Roland knelt beside his brother as Robert leaned against the broken stationary suit. The older Arden’s face was drenched in sweat, his skin pale from the exertion and the rush of adrenaline that had yet to fully fade. The power armor he had used had suffered some damage but it was still operational, a testament to the genius of the craftsmen that took part in its assembly.
“J-just give me a moment… I’m fine.”
Robert panted, refusing to take Roland’s hand when it was offered. The two remained silent for a moment, both still trying to process what had just happened. Neither had expected their father to appear, and now they were each trying to make sense of it. Robert’s thoughts leaned in a more positive direction, but Roland felt far more suspicious.
Roland's mind swirled with questions about his father. They hadn’t seen each other in over ten years, and Roland had hoped never to see him again. The glance his father gave him sent shivers down his spine, reminding him of the deep mistrust he harbored. While this body belonged to Roland Arden, the soul inhabiting it was someone else’s. His recent dealings with the spiritualist had revealed that there were ways to expose his true identity, which could provoke any number of reactions from Wentworth Arden.
Though Roland had made adjustments to his runic equipment to help mask his soul from being examined again, he wasn’t confident it would hold up against powerful Tier 4 class-holders like that spiritualist witch. Even if his true identity remained hidden, he still didn’t know what his standing in the Arden estate would be. His father might have the power to pull him back and disrupt the life he had grown accustomed to. His secret wasn’t exposed yet, but Roland wasn’t sure how long he could keep it that way.
‘He did glance in my direction for a moment… Does he know? or was it about something else?’
Roland's mind raced as he tried to decipher both his father’s motives and the extent of his power. The spear his father had thrown was his only clue - it pierced through the magical barrier as easily as an arrow through paper and suggested he was at least on par with the Grand Knight Commander. However, his Marshal status hinted that he could be even stronger, possibly a Tier 4 class holder.
Roland considered trying to read his father's status, but with so many people around, he feared it might draw unwanted attention. The numerous mages in the vicinity could easily detect his attempt, and given that his father had already managed to conceal his troops from his golems' sensors, it was likely Roland wouldn’t be able to read his status anyway.
‘They might use it as an excuse to detain me and go through my status. I shouldn’t assume that he knows who I am just yet.’
Lucienne had written letters to her parents and revealed his involvement in the Viola case. To the Arden’s he was still known as Professor Wayland from Xandar’s Institute of Wizardry and he wanted to keep it like that. Francine knew nothing of his true identity and his siblings would not reveal anything either. Now that the duel was over, his job had been done and he could just retreat back to the Institute and also go home. His work here was done and returning to Albrook should be his only concern now. Thus, it was best to take care of the surface level problems now and help his brother to get back to his mother.
“You shouldn’t let your mother and sister worry, Sir. Robert, take my hand and drink this potion, it will restore your stamina.”
Roland helped his brother up, despite Robert's initial refusal. His mother Francine was shouting in the background while being unable to climb down into the arena. Roland handed his brother a small vial, a stamina-restoring potion, glowing faintly with a light orange hue. Robert hesitated for a moment, his pride wrestling with his exhaustion, but in the end, he took the vial and drank it in one gulp. His breath began to steady, and color returned to his face as the potion's effects took hold.
"Thank you, Master Wayland"
Robert muttered, finally accepting Roland’s outstretched hand as he stood.
"You’ll need your strength."
Roland said quietly, keeping his gaze steady as his brother dusted himself off.
"Your mother’s waiting."
Robert's gaze shifted to where Francine was now arguing heatedly with one of Count Graham’s knights, her face red with frustration. The knights from their father’s contingent loomed nearby, clearly uneasy but unwilling to escalate things without direct orders. Meanwhile, Lucienne stood a few meters away from their mother, her expression unreadable as she observed the tense situation.
"She’s not going to stop until she sees that her son is alive and well, go to her.”
“I know, thank you again…”
As Robert finally steadied himself, he gave Roland a faint smile, one that carried both gratitude and exhaustion. He looked toward his mother and sister, knowing that this ordeal was far from over. He was not truly safe yet and the woman he loved was still out of his reach. With a nod, he began to make his way across the arena, his steps still somewhat unsteady but his resolve firm.
Roland watched him go, feeling some relief. He had done what he came here to do - protected his brother and ensured the duel’s outcome was in their favor. Yet, the undercurrents swirling around him were impossible to ignore. Wentworth's unexpected arrival had thrown everything into uncertainty.
