CHAPTER 151: THE CELESTIAL’S JUDGEMENT!

"You saw the battle," he said, his gaze locking with Calvane’s. "Every strike, every movement, every breath—I fought with my own hands, my own blade. Nothing more. Nothing less. If that is what you find suspicious..."

He let the words hang for a heartbeat, his smile deepening ever so slightly, "then perhaps the fault lies not in my actions, but in your judgment clouded by something else."

The crowd erupted again in murmurs, some nodding in agreement with Edwin, others glancing at Calvane with uncertainty.

Calvane’s gauntleted hand twitched dangerously near the hilt of his sword.

His jaw tightened, and his eyes locked on Edwin with the sharpness of drawn steel. The crowd felt the weight of that gesture immediately — a single wrong word and the arena floor could become a battlefield.

Everyone understood the meaning behind Edwin’s bold retort. He was challenging not just Calvane’s authority, but hinting that the accusation itself might be nothing more than a weapon forged from wounded pride or political rivalry.

Whispers rippled through the spectators like a spreading fire.

Elysia, standing only a few steps away, felt the tension clawing at the air. She shifted forward, her body angled slightly toward Edwin, as though preparing to step between them at any moment.

Her eyes darted from Edwin to Calvane, searching for the first sign of an attack.

High above, in the grandest balcony of the arena’s coliseum, the Celestial Royal stirred. Until now he had been silent, his regal figure half-shrouded by the golden canopy overhead.

But as he leaned forward, the embroidered patterns of his robe glittered in the sunlight, catching every eye in the arena.

His mere presence pressed down like invisible chains, forcing the air itself to grow heavy.

Lesser men would have faltered under that gaze alone.

A hush swept across the coliseum. Even the wind seemed to stop.

When the Celestial Royal finally spoke, his voice was not loud, yet it rolled across the arena like thunder.

The enchantments woven into the stone carried his words to every ear, making them inescapable.

"We will see about that."

The weight of those words struck harder than any sword. Calvane’s eyes widened slightly, and though his pride resisted, his body betrayed him — he stepped back and lowered his head in a respectful bow toward the balcony.

His hand moved away from his sword.

The Royal’s gaze did not leave Edwin. It was a piercing look, cold and discerning, as if he could strip away every defense, every lie, and every secret with a single glance.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

At last, he spoke again, slower this time, each word carrying judgment.

"There will be no representative of the Council of Clans," the Royal declared, "until we determine whether you used our runes... or not."

The arena erupted. Gasps and whispers.

The arena, which moments ago had roared with applause, now buzzed with confusion and doubt.

Whispers spread like wildfire through the stands. Some voices were sharp with disbelief:

"They’re suspending the appointment?"

"But he fought fair and square! I saw it with my own eyes!"

"Isn’t this just politics?"

Others leaned into suspicion, their words carrying the sting of doubt:

"The timing is too perfect... it’s almost as if someone wanted this."

"If he really used runes, then he’s no better than a cheater."

"But what if he didn’t? Are they setting him up?"

What had been a moment of triumph was quickly being drowned out by rumors and distrust.

Down in the arena, Elysia felt her stomach tighten. She had seen this before — victory being reshaped into scandal, pride into suspicion.

It was a dance of politics she despised, one where merit was often buried beneath agendas and schemes.

Her gaze flickered toward Edwin, sharp with both concern and resolve.

She knew how fast such situations could spiral out of control. If Edwin faltered now, even slightly, the narrative could be written against him.

Edwin Holds His Ground

And yet, Edwin didn’t waver.

He lifted his chin, eyes locked firmly on the Celestial Royal above. His stance remained steady, shoulders squared, as though the weight of hundreds of stares pressing down on him meant nothing.

His sword, still at his side, gleamed faintly in the light, a silent reminder of the fight he had already endured.

Not once did his expression crack. He neither begged nor protested. He simply stood there, unflinching a lone figure surrounded by doubt, daring anyone to look at him and call him a liar to his face.

Edwin spoke again, carrying across the arena.

"If you want to test me, then do it. I’ve got nothing to hide. But don’t tarnish my victory just to protect your pride."

The words struck like lightning. The entire audience froze for a heartbeat before gasps and sharp whispers spread through the stands.

To speak so bluntly—so fearlessly—before the Celestial Royal was nothing short of reckless.

Many spectators clasped their mouths, others exchanged wide-eyed looks. Some even muttered, "He dares speak like that...?"

Calvane’s jaw tightened and his hand curled into a fist at Edwin’s tone, but he held back, eyes flashing with restrained fury.

The Celestial Royal, however, did not explode in anger. Instead, his expression shifted—slightly amused, slightly intrigued.

His golden eyes gleamed, studying Edwin as though he were a rare beast who had shown unexpected fangs.

"Bold," he said slowly, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the arena’s murmur.

"We will see whether that boldness comes from innocence... or arrogance."

Then, with a single wave of his jeweled hand, the Celestial Royal made his decision.

"Remove the other participants. The Council meeting will be postponed. This matter will be settled before we allow this... champion... to represent anyone."

The command was like a hammer strike.

At once, guards and attendants moved. Martis and Jenner, still battered and bruised from their defeats, were helped away by healers, their faces pale with both pain and humiliation.

In the upper rows, family representatives rose from their seats. Some left quietly, but most leaned toward their aides, whispering in hushed, hurried tones.

Their expressions carried a mixture of suspicion, calculation, and even fear. The arena’s thunderous energy had shifted into a storm of political undercurrents.