Chapter 37: Chapter-37

The Grand Tournament erupted under a sky bruised purple with storm clouds, the imperial arena no longer sands but a ’’living battlefield’’—rolling hills, jagged ravines, mist-choked forests stocked with beasts bred for slaughter. This was ’’The Crimson Hunt’’, where fifty champions competed in simultaneous pursuit: direbears with iron claws, venomous wyrmserpents coiling through caves, thunderhoof stallions that could trample steel plate. Bows sang, blades flashed, beasts roared. Blood misted the air.

Heena reigned from the imperial stormspire—a towering obsidian platform ringed by lightning rods, crimson banners whipping in wind. Her body was a furnace of pain—lungs wet with blood, bones grinding, cosmic rejection accelerating without System 427—but her face was carved granite, ruby tiara defying the gale.

Behind her, the five consorts stood like vengeful gods, two days of shadow guard alchemy masking their torture scars: ’’Kieran’’’s silver hair streaming like war banners, ’’Adrian’’’s golden eyes dissecting trajectories, ’’Lucian’’’s scarred bulk radiating slaughter-lust, ’’Damien’’’s green gaze hunting secrets amid chaos, ’’Raphael’’’s violet serenity hiding fractured faith.

’’Round 1: The Direbear Ascent’’

Kieran scaled sheer cliffs to claim a 1,200-pound behemoth, wrestling it over the edge as claws raked granite. One silver arrow through the throat mid-roar—crowd’s first thunderclap.

Adrian anticipated a wyrmserpent’s tunnel network, collapsing entrance with calculated dynamite charges, then garroting the thrashing survivor.

Lucian charged a thunderhoof herd bare-chested, riding the alpha stallion’s back as it bucked, driving axe into spine while lightning cracked overhead.

Damien vanished entirely, reappearing with three venom-fang trophies strung on wire—poisoned, silent kills.

Raphael prayed amid circling direwolves, divine light turning their fangs to ash, arrows finding hearts through storm.

But ’’Lord Ashton Ravencourt’’ emerged from nowhere—a shadow in western leathers, gray eyes like chipped flint. He claimed a ’’Stormwyrm’’—lightning-charged serpent twenty feet long—by climbing its electrified coils hand-over-hand during a thunderclap, dagger through the brain as 50,000 spectators forgot to breathe.

’’Round 2: The Abomination Pits’’

Monstrosities fused by dark sorcery: bear-wolf hybrids, venom-spitting stag horrors. Kieran bisected one mid-lunge. Adrian sniped eyes. Lucian crushed skulls. Damien severed tendons. Raphael purified with holy fire.

Ashton faced the ’’Ashen Chimera’’—three heads (lion, goat, serpent), scales impervious to steel. He didn’t fight. He ’hunted’. Feigned injury, let it charge—rolled beneath, severed hamstring tendons with barbed wire. Chimera collapsed bellowing. Ashton climbed its thrashing bulk like a mountain, severed all three heads with one impossible arcing stroke as lightning silhouetted the kill. Arena went berserk.

’’Finals: Brothers of the Storm’’

’’Kieran vs. Ashton’’. The preserve unleashed its apocalypse: ’’Eclipse Behemoth’’, a colossal stag-drake hybrid towering thirty feet, antlers crackling plasma, wings generating hurricane winds, hooves shattering stone. The ground quaked as it rampaged.

Kieran struck first—mounted on warhorse, silver arrows piercing wings, longsword carving flank as beast wheeled. “YIELD!” he roared, voice carrying over thunder. Crowd chanted his name.

Ashton emerged from mist opposite, unmounted, rope lasso ready. No armor. Just leathers, bow, twin daggers. Behemoth charged ’him’—Ashton dodged into ravine, using terrain. Kieran pursued on horseback, blade high.

Mist exploded. Ashton burst from side passage atop ravine lip, lasso whipping around antler base. Behemoth reared—Kieran leapt from saddle, sword plunging into chest. Beast thrashed violently, hurling Kieran into boulders (crowd gasped). Ashton held rope taut against 30 tons of fury, muscles corded to breaking, feet digging trenches in stone.

