He announced his name.

Someone had already recognized the knight standing center stage. The legendary man—one of the nine Holy Templars and Angora’s first swordsman.

“With His Majesty King Gill’s approval,” he declared, “I hereby challenge Bloomer.”

Boka’s heart sank to his boots. Lupin had actually petitioned King Gill for this duel. Under everyone’s watchful eyes, he had zero chance to cheat. If he refused to fight or surrendered lightly now, it wouldn’t be a joke. He’d face the gallows—and drag Cynthia and the others down with him.

Aisha stayed silent, calmly observing. The tall, slender middle-aged man seated high above was King Gill. The one who’d revived Albion from economic slump, enacted the plague plan seven years ago, declared the Seventh Great War, and orchestrated Nellos’s downfall.

Angora was a kingdom with ancient roots. Though it had minor clashes with Albion, the new king had forged a non-aggression pact with Gill. During the Great War, ties remained strong—Angora was Albion’s top trade partner. Seventy percent of river cargo flowed between them.

As Angora’s envoy, Lupin held immense prestige. Moments ago, he’d unexpectedly requested permission from King Gill. Someone had picked up his gauntlet—and they’d arranged this duel at today’s theater.

Knights were a nation’s backbone. Kings understood their code: such traditions couldn’t be violated. Especially not for a Holy Templar of Alastor’s stature.

Curious about this interlude, Gill wanted to see who in his kingdom dared pick up Alastor’s gauntlet. He granted approval.

On the second-floor balcony, Percy watched Lupin with keen interest. Trapped in the palace for two months, he was bored stiff. Who knew a theater outing would turn this thrilling? Witnessing a Holy Templar duel was a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

“Ahahaha!” Percy laughed loudly. “Who’s the fool challenging Alastor?”

Percy had seen Lupin’s swordsmanship firsthand—on the palace lawn, he’d dazzled several knight-captains. Though still recovering from injuries, he’d utterly dominated Ian. Percy had been awestruck.

Boka was truly out of options. Steeling himself, he climbed the central stone steps toward the stage.

Aisha had warned him: forget begging for mercy. With King Gill’s sanction and the Birth Festival approaching, kneeling would shame Albion. Better to die fighting and earn royal honors than live as a knight who bullied commoners—and face public scorn.

Under ten thousand stares, Boka stepped onto the stage.

“Uh, hello, Lupin.”

The theater buzzed again. A commoner in plain clothes had appeared. People expected at least a skilled swordsman.

“What?! A commoner?!” Percy leaned forward. “Seriously?! Wait… he looks familiar.”

“Mr. Boka…” Mia whispered softly.

“Master!!” Percy blurted out. “Ian, Ian! It’s Master Boka!!”

King Gill glared at Percy.

“You know him?”

“Father, I—I don’t…”

Gill despised his only son’s loud, undignified manner. Compared to his poised daughter Mia, Percy fell short.

“…Ian,” Percy whispered urgently, “if things turn bad, cut Alastor down for me.”

Ian recognized Boka—the youth who’d worked at Duke Clar’s estate. He seemed connected to the duke’s assassins. Clar had died with him present.

But knightly duels were sacred. Ian ignored Percy’s rash words. He wanted to see what tricks Boka had against Lupin.

Boka scratched his head—a nervous habit.

“Can I use a bow?” he asked foolishly.

He’d brought his own bow, arrowheads polished to a shine.

“You ignore my question,” Lupin pressed coldly. “What’s your tie to those Dragonfolk?”

“We just met by chance.”

“Why interfere in our affairs?”

“Look!” Boka clasped his hands. “Picking up your gauntlet was an accident! My hands are just… too quick.”

“Those lizards hide deep in forests. Not by chance. You lie.”

“They know Baird! Nothing to do with me. But calling them lizards? Rude. No wonder Andrew was furious.”

“I swore an oath,” Lupin’s hand gripped his sword hilt. “On the day my elder sister died, I vowed to erase them from this world.”

“That’s no solution,” Boka pleaded. “You can’t fix anything this way.”

“I don’t want to fix anything,” he said flatly. “I only want to destroy it all.”

Lupin’s empty eyes drifted to the past.

He’d tracked the Dragonfolk’s whereabouts, carrying his frail sister Cataria. After days lost in the ancient forest—towering trees blocking the sun—he’d knelt before an elder, begging for her life. He never expected refusal. Not inability—healing was possible. But the Dragonfolk chose to deny it.

He wept, offering everything—even his life. Yet Alva, the elder, only shook his head.

For three days, Lupin stayed with Cataria, hoping sincerity would move them. Instead, he watched her fade in his arms, breath by breath, until she died.

When Cataria’s eyes closed forever, Lupin felt the world rot.

“I’ll spill lizard blood to honor my sister, Cataria!”

Whoosh!

Lupin yanked his sword from the stone in one motion.

Boka’s instincts screamed—Lupin meant to kill. No turning back now.

Boka snatched an arrow, nocked it, drew the bow, and leaped backward.

His weapon was the bow. He needed distance and position. Close combat meant death.

“Think that toy can hurt me?” Lupin sneered.

Boka inhaled deeply, chest expanding, bowstring taut. He aimed for the abdomen—not the head. He didn’t want to kill or die.

He released. The arrow flew at Lupin’s lower belly.

Lupin didn’t flinch. His blade deflected the shot effortlessly.

Boka froze. He hadn’t even seen Lupin move. That speed rivaled Trena’s.

“Before I end you,” Lupin said, “you’ll witness your own powerlessness. I’ll make you taste despair—as I did then.”

Aisha covered her mouth, watching silently. Lupin was far stronger than she’d thought. Boka stood no chance. And Alastor radiated killing intent.

The crowd—including the Dragonfolk—was captivated. No one noticed her.

Aisha’s eyes locked on Boka’s bow. Her pupils glowed faint blue. Equations flooded her mind like converging rivers, surging into power. She chanted silently, weaving magic into the arrow.

This time, Boka aimed for Lupin’s left eye. Holding back against this monster was naive.

Whoosh!

The arrow shot toward Lupin.

Lupin’s eyes widened. In a flash, he jerked his head aside.

Boom! The stone statue behind him shattered into dozens of pieces. A thin line of blood seeped down his cheek.

Even Boka was stunned. The theater’s boos turned to roaring waves.

“You…” Lupin’s voice turned vicious. “Who are you?”

“I—I’m Boka.”

“Playing games with me?”

Lupin raised his sword and lunged.

Boka dodged, nocking another arrow at lightning speed.

Clang! Lupin barely blocked it, stumbling back several steps.

Aisha’s mind raced at full throttle, focusing all magic on Boka. Channeling power into such a tiny object from afar drained her spirit.

Boka’s arrows exploded with deafening force, shaking the National Theater.

Ian and the others were speechless.

Boka knew he couldn’t stop. If he paused, Alastor would sever any limb in an instant.

“Aaaaaah!!” Boka roared, firing relentlessly.

Lupin deflected each shot in a blur too fast for the eye.

Smoke filled the air. Boka’s quiver was empty—twenty-three arrows spent.

Panting, he bent over, staring at Alastor Lupin.

Unharmed except for the blood on his cheek.

“Done?” Lupin asked.

“Huff… yeah…”

“Good.” Lupin pressed his blade to Boka’s neck. “Apologize to Cataria in death.”

Aisha shot up, chanting ancient words aloud. Her pupils blazed blue. Frost crackled in the air—she’d expose herself to stop this, even if it doomed everyone.

But another figure moved faster.

Before anyone reacted, she landed center stage.

Clang!

A silver-armored woman blocked Lupin’s sword.

Aria…