And whispered under his breath…

"…I see."

The realization didn't explode inside Victor.

It settled.

Like a stone dropped gently into deep water.

Thirty seconds.

That's all he had.

The clock of light above the arena burned thin, its outer ring trembling. Each tick sent a pulse through the iron platform. The runes glowed so bright now that the air itself looked fractured.

Victor drew a slow breath.

In through his nose.

Out through his mouth.

His heartbeat didn't slow — but it became steady.

He looked at Garron.

Not like an enemy.

Like a locked door.

"This is my last attack," Victor said, voice low, calm, honest. "If I can't hit you… it won't be because I lacked strength. It'll be because my mind failed me."

Garron's visor dipped slightly.

Respect.

"That's a better stance, Prince," Garron replied from inside the heavy helm. "Your attacks were real. Your will was real. But your mind wasn't quiet."

The heavy knight shifted his footing slightly — the metal groaning under the shift of over a ton of armor.

"You still have time for one good move," he said. "Miss it, and the Seven Knights end for you before it begins."

Victor nodded once.

And moved.

Not wild.

Not rushed.

He launched forward — not with raw speed, but with intention. Each step cracked the platform, but his balance stayed centered. His eyes weren't on Garron's chest.

They were on his legs.

On the way his weight shifted.

On the way the platform bent under him.

He aimed for Garron's chest anyway.

A direct strike.

A lie.

Garron saw it and reacted.

The giant knight lifted one leg.

And slammed it down.

The arena shook.

The impact rippled outward in a violent wave. The rising pillars rattled like bones. The air vibrated like torn silk.

Victor's balance broke.

He felt it — the instant tilt, the betrayal from the floor.

He started to fall.

But he didn't stop the strike.

His hand dragged across the platform as he twisted mid-fall.

His palm cut open.

Blood sizzled as it touched the glowing runes.

And the magic answered.

The iron beneath him didn't stay iron.

It softened.

Flowed.

Turned to liquid metal.

Not water.

Not lava.

Living iron.

It spread in a thin, fast layer across the arena floor, skating beneath Garron's feet.

Garron's visor tilted.

"…Clever."

Victor slid across his knees, controlling his fall, pushing through the molten iron with raw force. His muscles burned. His lungs screamed.

And then—

Another shockwave.

Garron brought his palms together.

BOOM!

The air exploded.

Victor was thrown back.

Hard.

But this time, he twisted with it.

Let the force carry him.

He flipped in midair, boots finding the floor — the metal returning solid beneath him.

He didn't stop.

He didn't breathe.

He slammed his hand to the ground.

"Rise."

The earth answered.

Not stone.

Not dirt.

But iron from beneath the platform.

A long, narrow ridge surged forward like a spear, rocketing toward Garron in a straight line.

Garron turned.

Just a fraction too late.

Time burned.

The clock ticked.

Five.

Garron lifted his arm.

Four.

Victor sprinted along the rising iron ridge.

Three.

The platform trembled like it might shatter.

Two.

Garron clapped his hands again —

The shockwave burst outward.

A monstrous wall of force.

Victor was mid-air.

He couldn't dodge.

He drove through it.

Pain exploded through his body.

Bones screamed.

Skin tore.

Blood filled his mouth.

But his fist kept moving.

One.

He twisted his body.

Gathered everything.

Not power.

Not magic.

Not rage.

But will.

And struck.

His knuckles slammed into the center of Garron's chest plate.

A sound like a bell struck by a god rang through the arena.

The light clock above them froze.

Then—

It exploded into fragments.

Silence.

Garron didn't move.

For a single breath.

Then the ground trembled.

The giant armored figure slid back.

Slow.

Heavy.

Unstoppable.

His boots carved trenches in the platform.

He stopped just as his heel touched the edge of the iron circle.

One second remained.

The runes dimmed.

The pillars lowered.

The platform stilled.

Victor stood there, chest rising and falling like it might tear apart.

His arm shook.

Blood dripped from his knuckles.

The skin was split.

Swollen.

But he stayed upright.

He felt it — the instant tilt, the betrayal from the floor.

He started to fall.

But he didn't stop the strike.

His hand dragged across the platform as he twisted mid-fall.

His palm cut open.

Blood sizzled as it touched the glowing runes.

And the magic answered.

The iron beneath him didn't stay iron.

It softened.

Flowed.

Turned to liquid metal.

Not water.

Not lava.

Living iron.

It spread in a thin, fast layer across the arena floor, skating beneath Garron's feet.

Garron's visor tilted.

"…Clever."

Another shockwave.

Garron brought his palms together.

him.

He didn't stop.

He didn't breathe.

But iron from beneath the platform.

Five.

Garron lifted his arm.

Two.

Garron clapped his hands again —

He drove through it.

Pain exploded through his body.

He twisted his body.

And struck.

Then—

The giant armored figure slid back.

The platform stilled.

Swollen.

But he stayed upright.

Garron looked down at the dent in his chest plate.

A real dent.

Deep.

Clean.

Earned.

The heavy knight slowly went to one knee.

The sound of a ton of armor hitting iron floor echoed like thunder.

He bowed his head.

"…You hit me," Garron said. His voice was softer now. Real. "With one second left."

He lifted his gaze.

"That makes you my superior in this trial, Prince Victor."

Above them, Walton's voice carried through the silent hall.

"Trial One… passed."

Victor's shoulders finally dropped.

Not in relief.

But in quiet understanding.

This wasn't about strength.

Or speed.

Or dominance.

It was about knowing when to think… and when to strike.

He looked at Garron.

And with a tired half-smile, whispered:

"…Thank you."

The clock fragments faded.

The arena's runes went dark.

And only the sound of Victor's breathing remained.

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