As Robert approached his mother, Francine's anger melted away, replaced by clear concern. She rushed toward the edge of the arena in an attempt to see him but had to wait for Robert to jump up. Now that he had recovered and his legs weren’t all wobbly from the tension, he easily made his way there. His clothes surprised the onlookers as he was wearing a skintight suit made out of silvergrace metal, just like Roland did under his own armor.
“Robert… A-are you really fine? W-we need to get a priest!”
“Mother, I’m fine, just tired…”
Roland remained in the shadows, observing the family reunion from a distance. He knew that stepping closer would only raise unnecessary questions, especially from his stepmother, who had no idea of his true identity. The last thing he needed was to be drawn into their family drama when there were far larger issues at hand.
He could see them finally hug and embrace, Francine crying along with his sister Lucienne. The girls from the institute teared up behind them and all seemed well. However, for him not everything was over and his gaze shifted towards the power armor. Now that the duel was over, all eyes were on it. The rich merchants, nobles, and even the soldiers that arrived here were staring at the runic machine that produced a miracle.
‘It went better than expected but the operation time needs expanding, could fix that with a more modular battery pack or a recharge station of some kind, perhaps even a golem… but first, I should probably pack it up…’
His mind was buzzing with possible improvements but this was not the time to deliberate future endeavors. This suit of armor had become a symbol of power, innovation and, most importantly, a potential target. Roland understood that the moment the duel ended, the nobles and merchants would begin to consider the military applications of such a device. Eyes filled with both curiosity and greed fixated on the armor. If he didn’t move quickly, questions would be asked, and offers would be made that could lead to unwanted entanglements.
‘They are really watching…’
Every step he took, every move he made and even every breath he took, people from the audience were watching him. Count Graham and his father were discussing the issue and probably trying to resolve it without a fight breaking out. Graham’s soldiers outnumbered the military unit his father brought along but they were all elites. Many tier 3 class holders were in the audience and many of them were wearing similarly styled silver mithril armor.
‘If I try to leave now, I will be detained but at least I should be able to take this away, they have no right to take it.’
As Roland approached the armor, he pulled out his suitcase and placed it down on the ground to unfold itself. Quickly the mages around him realized that he was using some type of spatial item as the mana signature was quite obvious. While it was unfolding, some people started shouting, demanding to know what he was up to. The shouts from the audience grew louder, but Roland ignored them. In his mind, this would be something that an eccentric mage would be doing, silently hiding his creation from prying eyes.
“Hey! What are you doing? Stand down mage, the count did not give you permission!”
“I don’t need his permission.”
His voice, amplified by magic, responded to one of the knight commanders shouting in his direction. His suit of armor was now being lifted by his magic and carefully placed into the spatial suitcase. Soon, it began to descend slowly and disappeared from view. Without pausing, he let the case fold itself back into place before picking it up again. While he was playing with fire, without the leaders out here, the soldiers couldn’t do much.
‘They were probably ordered to just stand and watch but if I try to leave they will attempt to stop me.’
For a moment, he considered using his hidden glider to flee the scene but decided against it. It was better to wait for a peaceful resolution to the situation. He was confident that his father would somehow arrange things in Robert’s favor, and they would be allowed to leave. It wasn’t worth pushing his luck with so many mages and soldiers around. If he had some fast-acting teleportation technology, escape might have been an option, but for now, that wasn't an option.
Thus, even as the soldiers shouted he remained silent and waited. He had taken the power armor off the arena but still remained lingering in the shadows. Eyes were on him but he decided to just lean up against one of the arena’s walls and wait. Count Graham’s soldiers had their hands on their weapons, but none made a move, clearly awaiting further orders. Wentworth's soldiers, elite and well-trained, stood as a silent threat but didn’t move either.
His brother was focused on his sister and mother who was in the process of giving him a scolding. Eventually, everyones whispers ceased as they all were reminded of the situation they were in. At any moment a battle could break out and they were waiting for the nobles to come back and give the verdict. Roland wished he could evesdrop but this situation showcased him that he wasn’t quite as strong as he thought he was.
Ever since he achieved tier 3 he had been winning all his confrontations but since returning to the main continent, his true position revealed itself. Even if he prepared for months and had the best weapons, he still couldn’t compete with the true elites of this land. This was a harsh reminder of the power dynamics at play in the world of nobility and class holders. His inventions and quick thinking had given him an edge, but in the grander scheme of things, there were forces beyond his control.
