The Lord of the Seas - An Isekai Progression Fantasy [ Currently on Volume 2 ]

The duel began with no words, just raw intent.

Soren didn't hesitate. The moment the signal was given, crimson magical energy burst to life around his arms, swirling up to his elbows in jagged, violent lines. The air around him grew heavier, charged with the cutting presence of his clan's infamous legacy—the Divinity of Dissection.

It was a terrifying magic, precise and merciless.

A single touch from it could flay through flesh, bone, and spirit alike. Lukas could feel it from where he stood, the sheer hostility emanating from that magic like a blade unsheathed.

One wrong move and Rosalia might end up on the cutting board.

Soren dropped to all fours, his posture animalistic and fluid, like a beast ready to strike. He crept forward with methodical control, each movement measured, dangerous—like something that had once walked on two legs but had long since abandoned humanity for something more instinctive.

Lukas began to see the influence that the Beastkin Admiral had on the boy. Serenya's teachings were all over him—wild grace tamed by ruthless discipline.

Just as the crowd braced for a monstrous charge, Rosalia acted.

Water snapped into existence behind Soren, condensing in an instant into a massive hand. It surged forward, fast and silent, and clamped down on his leg like a trap closing shut.

Gasps rippled through the arena.

Soren hadn't sensed it. The water yanked on his leg hard, aiming to drag him down face-first—but instead of falling, his leg exploded with red light. The Divinity of Dissection screamed to life around his calf, splitting the conjured water apart, shredding through the spell like it was made of paper.

Lukas's eyes narrowed. That was new.

That particular trick that Rosalia just pulled had worked on Soren before. It had been the reason why Rosalia had won their last duel for Soren had not been able to channel his Divinity anywhere else around his body than his fingers.

It was clear that Soren had evolved past that limitation. Losing to Rosalia all those years ago must have burned like acid in his memory. Soren must have relived it again and again, until every weakness was exposed and carved out of himself.

His body was sharper now, stronger than ever before; tempered by pure obsession.

Now, Soren lunged.

Still on all fours, he blurred across the arena floor, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Dust clouds exploded into the air under the weight of his momentum, the crowd screaming at the sheer speed of it. Soren was bigger now, broader and stronger. Rosalia might have been able to dominate the last fight, but this wasn't the same boy that she was fighting.

Compared to the little princess, Soren looked like a monster.

From the stands, many already thought the Duel could come to an end right there and then. There was no way she could survive a close-range brawl.

Right?

This wasn't the same Soren that she had fought all those years ago.

But Rosalia wasn' the same girl that Soren had lost to either. Daerion's bastard wasn't the only who had evolved since last they met.

What followed was nothing short of mesmerizing and it was a sight like the crowd had not ever seen before. Streams of water burst from the arena floor around Rosalia in all directions—twisting, flowing, dancing through the air like silver ribbons caught in a storm.

Rosalia stood at the center of it all, calm and deliberate, her eyes never leaving Soren.

Just as his right fist came screaming toward her cheek, she slipped past it—smooth as silk, her hair brushing the knuckles imbued with magic that could have torn the flesh from her cheek right off.

The crowd gasped.

Soren didn't stop his onslaught. He pressed forward with ferocity, throwing blow after blow, each one meant to end the fight. He threw hooks, swipes and elbows. Every limb became a weapon, wild and brutal, his Divinity crackling red-hot around his arms, promising carnage with a single clean hit.

The crowd gasped again. Then again. And again.

With each and every gasp, the princess moved across the arena and away from Soren's attacks.

Rosalia refused to allow Soren to land even a single blow. She moved like water itself—dipping, weaving, redirecting. Her body pivoted and spun, always just far enough to escape.

To the crowd, it looked like a slaughter waiting to happen. The streams of water swirling around them moved too fast for the untrained eye to follow and clouds of dusts that arose from their dance did not help with their clarity of vision.

Rosalia looked defenseless in the storm of Soren's assault.

But Lukas grinned. Because anyone who knew what they were looking at could see the truth.

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Every sidestep kept her in open ground. Every pivot kept her away from the stone walls of the arena. Rosalia never let herself to get trapped, never let his size become an advantage. Her footwork carved a path through the chaos, a rhythm only the skilled could hear.

Those streams of water that she had summoned through the Drakos Bloodline's Divinity of the Seas? That wasn't just there for show. It was the blade that she wielded with deadly precision.

While Soren tore through the streams of water that got too close, he could not keep all of them at bay. The ones that slipped past his guard would suddenly harden—right as they neared him. Thin streams turned sharp, slicing across his arms and shoulders in quick, bloody arcs.

His Divinity of Dissection crackled to life as he lashed out all around him, tearing through many but not all of the streams of water under Rosalia's manipulation. The water that flew through the air around the two fighters began to change color. Those clear streaks of transparent water slowly…began to turn red.

