Chapter 18: ARCADIA’S YOUNG ELITES

The Arcadia Young Elite Tournament — the pinnacle of youthful magic, ambition, and prestige — was about to begin.

The competition arena stood like a slumbering giant beneath the golden morning sun. Its towering stone walls, carved with ancient sigils, loomed over the crowd like a divine monument. Spectators flooded the massive stands — nobles and commoners alike — the air pulsing with excitement and anticipation.

Whispers and predictions buzzed in every direction. From the high balconies of noble families to the standing crowds in the outer ring, all eyes turned toward the grand gates, waiting for the arrival of the thirty-two chosen prodigies.

And then — the first group entered.

Clad in crimson and gold, a squad of mages strode confidently through the gateway. Leading them was a tall youth with white hair and flame-shaped earrings glinting in the sun. His presence alone seemed to shift the very air.

“That’s Rovan Yale…” gasped a noblewoman.

“The heir of the Yale family?”

“A Tier 2 Mage before seventeen. Earth and Flame affinity,” a man murmured in awe. “They say he fought a volcanic spirit beast bare-handed in a dungeon and walked out laughing.”

His every step caused subtle tremors, like the ground itself acknowledged his magic. But his swagger wasn’t just for show — his raw strength and heritage backed it. He grinned, eyes scanning the crowd with amusement, completely unfazed by the thousands watching.

“Let the peasants whisper,” he muttered to a teammate. “I’m here to win.”

Not long after, a chill swept through the arena.

A gust of wind — cold, sharp, and impossibly fast — announced the arrival of another group. Three figures appeared at the entrance, their arrival so silent and sudden that many didn’t notice until they were already halfway to the stage.

At their lead walked a young man in dark blue robes, a greatsword slung across his back. Silver hair danced in the wind. His steps were measured, his face unreadable.

“Zephyr Albrecht!” someone whispered hoarsely.

“The Wind Phantom…”

“He mastered Tier 2 spells in both Wind and Ice before nineteen. His sword is as fast as his spells.”

“I heard he sliced a mountain ridge during a dungeon expedition,” said another.

Zephyr remained quiet, his eyes calmly sweeping the arena. He registered Rovan’s presence but didn’t flinch. The two made eye contact for a split second — an unspoken challenge. They both knew. Only one could rise.

Rovan raised an eyebrow. “Albrecht,” he said under his breath. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Zephyr didn’t respond. His silence was louder than words.

Then — lightning.

A crackle filled the air. Energy shifted again as a girl stepped into view, calm as thunderclouds before a storm.

“Lilith Starwind…”

Gasps. The audience leaned forward.

“She’s just twelve!”

“Impossible. How is she Tier 2 already?”

“People usually can’t even start training mana before they’re fourteen.”

“That’s what makes her terrifying. She’s not just talented. She’s unnatural.”

“She has four affinities—Lightning, Gravity, Healing, and Air!”

“Both her parents are monsters too. Her father’s a Tier 5 Hunter. Her mother’s a ranked national healer.”

In the box above, Noah Starwind folded his arms, eyes silently observing his daughter. He only hoped someone here would put a dent in his daughter’s pride.

“Try not to humiliate too many of them, Lilith,” Emily Starwind whispered with a wary smile.

Lilith didn’t respond. She yawned and muttered, “This is going to be boring.”

Yet her eyes scanned the arena—not looking for opponents, but entertainment. Amusement. Perhaps… a challenge.

Nearby, Rovan smirked.

“She’s a brat. But a pretty one,” he muttered.

Zephyr, ever composed, didn’t speak. But his eyes lingered longer on her than anyone else. Not with affection — with calculation.

Lilith noticed. “Trying to impress me?” she called out, her voice floating like ice. “Don’t bother. I’m not interested in insects who think being fast means being strong.”

That got a flicker of a smile from Rovan. “Oh? Then what do you call someone who’s going to win this tournament?”

She ignored him, her gaze already moving elsewhere.

A few nobles exchanged amused glances. If Rovan or Zephyr could win her favor… the Starwind name would be theirs to share. Even if they lost the tournament, winning her hand would be a victory beyond measure.

Moments later, a hush swept the stadium again.

Another youth entered — not loud, not dramatic — but regal. A golden crest gleamed on his chest.

“Prince Rowan!”

“The king’s third son!”

A surge of respect flooded the stands as nobles stood in honor. He didn’t wave or smile. He simply walked — like a king already crowned. Rumors said he trained under the Royal Court Mage himself. Tier 2, with Fire and Lightning affinities. A prodigy cloaked in mystery.

Behind him came a sudden stir.

A figure in martial robes — simple, clean, and battle-worn — stepped in with a great curved sword on his back.

Morgan Benedict.

“The Sword Saint’s disciple…”

“No magic robes. No family crest. Just his blade.”

“He awakened Wind and Lightning affinities, they say. But his body moves like a weapon forged in storms.”

“Didn’t he cut a wyvern mid-flight?”

He said nothing. Only the way he walked revealed his strength — a rhythm too flawless to ignore.

Silence.

Competitors trickled in after them, some quietly, some with bombastic fanfare. From rich houses to hidden sects. Whispered names, half-known legends. The crowd buzzed and murmured, anticipating battles of epic scale.

Then — the final group.

From the shadows of the archway, two figures emerged. The one in front was tall, composed. His presence alone felt like gravity.

“Darius Smith.”

“A three-affinity genius. Fire. Air. Gravity.”

“Tier 1? Hah. He’s already stronger than most Tier 2s!”

But even as the crowd focused on him, a different pair of eyes noticed the figure walking just behind.

A boy in simple dark clothing, his cloak draped over his shoulders,

his cloak’s hood resting behind his head. No aura, no dramatic entrance.

Logan Smith.

“Who’s that kid?”

“A filler?”

“Maybe Darius’s servant?”

But the crowd’s interest passed. The attention returned to Darius — until…

In the royal balcony, an old Archmage leaned forward. His eyes fixed on Logan. “That one,” he said softly. “He walks like he’s already seen death.”

Down in the arena, Lilith’s eyes flicked to Logan. She frowned slightly. Something about him was off. Like a book that had pages

Lilith turned toward Darius. “Three affinities, huh? But still nothing compared to me.”

Darius could sense all the glances.

But nothing concerned him.

Except one…

His nightmare… walking just behind him.

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