That evening, the Torvares residence was livelier than usual. Servants moved briskly to set out extra dishes, and the dining hall hummed with laughter and chatter. Viola sat at the center of it all, back straight and eyes blazing with triumph, the very picture of a young noble bathing in well-earned glory.

She had passed the first three phases of the spell trials, one after another until only thirty-two contestants remained. Tomorrow, the final rounds would decide the winner, but for now, it was enough that she’d survived the first culling.

Arslan raised his goblet, grin stretching from ear to ear. “To Viola! Advancing through the fire and smoke, making the Torvares' name shine brighter than ever!”

Harold banged his fist on the table so hard that a bowl rattled. “Ha! Knew you’d make it through. You’ve got that family steel in your veins!”

Aleia smirked over her cup. “Not bad for a girl who supposedly couldn’t even go to school.”

“Enough,” Selene said, though there was the faintest curl of approval at the corner of her mouth. “She’s not finished yet. Celebrate tomorrow if she takes first place.”

Viola only beamed, basking in every word. “Tomorrow, I’ll crush the rest. You’ll see.”

Ludger leaned back in his chair, picking at a piece of bread. Of course she would say that. A single victory and her head is already brushing the clouds. Still, he had to admit—watching her survive three rounds of rigged trials wasn’t nothing.

When the laughter quieted, Cor folded his hands on the table. “Did anyone notice anything unusual during today’s rounds?”

The room fell silent for a beat. Arslan shook his head first, then Selene, Harold, Aleia—one by one, each dismissed the question.

“No odd interference,” Selene said flatly.

“No suspicious officials,” Cor added.

“Targets looked the same for everyone,” Aleia finished with a shrug.

Viola huffed, crossing her arms. “So what if the rules changed? I still beat them. That’s all that matters.”

Ludger’s gaze lingered on her, the faintest frown tugging at his lips. She thinks it’s just competition. She doesn’t see the hands behind the curtain yet. But maybe that’s for the best. At least one of us can pretend this is just about spells and scores.

He tore another piece of bread, chewing slowly, his mind already on tomorrow.

Morning came with the clang of bells and the murmur of a city already awake for the finals. Servants moved briskly through the halls, polishing boots, delivering meals, and preparing carriages. Viola was already gone with Selene and Cor to warm up for the last rounds of the spell trials, her confidence echoing through the estate even in her absence.

Ludger stayed behind in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed. His gear was already packed neatly at his side, but he hadn’t moved in some time. The muffled roar of the city outside filtered through the window, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

A knock came. Before Ludger could answer, the door creaked open and Arslan stepped inside. For once, his grin was absent—his expression was serious, almost heavy.

“You’re quiet this morning,” Arslan said, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s on your mind?”

Ludger glanced at him, then back at the floor. “…What do you think.”

“Thinking about tomorrow’s duels? The obstacle run?”

“All of it.” Ludger folded his arms, brows knitting. “The rules changing out of nowhere. Viola acting like she’s untouchable. And me… stuck in the middle of this circus.”

Arslan scratched the back of his neck, sighing. “Can’t blame you for worrying. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”

Silence stretched a moment before Ludger spoke again. “…You’re still sure this is because of that boy? The one Viola punched?”

Arslan nodded grimly. “I can’t prove it, but it fits too well. The grudge, the timing, the way the rules shift in just the right places. That family has the clout to pull strings here. They want to make Viola stumble in front of everyone.”

Ludger leaned back, resting his head against the wall. “And yet she doesn’t see it. She just thinks it’s another chance to show off.”

“That’s who she is,” Arslan said, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the weight in his voice. “Reckless, proud, burning too bright for her own good. Just like her grandfather.” His eyes softened. “And just like me.”

Ludger smirked faintly at that. “So you’re admitting you’re reckless, proud, and overbearing.”

“Guilty as charged.” Arslan chuckled, but then his tone sobered again. “That’s why I asked you yesterday, and I’ll ask again now. Help her, Ludger. I know it isn’t fair to put that weight on your shoulders, but if she’s left to fight through these traps alone, she’ll burn herself out—or worse.”

For a moment, Ludger didn’t answer. He stared at his packed bag, the neat folds of cloth, the tools he’d chosen with care.

I could still walk away, he thought. Slip out of the city, leave the politics and the scheming behind. But… would I really?

Finally, he sighed, meeting his father’s eyes. “I already gave you my answer yesterday. I’ll help her. But don’t think for a second I’m doing this for your sake.”

Arslan’s smile returned, tired but warm. “I’ll take what I can get.”

