The tips of his fingers, Adam's fingers, began to shine.
A warm, golden light, bright and pure, surged within his hand, gathering at the very ends of his digits like tiny, captured suns.
The golden energy condensed rapidly, swirling and spinning with impossible speed until it formed a small, perfect sphere hovering just above his index finger. It pulsed with an intense glow, radiating a brilliant light that seemed to actively push back the shadows clinging to the corners of the arena, making the air feel charged and alive.
The sphere wasn't simply a ball of light; it was vibrant, unstable, like a newborn star desperately trying to break free from its confines and explode outwards. The air around it flowed rapidly, pulled into its intense energy field.
From the stands, a collective gasp ripped through the crowd, their earlier shock now utterly replaced by wide-eyed astonishment. Many instinctively lifted hands or cloaks to shield their eyes from the sudden, fierce brightness radiating from the prince's fingertips.
Murmurs erupted again, louder than before, a wave of confused whispers spreading like wildfire: "What is that?" and "Incredible!" and "Is that... magic?"
Everyone's attention was completely fixated on the strange, glowing ball forming at the fingertips of the prince they had long dismissed as talentless and weak. This dazzling display defied everything they thought they knew.
While the crowd was mesmerized by the intense golden light, unseen by most, dozens of thin, sharp needles – almost invisible against the bright backdrop of the arena – were still hurtling through the air towards Adam.
They flew with terrifying speed, racing through the wind with a faint, high-pitched whistle that sliced through the tense silence, aimed directly at the prince's chest and head.
Then, without any visible command from Adam, the golden orb hovering above his fingers detached itself. It didn't just move; it zipped away from his hand with unbelievable, erratic, zigzagging motions. It blurred against the air, moving so fast that even the highly trained knights and sharp-eyed nobles in the crowd could only catch fleeting glimpses of golden afterimages, like trying to follow a lightning bolt tearing across the ground.
In less than a blink of an eye, the golden sphere intercepted the deadly flight of the incoming projectiles. It didn't merely block them; it [Purified] them with pure energy.
Mid-air, with absolute, impossible precision, the needles shattered upon contact with the sphere, dissolving instantly into harmless motes of dark dust that vanished before they could even begin to fall to the ground. Having neutralized the immediate threat in an instant, the golden sphere didn't stop.
It surged forward, its trajectory shifting with a subtle hum, now aimed straight towards the area where Adam's heightened senses told him the real Assassin and his magical copies were hidden.
Fresh gasps, louder and more stunned than ever, erupted across the entire stadium. People pointed, their faces etched with awe and disbelief as the golden light streaked across the battlefield like a divine spear, like a shooting star brought down to earth to mete out judgment.
Its speed was simply unreal. None of the spectators could follow its exact path with their eyes.
All anyone could see was the brilliant, luminous trail it left behind, a blazing streak of gold cutting through the backdrop of the chaotic arena, weaving through the walls and fake trees with impossible agility, seemingly ignoring all obstacles.
One after another, the illusions – the clones of the Assassin – Adam sensed at least ten of them scattered around, perfect copies meant to confuse and distract, completely indistinguishable from the real one. The golden sphere pierced through each illusionary copy with surgical speed and devastating force.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Like bubbles bursting, each clone exploded in a brief, silent flash of light as the golden spear touched them.
Within a fraction of a second, maybe less time than it took to draw a single breath, all the clones were utterly obliterated, leaving only the real Assassin suddenly exposed, his magical camouflage failing completely under the intense purifying light, and utterly alone.
The Assassin's eyes, wide with sheer panic, barely caught a glimpse of the golden spear rocketing towards him after it had so effortlessly wiped out his duplicates.
He had been relying on his clones and invisibility, perhaps preparing his next attack, completely unprepared for such a swift, targeted counter-strike that bypassed his defenses entirely. The golden light was far, far too fast. He had absolutely no time to dodge, no time to raise a shield, no time to even think about reacting.
WHAM!
The golden light slammed directly into his left shoulder with incredible, bone-shattering force.
A sickening crack of breaking bone echoed loudly across the now dead-silent arena. The Assassin was launched backward as if struck by a giant's hammer, a raw, strangled scream of pure agony ripping from his throat.
He flew several yards through the air before crashing hard onto the ground with a heavy thud, sliding across the dirt and stone tiles, leaving a smear of bright red blood behind him.
And then, just as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared, the golden sphere simply… vanished. One moment it was there, hovering briefly over the fallen Assassin; the next, it dissolved into nothingness, leaving no trace, as if it had never existed at all.
The entire sequence—the sphere forming, intercepting the needles, destroying the clones, hitting the real Assassin, and vanishing—had taken less than a single second. A blink-and-you-miss-it display of overwhelming, unknown power.
Yet in the aftermath of that blindingly fast, devastatingly effective attack, the entire stadium was frozen solid in a state of collective disbelief. Time seemed to stop.
Every single spectator—the high-and-mighty nobles in their privileged seats, the disciplined soldiers standing guard around the perimeter, the wise-looking magicians in their special sections, even the skilled swordsman who had been momentarily forgotten but was still struggling to get his weapon back from Adam's earlier impossible grip—stood or sat with their mouths hanging open, their eyes wide with shock and profound confusion.
The bright afterimage of the golden attack still seemed burned into their vision, leaving them unable to begin to comprehend what they had just witnessed. What kind of magic was that? It defied all logic and known spells.
Even the swordsman, who had been focused entirely on wrenching his sword free from the prince's unbelievably strong grip just moments before, completely halted his efforts.
For the first time since engaging the prince, he stopped trying to pull his sword free. In that stunned silence, his mind raced. Maybe getting his sword back wasn't the most important thing right now. Maybe surviving this was.
