The golden pillar still shimmered behind him, steam rising from the cracked stone in slow, hissing spirals. Seran stood in its light, chest heaving, his blade trembling slightly—not from weakness. From the weight of what had just happened. He wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand, golden aura still flickering violently around him. But his eyes—once wild with anger—were now focused. Watching the man who had been thrown back, whose shoulder had been pierced, whose ribs were bruised and battered— He stood there like it meant nothing. Lucavion rolled his shoulder once, the black fire around his blade humming low, pulsing like a heartbeat. His gaze hadn't changed. Not softened. Not even hardened. And suddenly—Seran understood. Not from the pressure of their clash, not from instinct alone. He'd faced peak 4-stars before. Trained against them. Been beaten by them in blood-soaked, rune-sealed chambers. And now that he had clashed head-on with Lucavion— There was no longer any doubt. He said it aloud. Quiet. Hoarse. The realization hit like frost down his spine. Not some flaring anomaly. Lucavion was a peak 4-star Awakened—just like him. He had been hiding it. His mind raced now. Thought slammed into thought, tangling over themselves like frantic soldiers trying to retreat through a crumbling tunnel. A peak 4-star couldn't be made . Not without training. Not without guidance. Not without resources. So who—what—was backing him? Was he part of a faction? Was he planted here, just like me? Was this some covert operation from the Nobility Council? The Outer Dukes? One of the old houses? Because this wasn't natural. This wasn't possible. 'A commoner doesn't reach peak 4-star. Not . Not with that sword style. That pressure. That control.' It defied everything Seran had ever been told. Ever been trained to believe. That's why I hid my power. That's why he was told to limit himself. Because rising too fast, too strong, without explanation—it would draw attention. It would lead to questions. Questions like the ones he was asking right now. What family could forge someone like that in silence? No name. No fame. No noble ties, no legendary sword, no bloodline known to the Empire. And yet he stood there—equal. Seran's throat tightened. 'Who gave you permission to stand beside me?' His heartbeat pounded like war drums in his ears. Because if this man wasn't backed… If this wasn't a political insertion, or a noble project, or some secret investment by a forgotten house— Then it was something worse. Something unstoppable. A monster born of nothing. And if that was true… Then Seran wasn't special. He wasn't the Crown Prince's flawless symbol of hope. This was something he could never have prepared for. No lesson, no sparring match, no whispered warning behind palace doors had ever hinted at the possibility of this. Seran's pulse thundered behind his ears, drowning out the murmurs from the watching crowd, the howling winds, even the fading echo of the golden pillar behind him. Nothing else mattered now. Not the reputation he'd spent years carefully building, scene by scene. Not even the Crown Prince's direct orders to stay hidden. Because this—this man—was a threat. To the one Seran owed everything to. And that? That was unforgivable. Lucavion stood unshaken, black flame crackling low around his estoc, eyes unreadable, patient. Still looking at him like he was just another obstacle. Seran's jaw clenched until his teeth ached. He wasn't going to be looked at like that. Not by this ghost of nowhere. Not by a man who dared to stand where only those chosen should tread. Seran's hand lowered to his belt—not to his blade, but to the second rune-sigil hidden beneath the fabric of his coat. One that pulsed with a darker shade of gold. Forbidden to use in official trials. Reserved only for live combat, real threats. He'd sworn never to activate it unless given a direct order. He would violate that vow now. Let the observers scream. Let the instructors brand it as misconduct. Let the damn judges revoke his position. He would deal with the fallout later. Seran activated the seal. Mana ignited behind him in a surge that didn't shine—it shuddered. A deeper resonance, darker than his prior radiance. It trembled across the field in jagged pulses, breaking apart the structure of his golden aura. Controlled energy gave way to fury. His eyes gleamed—not with light. The hidden sigil beneath Seran's coat ignited with a violent snap, golden mana flaring outward—then collapsing inward like a dying star. It didn't radiate light. Mana twisted around his body, tightening like a noose of power. His aura didn't pulse. It throbbed. The pristine arcs of golden energy were gone now, devoured by something darker, more absolute. The artifact had activated. And Seran—no, the weapon beneath the name—rose to the surface. His eyes, once bright with frustration, now turned cold. Calculating. Not the chill of fear. The chill of resolve. Lucavion's gaze narrowed slightly. He didn't speak. Not yet. Seran raised his sword again. But this time, the mana didn't coat the blade. Golden glyphs spun along the flat of the weapon, layered with crimson undertones—command runes, meant to bind, suppress, erase. And for the first time, the battlefield trembled beneath his voice. 「Crescent Crown: Final Arc – Emperor's Dominion.」 His sword ignited into a pillar of fused golden-red mana, nearly double its length, impossibly sharp. Not a blade. The ground cracked in a perfect ring beneath him. Wind spiraled outward as energy coiled around the blade like a corona of a falling sun. He pointed the tip at Lucavion. "You should've submitted," Seran said, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "But no." His body vanished in a flicker of heat-distorted air. Reappeared mid-swing—right above Lucavion. "Blame your own arrogance for losing your life." And he brought it down. The blow split the sky. Mana roared like a storm, tearing through the battlefield with the sound of creation being reversed. It was a strike designed not to injure. His estoc lifted—not with haste, not in panic. Just lifted. Like a conductor before the final note. "This is a real sword technique." "The likes of you can never reach it." The black flame devoured everything. Lucavion's blade shimmered. The air bent around it. Space twisted—not with heat, not with mana— 「Annihilation Sword – Null Space.」