He straightened, gave Ludger’s shoulder a brief squeeze, and left him alone again. The muffled roar of the city returned, and Ludger exhaled slowly, steeling himself for the chaos to come.

The arena was already roaring when Ludger and Arslan found their seats. Flags of every color rippled in the wind, nobles filled their reserved boxes, and commoners pressed shoulder to shoulder in the stands. Below, the sandy floor had been marked with fresh lines and new targets, ready for the final phase of the spell trials.

Ludger scanned the crowd, his sharp eyes following the clusters of richly dressed lords and ladies whispering behind their fans, their gazes always flicking back to the competitors waiting on the sidelines.

“This whole thing…” Ludger muttered, leaning on the railing. “It can’t be completely rigged. Too many eyes are watching. If they pushed it too far, everyone would notice.”

Arslan crossed his arms, smirk faint but steady. “True enough. Even nobles can’t afford to be obvious in front of half the realm.”

“So the only things they can twist,” Ludger went on, eyes narrowing, “are the team competitions. Pairings. Divisions. Quiet adjustments that don’t look like sabotage until it’s too late.”

Arslan hummed in agreement. “Exactly.”

Ludger turned his gaze to him, voice low. “Shouldn’t we investigate? Find out who’s pulling the strings before the duels start? If someone’s going this far, it won’t stop here.”

For a moment, Arslan didn’t answer. He just stared down at the field, where Viola stood in line with the other thirty-one finalists, her chin tilted high, her pride blazing bright enough to blind her to the weight of the moment.

Finally, Arslan chuckled under his breath. “No need.”

Ludger frowned. “No need? That doesn’t sound like you.”

Arslan glanced sideways at him, and for a change, the smile on his face wasn’t the lazy grin of a man dodging trouble. It was sharper, more dangerous. “We don’t need to investigate, Ludger. Because you’ll see it for yourself soon enough.”

Ludger studied him, unsettled by the certainty in his tone. What does he mean?

The crowd roared as the announcer’s voice boomed over the field, and the spell trials began in earnest. Viola stepped forward, pride shining as if she’d been born for this stage.

And Ludger sat back slowly, Arslan’s words echoing in his mind. So I won’t need to look for the scheme. It’ll reveal itself right in front of me.

The finals of the spell trials thundered on beneath the roar of the crowd. Competitors flung bolts of lightning, spheres of water, shards of ice—each trying to carve their name into the air with spectacle and precision. But Viola, standing tall in Torvares colors, chose simplicity.

She called flame.

Arrow after arrow, conjured from her fingertips, streaked across the arena in blazing arcs. Where others lost accuracy with flourish, Viola’s fire struck clean, fast, unrelenting. Her control over that spell was sharp enough to make even seasoned mages in the stands murmur in approval. Targets shattered one after another in sprays of sparks, each success feeding her grin.

Ludger leaned on the railing, watching. Figures. The girl who broke a boy’s nose in class goes for arrows you can’t ignore. Nothing says subtle like setting your opponents on fire.

Despite the pressure, Viola pushed through round after round. The field narrowed until only four remained. She fought hard, her arrows burning brighter and faster, but in the end, she faltered—just a fraction behind the two strongest mages, both academy-trained heirs with years of formal practice drilled into their bones.

When the horn sounded, Viola stood proud among the last three.

“Third place,” the announcer boomed, his voice echoing across the stadium. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Viola’s name was shouted from every corner of the stands.

Ludger sat back, brows furrowing as the three finalists were called to the center of the arena. A podium of polished stone rose from the sand, each step etched with glowing runes. The first-place victor mounted the top, Viola taking her place on the third.

Instead of medals, attendants stepped forward carrying small, ornate boxes. Inside gleamed golden coins, each engraved with the crest of the imperial family—symbols of victory, wealth, and recognition.

Ludger tilted his head. So it’s not medals. It’s coins. Literal golden coins. Leave it to nobles to turn even an award ceremony into a flex on who can afford shinier pocket change. Still, if they wanted to flex, diamond coins would be better.

The announcer’s voice rolled over the crowd again as the victors lifted their coins high, sunlight catching on the polished metal. Viola’s grin widened, pride blazing brighter than her flames.

Ludger exhaled, arms crossed. Third place out of a hundred and thirty. Not bad. But now she’s marked—and every noble in this arena just saw her name climb onto that podium. Which means tomorrow, the real games begin. For me as well..

The Torvares entourage returned to the estate that evening, spirits high after Viola’s third-place finish. Even Selene, who rarely gave praise, allowed herself a thin smile as Viola strutted through the door like she had claimed the throne itself. Arslan kept teasing her about her “victory grin,” and Harold was already planning a toast.

