Chapter 41: BENEATH THE MASK

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The voice was calm. Cold. And unmistakably authoritative.

Both cloaked figures froze as a third presence stepped into view.

A young man in a crimson cloak stood beneath the arched doorway, flanked by two elite guards in royal armor. His posture was relaxed, but the aura around him was suffocating—measured like lightning held still in the air.

Prince Rowan Hale.

The jagged-scarred man’s eyes narrowed. “You…”

One of the guards stepped forward, speaking firmly.

“Young Prince. These are the two individuals we traced. They entered Arcadia without clearance. We’ve also found a girl who is held as a hostage in a remote inn outside the capital… one whose face perfectly matches this patient. These two were staying there.”

Rowan glanced at Lira’s unconscious form, then back at the men.

“So she’s not who she claimed to be.”

The second guard nodded. “The mana disruption confirms it. Her disguise is beginning to collapse. Within hours, everyone will know she’s not the real Lira Wynn.”

The scarred spy gritted his teeth. “This doesn’t concern you, boy.”

Rowan’s eyes darkened.

“You’re in our kingdom. Our tournament. My arena. Everything here concerns me.”

The spy’s partner tried to slip away with Lira slung over his shoulder—but before he could reach the door, one of the guards flicked a finger, and a burst of binding fire chained his legs to the ground. He fell flat on his face, slamming into the floor with the imposter in his arms.

The jagged-scarred man growled and released a flurry of dark mist toward Rowan.

Rowan didn’t flinch.

He moved once—just once.

A single sweeping motion, and twin arcs of fire and lightning spiraled from his palms. The attack didn’t just slice through the mist—it dispelled it completely, unraveling the black magic in midair.

The scarred man’s cloak burst into flames, and he dropped to one knee, gasping as the heat grazed his skin.

“You… you’re not Tier 2! You’re surely Tier 3. So you’ve been hiding your skills?”

Rowan didn’t bother to answer his question. Instead, he asked in return. “I’ll ask only once,” Rowan said, voice level. “Who sent you?”

No answer.

Rowan’s gaze didn’t change. “Take them both. And scan the girl immediately. If she’s really not Lira Wynn, I want every record purged—and the real one found. Ensure her safety. She is innocent.”

The guards saluted and moved in. Rowan stared at the tattered form of the girl, his mind already racing through the implications.

Who sent a spy into the tournament? And who was the actual target? Was it really that kid named Logan? But why would a foreign spy attack a twelve-year-old boy? Is it really Logan they’re after? Or maybe the Smith family?

His mind was buzzing with questions.

But he was completely unaware of the truth—he was the real target.

Meanwhile, in the arena…

“Lightning and water—always fun to watch,” someone muttered.

The crowd had begun to return to its normal rhythm, though the shadow of Logan’s battle still lingered. The current match was intense, but the energy had shifted into a quieter tension.

Renald Keir stood tall, lightning crackling between two sleek wands as he darted in rapid bursts.

Vaylen Mord answered with coiling torrents of water, forming shields and strikes with practiced calm.

Back in the noble balcony, Emily Starwind stood up quietly.

“I have something to attend to,” she whispered to her husband.

Noah glanced at her, surprised, but nodded. “Alright. Be safe.”

She gave him a faint nod and stepped away, vanishing into the corridor without another word.

Down below, the duel continued.

“Keir’s dual casting style is a marvel,” said a betting corner regular. “But that Mord kid’s water pressure attacks are insane. It’ll only take him two more exchanges before he breaks through.”

“Oh please,” another gambler scoffed. “Lightning melts finesse. Keir’s got this.”

The next moment, a sharp whistle echoed across the field.

Renald launched a twin-bolt attack—one from each wand, curved to corner Vaylen.

But Vaylen spun, his hands forming a swirling circle of mana.

A sudden water vortex erupted beneath Renald, lifting him from the ground and tossing him skyward. Before he could recover, a jet shot up and slammed him midair, knocking both wands out of his hands.

He crashed into the ground with a grunt. The referee raised his hand.

“Winner—Vaylen Mord!”

A wave of applause followed, polite but restrained. The match was good—but not unforgettable.

People clapped, but many glanced back toward the healer’s wing.

Logan Smith’s name still lingered in their minds.

Will he be alright? He won the last match. But it won’t be of any use if he can’t participate in the next round…

Inside the healer’s chamber…

The room had quieted. The healer had completed his treatment, and Logan was now stable. He just needed time to rest and adjust. After the procedure, the healer had already left.

Alice had finally stepped out for some rest. Seeing Logan finally okay, her heart was beating normally again. Rudeous followed, briefly stopping to speak with Ardyn in the hallway.

For a long, quiet moment, silence reigned. Logan lay recuperating, his eyes closed.

But then—suddenly—Logan’s eyes opened.

He stared at the ceiling, breath slow but steady. His body still ached, but the pulse in the air had changed.

He wasn’t alone.

The door creaked softly, and a pair of footsteps approached—light, deliberate.

Logan slowly turned his head.

It was none other than the famous Tier 4 healer, Emily Starwind—Noah’s wife, and the mother of Arcadia’s prodigy, Lilith.

Emily stood near the bed, hands clasped behind her back.

There was no anger in her eyes. No suspicion. Just a calm, penetrating gaze that stripped away every layer of pretense.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Logan watched her with both confusion and tension in his mind.

Did she notice something during the match? Logan wondered.

Then Emily stepped closer.

Her voice was quiet. Measured. But it cut through the silence like a blade.

“Who are you… really, Logan Smith?”

To be continued…

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