‘I need to get back into the dungeon and get more levels.’
He had spent years refining his skills in the relative isolation of Dragnis Island and Albrook. In the quiet town, he was rarely disturbed, though the challenges he faced were still great. If he had more time and strength, even the Count and his father’s elite troops wouldn’t be able to stop him. However, reaching that level of power likely wouldn't happen until he attained the pinnacle of what a tier 3 could achieve or crossed into tier 4 territory.
The wait continued, people murmured but no one dared to protest. Suddenly all voices died down and signaled the return of the nobles from their private deliberation. Roland’s gaze shifted toward the side chamber as Count Graham, Wentworth Arden, and Count Laurence emerged. Their faces were unreadable, but the air around them crackled with unresolved tension.
There was a change in his father’s appearance as the helmet he had previously been wearing, had come off. This was the first time he had seen the man in over ten years but his face didn’t change much. He still had the same scar trailing from his left eyebrow to his upper lip. His hair seemed more white than silver and was much longer. His face was covered by an untrimmed white beard which just made him look more imposing than ever. Wentworth stepped forward first, his voice booming across the arena with a calm authority that instantly silenced any remaining whispers.
“The matter between Count Graham and myself has been resolved. There will be no further hostilities today, Robert Arden will return with me to the Arden estate. The terms of his duel have been honored, and there will be no further punishments."
Count Graham, though clearly still simmering with frustration, nodded in reluctant agreement.
"Yes. Robert has proven himself in combat, and I shall honor the outcome of the duel, as agreed. This matter is settled."
There was an audible release of tension from the crowd, though some spectators remained visibly disappointed that the conflict hadn’t escalated into a full-blown confrontation. Roland, however, felt a wave of relief wash over him. At least for now, the situation has been defused. His attention remained on his father as this was not quite over yet. Robert, now standing beside their mother and sister, looked visibly relieved, though exhaustion still clung to his features.
“...However, I would have to remain here, at least for the time being.”
Before people had time to relax, Graham spoiled their mood. Roland could feel that something wasn’t right with his tone and so did the others. One of the lesser nobles that were there with him posed a question, his voice trembling slightly.
“Your lordship, what do you mean?”
“Don’t be alarmed, nothing bad will happen. I, the Baron and Count Laurence have agreed to take some action about today’s event. I wish for you all to sign a contract, one that will assure that word of what has happened today doesn’t escape beyond these walls."
A ripple of unease spread through the gathered crowd. The nobles, merchants, and other onlookers exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright alarm. Forcing silence through magical contracts was no trivial matter, especially among the nobility, where information was often currency more valuable than gold.
"I understand this may come as a surprise, but I believe we can all agree that the events today were... delicate. As a precaution, we have agreed that everyone present will swear to a binding contract of secrecy. Don’t worry, you will also be compensated."
Wentworth Arden stood still, his towering presence a silent reinforcement of the necessity of this decision. His piercing gaze scanned the whole area, daring anyone to object. Roland, who remained leaning against the arena wall, was somewhat confused about what the nobles had decided on.
‘Wait… isn’t this good for me? If they all are forced to sign a contract… then no info about the power armor will leak out, at least not immediately…’
A murmur spread as a few voices from the crowd expressed their displeasure. However, they did not raise their hands or ask for the nobles to reconsider. If it was just a simple contract that kept them from mentioning what had transpired during this short duel, then it was still reasonable. Some were even happy that they would be compensated for their silence but one question still needed to be answered.
'Would they force me to sign it too?'
Roland was not someone who liked signing binding contracts. The deal sounded even worse when it involved his father or Count Graham. The problem wasn’t so much about him having trouble keeping his word but rather the risk of leaving his mana pattern or signature on paper. Certain people with special abilities could potentially use such a contract to track his location, something he wanted to avoid. Now that he had put himself in the crosshairs of the Count, the man might seek revenge. Even if Robert was safe, it didn’t mean assassins couldn’t be sent his way.
However, after the speech was given and the contracts were being finalized, instead of being approached by the Count’s men, one of the knights from his father’s unit moved toward him. The knight was clad in a full suit of mithril armor, gleaming and glistening under the sunlight light. He approached slowly to relay an order from his commanding officer.
"The Marshal wishes to see you. Please come with me."
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