The arena was a battlefield of shattered pride and desperation. Leon Fou Bartfort stood tall, his sword humming with power, as he faced the four noble heirs—Jilk, Greg, Brad, Chris, and the smug Prince Julius himself.

Leon exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "You guys really don't know when to quit, huh?"

Prince Julius scowled, his grip tightening on his rapier. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved, Bartfort. This is a noble affair.”

Beside Leon, Angelica Rapha Redgrave clenched her fists. “You speak of nobility, yet you gang up on one man. How disgraceful.”

Greg growled, smashing his gauntlets together. "Just shut up already! You’re not part of this anymore, Angelica!"

The entire coliseum fell into hushed whispers. The nobles paled. Then, the sound of marching filled the air—rows upon rows of elite soldiers flooded the arena, their heavy boots slamming against the stone floor. The crest they bore wasn’t of the royal family, but something far greater.

The moment their eyes landed on the figure stepping into the arena, the atmosphere shifted entirely.

A figure of absolute authority. The one who held power above even the King and Queen. The Strongest Field Marshal.

Julius froze. His confident smirk vanished. “W-Why is…?”

Jilk was already on one knee, sweat forming on his brow. “T-This can’t be…!”

Brad and Chris exchanged panicked looks before instinctively kneeling. Greg hesitated, fists clenched, before following suit.

Leon, ever the outlier, didn’t kneel. Instead, he simply whistled, crossing his arms. “Well… that’s new.” His sharp gaze scanned the situation before he smirked. “Didn’t expect the big boss to show up today. Must’ve made quite the mess, huh?”

That silence was deafening—more terrifying than any words you could have spoken.

Julius, shaking, dared to lift his head. “P-Please, you must understand, this is just a personal dispute! There is no need for your intervention, Field Marshal!”