("Come on, fight! Fight!")

After turning back to "comfort" Charles—though in truth stoking his fighting spirit further—Aelia walked to the VIP seats beside the field with quiet satisfaction, ready to enjoy how foolish men would brawl over her.

The arena buzzed with energy. Supporters of Luke and Charles were evenly split, but most spectators were thrill-seekers hungry for chaos.

Yet this duel had to happen. Long before arriving at the training ground, Luke noticed someone had reported the incident to high officials and the king. None had appeared—clearly using this to test his true strength.

Luke wouldn’t lose. The real question was *how* to win.

As court mages rushed to cast protective barriers for the audience—prioritizing noble safety—Luke sensed the ambient magic elements shift. This suppression field, standard in key venues (especially the royal audience hall), wasn’t meant to ensure safety or restraint. It was a calculated move.

Even amid hype, no one doubted a proper Hero’s strength—nor believed he’d lose under normal conditions to a general from a weak nation like the Messiah Kingdom.

But strength has limits. A warrior strong in melee but weak in magic? Ban close combat or restrict range, and their edge vanishes. To most, a Hero’s power lies in higher level, greater mana, and access to potent spells. Seal high-tier magic, force mid-tier only, and many nations’ grand mages or generals could rival—or surpass—a Hero. The Messiah Kingdom, however, wasn’t among them.

Saintesses earned equal standing with Heroes—and formed the core of the Heroic Party—by casting support magic: buffing allies, elevating ordinary fighters to Hero-tier strength.

("Go, Charles! Don’t waste the power I gave you!")

Aelia had lingered on the field not just for show. She’d secretly woven an exquisitely subtle buff onto Charles—one undetectable without mind-reading. As a Saintess, her skill was exceptional. A shame she wielded it for mischief.

"Begin!"

At the court mage captain’s command (acting referee), Aelia in the VIP section flashed a worried expression. Meanwhile, the tiny version of herself in her mind smirked smugly: *"Referee, judges, witnesses, organizers—every single one’s on my side. How will you fight me?"*

No time for complacency. Luke refocused instantly, bracing for Charles’s storm-like assault.

"Go, Mad Dog Charles! Show us your strength!"

Cheers erupted—then faltered.

"What’s happening?"

"Move, Charles! Why won’t you move?!"

Frustration boiled. Old grudges surfaced. Insults rained down. But Charles stood frozen, feet rooted like lead since the duel began. Luke waited silently.

After a minute, Charles met Luke’s gaze, dragged his greatsword to the edge of the field, and knelt on one knee.

"Your Highness Aelia… grant me permission for a *fair* duel."

Her inner self’s face darkened instantly.

*He should’ve charged blindly!* she fumed. *By the time he felt my buff’s power, Luke would be pulp—humiliated beyond repair. Then I’d gasp, "I only gave a life-saving buff!" Kick him while down, shatter faith in Luke, cancel the Heroic Party… and I stay, ruling comfortably. Perfect!*

But Charles noticed *immediately*. A man fighting *for her*… staying this calm? Unscientific! Worse—he *exposed* it! Begged her to revoke the blessing!

*So chivalrous. So upright. You idiot—don’t you see this paints me as a scheming fraud?!*

If people questioned her sanctity, purity, even her Saintess title… stripped to commoner status, grinding debts for survival… Aelia felt faint.

("No. I won’t sit and wait!")

In 0.1 seconds of "deep thought," she mastered a concerned frown, extended a hand, and released a holy light—warm, gentle, utterly useless—retracting the buff.

"Brother Charles… please stay safe."

She clung to the tired excuse of "concern for safety." Thankfully, her cultivated saintly image held. Most praised her kindness anew.

But perfection isn’t required for doubt to sprout. Like shoppers clicking rare one-star reviews, she subtly cast a sensing spell: *Who’s the oblivious detractor?*

Relief washed over her. The dissenters were the clear-headed few—they knew Charles faced not bandits or rebels, but the Southern Realm’s famed Hero. Without the Saintess’s aid, he’d fall in an instant, shaming the kingdom. They urged him not to bite off more than he could chew.

"Understood!"

Yet Charles, whether stubborn or principled, ignored them. After thanking Aelia, he returned center-field, raised his greatsword one-handed, and pointed it squarely at Luke.

"Come!"

Charles wasn’t foolish. His stillness was a test. Had Luke struck while he was "disabled," Charles would’ve used the buff without hesitation. *Fairness only matters to those who honor it.*

Watching Luke’s conduct, he still couldn’t decipher his intent toward Aelia—but confirmed: this was a warrior of principle. Worthy of a true, fair duel.

("You flatter me.")

Luke *had* considered ambushing him. But Charles’s integrity earned his respect.

Between warriors, respect had only one language—

"Then brace yourself!"

Luke raised his blade and charged straight ahead. Steel met steel in a swift, fierce clash.