Blood red.

Soren roared and dropped low, trying to end this dance between them with a wild sweep aimed at her feet—

But she was already in the air, leaping to avoid it. Her body twisted mid-jump, one leg curling in, the other lashing out. Her heel smashed into his face with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.

The beast stumbled back.

When Rosalia landed, it was in perfect balance—her stance grounded, her breath calm.

For the first time since the duel began, Soren's momentum had been abruptly halted.

It was beginning to become much clearer who truly had the upper hand in this vicious Duel.

As the dust began to settle, silence swept through the arena like a held breath.

Soren stood, blood streaking down his arms, his clothes shredded and clinging to his skin. What had once been the confident form of a warrior now looked half-dismantled—cut by a hundred narrow blades, none of them deep, but all of them deliberate.

On the other hand, not a single blow had landed on Rosalia as she stood tall and poised for all to see.

Rosalia wasn't fading. She was flourishing.

Then, Soren straightened. He took in a sharp breath and with a grunt, he tore the ragged remains of his shirt from his body, flinging it to the ground. The scars he revealed ran across his torso like a war map. Long and ragged. Some faded with time, others still red and angry.

Soren's body was a canvas painted in pain and suffering.

For a moment, Lukas waited for a foolish charge, an emotional outburst of rage from Daerion's bastard son; his temper had been quite ferocious the last time he remembered.

But that foolish charge never came.

Again, Soren proved that the boy who lost to Rosalia had been left behind years ago. Now, stood a man who was very much in control of the anger raging within.

Instead of pressing forward, Soren turned toward the audience; raising his voice so that every person in the stadium could hear it. He needed no magical crystal to amplify his voice, projecting it across the arena.

"Look at this body," his voice booming, "Every scar is a wound that I have taken. From steel and from magic, I have been cut down many times before."

Soren turned slowly, showing the crowd his back and arms. It was a gruesome sight but it was a sight they could not peel their eyes from. "And these scars is proof. It is proof of how much I have endured and how much I have suffered to stand here before you today."

He pointed to the fresh cuts across his body—left by Rosalia's magic. "These? These aren't wounds. These are reminders. Reminders that I bleed and I will continue to bleed. You do not know me. But I swear to you all that I WILL BLEED FOR YOU! AND I WILL BLEED TILL THERE IS NOT A DROP OF BLOOD LEFT WITHIN ME!"

His eyes locked on Rosalia.

"Rosalia Elarion. The princess that you all know and love." Soren continued, turning back to the crowd. "She's put on a very graceful dance for us all, myself included…but frankly, this isn't a ballroom. This is a battlefield. And this is a fight to determine the next Divine Knight."

His voice rose, booming with purpose. "A Divine Knight doesn't run from danger. A Divine Knight faces it head-on! A Divine Knight stands where others fall. A DIVINE KNIGHT PROTECTS THE PEOPLE!"

He extended a hand, stained with blood. "I will bleed for you! But ask yourselves—will she?"

Lukas took in a breath, letting out a laugh of pure astonishment.

Soren hadn't just inherited his father's size and girth, he possessed the same cunning that had brought Daerion so far in his lifetime. Soren wasn't just trying to win this Duel—he was trying to win the people's hearts, turning her grace into weakness and turning this crowd into a weapon he could use; turning the people against Rosalia.

At the same time, those words would also possibly enrage his opponent; perhaps even cause her to lose control of her emotions.

Lukas could not help but be impressed by Daerion's bastard son, what a clever bastard Soren was.

Rosalia took a step forward. Then another.

Lukas leaned in. Celina did too. Even the High Septon sat up a bit straighter.

No…Rosalia wouldn't fall for Soren's taunts. Would she?

The princess walked slowly, steadily, her gaze never leaving Soren. Then she stopped, a few feet away from him.

Rosalia seemed to be trying to visualize something in her head before she dropped into a stance that was not her own.

It was Soren's. The beastlike posture, low to the ground, hands splayed wide. A stance that blurred the line between man and beast.

The crowd murmured, confused and tense. Then, they saw it.

They all did.

Red magical energy crackled to life around her arm. Sparks snapped through the air like wires fraying under pressure. Crimson light coiled up from her fingertips, trailing along her forearm like veins of molten metal.

The crowd froze.

Lukas stood up from his seat. "No," he whispered.

Rosalia smiled—not cruelly, but with a quiet defiance.

"You say you will bleed for them?" she called out. "Let's see how much you will bleed against your own magic, Soren."

Rosalia lifted her arm—wreathed in the same red magic that had made the Ittriki Clan feared across all of Nozar. The same Divinity that had torn empires apart. The magic that should have only ever belonged to Soren and those who bore the name of Ittriki.

Now, the Divinity of Dissection was hers.