But the cheer thinned quickly when they reached the dining hall.

The long oak table—the one that had stood polished and sturdy the night before—was split straight down the middle, one half sagging toward the floor. The maids were frantically trying to brace it with stools, faces pale as they whispered among themselves. Bits of splintered wood still littered the carpet, and the smell of varnish hung faint in the air.

Ludger blinked. “…Well. That’s one way to redecorate.”

The guards were nowhere in sight, which only made the atmosphere heavier. Viola stopped mid-stride, her grin faltering. “What happened here?”

The younger maid glanced up, then quickly looked away. Her hands trembled as she tried to sweep up a cluster of broken splinters.

It was the head maid, a composed woman with streaks of gray in her hair, who finally stepped forward. Her voice was steady, but the tightness in her eyes betrayed her unease. “Lord Torvares arrived earlier this evening. He asked for confirmation about the changes in the competitions.”

Selene straightened, frown deepening. “And?”

The maid hesitated, then lowered her voice. “When it was confirmed… he struck the table. With his fist. It broke under the blow.”

The room went quiet, the weight of those words settling in. Ludger imagined the old man, cane in one hand, wrath in the other, his patience snapping as cleanly as the table had.

“And where is he now?” Arslan asked, his grin gone for once.

The head maid bowed her head. “He left immediately to investigate the matter himself. He did not say when he would return.”

Harold whistled low. “Split the table with a punch… The old man still has it.”

Aleia arched a brow. “And if he’s storming through the capital, someone’s going to feel it before the night’s over.”

Ludger leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms. So Grandfather’s entered the game directly. That explains the guards missing—he probably took them as his shadow. Which means whatever schemes are brewing behind the scenes, they won’t stay hidden for long.

Viola, however, looked both proud and slightly pale. “He came here… just for this?”

The head maid nodded solemnly. “For you, my lady. And for the family name.”

Ludger exhaled slowly. And now the storm is loose in the capital. Perfect.

It was well past midnight when the heavy doors of the estate creaked open. The quiet of the halls shattered as Lord Torvares strode inside, cane striking the stone floor with sharp, furious echoes. His presence hit like a wave—an oppressive pressure that made the air feel thick.

Ludger, half-awake in a chair by the corridor, blinked hard. For a second he swore he could see it: faint trails of steam rising from Viola grandfather’s head, his breath clouding the air even though the night was warm.

Great, Ludger thought, sitting up straighter. He’s radiating like a kettle about to boil over.

The rest of the party had been roused by the noise. Viola hurried down the stairs, wide-eyed, with Selene right behind her. Harold peeked from a doorway, Aleia leaned casually on the banister, and Arslan, unusually grim, met his father’s eyes in silence.

Lord Torvares didn’t stop. He moved through the foyer like a storm given shape, his cane less a support and more a weapon striking punctuation into every step. His aura pressed down on the group like Elaine’s infamous “Star Widow’s Wrath”—that same suffocating intent of a protector, except colder, sharper, and laced with fury.

Ludger’s lips twitched. What is this, some hidden system no one told me about? Rage-fueled power-ups? My mother’s a nightmare when she’s mad, and now the old man looks like he’s about to vaporize half the capital with sheer indignation. Maybe there’s a hidden “Anger Class” that unlocks once you’re old, overprotective, and done with everyone’s nonsense.

He shook the thought off just as Lord Torvares stopped at the center of the hall. His gaze swept over the group, pausing on Viola. His eyes burned, but his voice was steady—dangerously steady.

“They dared to change the rules,” he said, each word clipped like steel against flint. “Not for fairness. Not for balance. For politics. To drag this family’s name into the mud.”

Viola swallowed hard but didn’t back down. “And you found out who?”

Lord Torvares’ cane struck the floor once, the crack echoing. “I found enough. They’ll regret it before this tournament ends.”

The maids who had peeked from the corners shrank back at his tone. Even the guards at the door stood straighter, sweat beading at their temples under that suffocating aura.

Ludger leaned back against the wall, unimpressed but thoughtful. Yep. Definitely some anger-based superpower. If it exists, it skipped me. Too chill for that kind of nonsense. Guess I’ll stick with sarcasm and mana bolts.

Lord Torvares exhaled, still fuming, steam practically curling from his head. “Get some rest,” he ordered, voice a whip. “Tomorrow, the real contest begins.”

The group exchanged glances, unease settling in. Viola clenched her fists, looking ready to ignite. Arslan gave Ludger a brief, weary look, like he knew tomorrow would test them all.

And Ludger, sliding back into his chair, could only smirk faintly. Heat and chaos, just like I promised. Fine. Let’s see where this storm goes.