Far above the silent arena floor, high up in the royal box, the usual calm composure of the royal family was utterly shattered. Leonard—Adam's second eldest brother, the kingdom's renowned brilliant magician prince—literally leaped to his feet, his elegant robes swirling around him in his haste.
His eyes were wide with utter astonishment, his mouth slightly agape as he stared down at the spot where the golden sphere had vanished.
Forgetting all royal manners in his shock, he instinctively extended a single, trembling finger towards the arena floor below, his voice booming out, filled with a mixture of awe and disbelief that cut through the silence.
"That attack… That golden sphere… That wasn't just advanced magic!… It's theoretically impossible!"
His voice carried immense weight in magical matters. He was considered a genius, perhaps the most knowledgeable mage in the entire kingdom despite his relative youth.
Those sitting beside him – his father the King, his mother the Queen, and even his older brother Raven – listened intently to his outburst.
They remained silent, but it was clear from the sudden, palpable tension in the air that they, too, understood the incredible, earth-shattering meaning behind Leonard's shocked words. This wasn't just an ordinary attack, not even a particularly strong one. This was something fundamentally different. Something that defied the very known rules of magic and reality.
It wasn't just the raw power of the spell that stunned them—it was the shocking revelation it represented. Eric—their youngest son, their little brother, the boy everyone had either pitied or dismissed as talentless and weak—had apparently been hiding this level of ability all along.
Not just hiding a powerful talent, but hiding something that seemed to rewrite the very definition of power in their world. How could he have kept such a secret? For how long? And why? These unspoken questions hung heavy in the air.
The King's expression shifted again, subtly, but meaningfully. The flicker of alarm that had been there moments before was gone, replaced by something else entirely.
The newfound respect he had felt earlier when Eric (Adam) had simply stood up for himself began to bloom rapidly in his heart, growing deeper, stronger with every passing second as he processed the monumental implications of what he had just witnessed.
Along with that burgeoning respect came something else, something he hadn't felt regarding his youngest son in a very long time—hope. A powerful, surging hope that perhaps the future strength and glory of the kingdom didn't just lie solely with Raven's martial prowess or Leonard's magical genius.
Perhaps it lay, unexpectedly, with the boy who had been underestimated, ignored, and nearly discarded. Perhaps Prince Eric held the key to the kingdom's future greatness.
Down below in the stands, the nobles who had so often mocked Eric behind his back, who had whispered cruel jokes and plotted ways to ensure his failure and exile, now sat in stunned, terrified silence. Their faces were pale, some visibly sweating despite the mild temperature in the arena.
Many of them had actively hoped the title of prince would be stripped from him today, perhaps even hoping he would suffer some 'accident' during the trial. Now, watching him wield such casually destructive, incomprehensible power, cold fear slithered into their hearts like a venomous snake, coiling tight in their chests.
The assassin, Asherin, lay broken on the ground where Adam's golden sphere had thrown him.
He screamed again, a raw, animal sound of pure pain that ripped through the silence. He clutched desperately at his wounded shoulder with his hand, trying in vain to stop the bleeding, his face twisted into a mask of pure agony.
The injury was clearly severe – his shoulder joint looked shattered, unnatural angles visible even from a distance. It might even be fatal if not treated immediately. Bright red blood poured freely through his fingers, pooling on the ground beneath him as he writhed weakly.
And in that moment of intense agony and helplessness, the magical camouflage that had surrounded him, hiding him from most people's sight, finally faded completely, revealing him clearly to the stunned crowd.
The spectators stared, stunned again, finally seeing the shadowy opponent who had been battling Adam from the shadows.
Was he… was he watching me? The entire time?
That thought struck Asherin, even through the pain, like another dagger to the gut.
At that exact moment, Adam's gaze slowly turned away from the defeated Assassin, dismissing him entirely as no longer a threat worthy of attention.
His attention returned fully to the swordsman, the Royal Knight, who still stood frozen, rooted to the spot.
The swordsman felt that gaze land on him immediately—it felt like a physical pressure, like ice water trickling down his spine, locking him in place.
He stopped thinking about his sword altogether. Instead, his mind raced, making a split-second decision – his only remaining option was to attack with his bare hands, hoping to use his superior physical strength and lifetime of training in close combat. Maybe he could overpower the boy through sheer force before more of that terrifying magic came into play.
But before the swordsman could even fully let go of his weapon to launch his desperate hand-to-hand attack, Adam spoke. His voice was calm, cutting through the silence like a razor's edge.
"Now," Adam said softly, his eyes locking with the knight's, the casual tone sending shivers down the swordsman's spine, "it's your turn."
And with those chillingly calm words, Adam deliberately released his impossible grip on the hilt of the swordsman's blade, the one they had both been holding onto earlier.
The warrior suddenly found the sword free in his hand – his other hand was now also free, already forming a fist, ready to strike. But before he could do anything, before he could even react to having his weapon returned...
Adam moved.
He twisted his torso with blindingly swift precision. In the same smooth, liquid motion, he lifted his right leg—then slammed it forward in a powerful, explosive side kick.
His foot crashed into the swordsman's chest with devastating force.
There was absolutely no time for the knight to react, to block, or even to brace himself. The impact landed squarely on the man's armored torso, sending visible ripples through the thick metal breastplate like it was cloth.
A loud CRUNCH echoed through the arena as armor dented inwards and ribs likely shattered underneath. The knight was launched backward, not just pushed, but violently flung off his feet, his body tearing through the air like it weighed nothing.
He flew across the stadium, a human projectile, covering thirty yards in an instant.
He crashed violently into a raised section of the arena wall, one of the artificial cliffs created earlier. Dust and stone fragments exploded outwards from the point of impact. The crowd collectively flinched at the sheer, brutal power of the hit.
The swordsman hit the wall with a sickening finality and dropped limply to the ground below, unmoving.