to draw upon his Blood Magic, but for channeling large amounts, it was far quicker than forcing it through the skin.
And, more importantly, it made for a far more gruesome display.
The moment his flesh split, Blood surged forth like an endless river. Yet instead of splattering across the pristine wooden floor, it gathered above his head in a growing sphere. Within seconds, the amount dwarfed what any human body could possibly contain, many times over.
Caelum took an instinctive step back, clearly realizing that Zeke’s ‘weapon’ would not be the sword he had expected.
Too late.
The fangs formed first, followed by a gaping maw and the piercing, double-lidded eyes of a reptile.
To Caelum’s credit, he was quick. His blade struck the Dragon’s snout half a dozen times before his body was seized. Not that it made the slightest difference.
With less effort than it took to snap a dry twig, Caelum’s body was shattered in countless places. Khai’zar’s razor-edged teeth tore through elven flesh with absurd ease. It was less a duel than a butcher grinding meat.
This time, what remained was hardly recognizable as humanoid at all.
If anything, the second loss was even more decisive than the first.
The Dragon, bored with its toy, soared over the amphitheater one final time before plunging straight at Zeke. For a heartbeat it seemed as if it meant to crush even its own master.
But just before impact, the colossal beast dissolved into liquid, then into a vaporous red mist. The haze rolled across the arena, shrinking with every pulse until it collapsed into the outline of a man.
Zeke stood where he always had, unmoved, untouched.
No one dared speak. No one dared breathe. The weight of the moment pressed down like iron chains.
Then, once again, golden light burst from the ground. It blazed brighter than before, flooding a wide circle around Caelum’s mangled remains. This time, the restoration dragged on, lasting several heavy heartbeats before the tree’s power managed to reassemble him.
His sword was gone.
Zeke met the warrior’s gaze, curious what he would see. Denial? Bravado? More delusions?
But no. Caelum’s wide eyes were vacant, terror plain in them. The cracks of trauma were already there. However undying his body might be, his spirit had been broken. If Zeke pressed further, the man might never recover.
So Zeke turned away, sweeping his gaze across the crowd instead.
“Anyone else?”
The same elves who had glared at him with disdain now shrank beneath his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” His voice cut sharp across the silence. “No one willing to put this lowly human in his place before the chosen of the Tree?”
Averted eyes. Bowed heads. Good.
Let them learn fear. Let them understand the dangers of the world. Let them know that the blessing of the Tree did not make them untouchable.
The sooner they learned, the greater their chance of survival.
But before he could grind their pride any further, a voice rang out—clear, commanding, final.
“Enough.”