Behemoth slammed down. Ashton vaulted onto skull, dagger through eye into brain. Beast convulsed once—Kieran rose bloodied, sword ready for coup de grâce.

Ashton met his gaze. “Together?”

Kieran hesitated—hatred warring pride—then nodded once. Twin blades plunged. Behemoth died.

’’Dead silence.’’ Then ’’APOCALYPSE’’. Arena foundations shook.

’’Lord Ashton Ravencourt & Prince Kieran: Co-Champions.’’ But herald declared Ashton’s decisive kill paramount—’’sole victor’’.

Heena rose amid lightning, ’’Tempest Crown’’ blazing with captured stormfire. “Lord Ashton Ravencourt! You tamed the untamable, slew the apocalypse incarnate. By blood-right of the Crimson Hunt, ’’Grand Champion’’!”

Crown descended. Winds howled triumph.

Heena silenced storm with raised hand. Ashton knelt, blood-slicked, kissed ring. Rose beside throne—towering, unbowed.

“Victory claims imperial reward,” her voice cut lightning.

The arena’s thunderous cheers faded into breathless silence as Lord Ashton Ravencourt knelt before Heena’s throne, his “pitiful” frame trembling under the weight of his staged plea. The Tempest Crown gleamed on his brow, blood and stormfire mingling in the air.

Heena locked eyes with him—gray meeting her steel—then spoke, voice carrying like a lover’s whisper across 50,000 souls: “Today, I am truly happy. Ask whatever you desire.”

Ashton lowered his head humbly, silver-streaked hair falling over “weary” eyes. “Your Majesty, meeting you… I have already received everything I want. I need nothing more.”

Heena’s lips curved into a genuine smile, rare warmth piercing her agony. “Oh? Is that so?”

But Ashton hesitated, then spoke softly, voice cracking with feigned vulnerability. “I know what I ask is too bold… perhaps unacceptable.” From his pocket, he drew a small, intricate pendant—delicate silver filigree cradling a tiny crimson gem, glowing faintly under lightning flashes. He extended it toward her. “Your Majesty, this was your engagement gift to me… on my 17th birthday. Do you remember?”

Heena’s breath caught. She stared at the pendant in shock, memories flooding: a moonlit garden seven years past, a boy with gray eyes pulling her from assassin blades, her childish fingers fastening that very token around his neck as thanks. Her gaze snapped to his face—’those eyes’. Tears welled, spilling freely down imperial cheeks.

In a blur of crimson silk, she surged forward, pulling him into a fierce embrace. “It’s ’you’! I searched everywhere… I tried so hard to find you!”

The arena gasped. Consorts froze mid-seethe.

’’Duke Robbinston’’—standing rigid at dais edge—jolted awake from his stunned trance, spectacles slipping. “Your Majesty… do you ’know’ him?”

Heena turned, tears glistening but smile radiant, arm still around Ashton. “Duke, this is the boy who saved my life seven years ago. And he’s someone ’you’ know well.”

Duke Robbinston blinked in confusion, face paling as fragments clicked.

Ashton turned smoothly, bowing deep with perfect deference. “Greetings, Master.”

Robbinston’s jaw dropped—’that voice, those eyes’. The prodigy apprentice who’d vanished from his tutelage overnight, the one whose tactical genius he’d praised to imperial courts. “A-Ash… ’you’?”

The arena’s cheers twisted into murmurs of confusion as Heena pulled back from the embrace, pendant clutched tight, tears still glistening on her cheeks. “This man,” she declared, voice ringing clear, “is my friend from years past—the one who saved me when shadows sought my life.”

Gasps rippled through the 50,000. **Who was he?** Whispers exploded: “Western noble? Savior? *Friend*?” Nobles leaned forward, eyes darting between Ashton’s bloodied leathers and Heena’s radiant smile.

Kieran gripped his blade, Adrian recalculated furiously, Damien’s eyes narrowed to slits. Commoners chanted uncertainly, merchants paused mid-bet.

Ashton bowed humbly, gray eyes downcast. “Merely her shield, once and always.”

Heena silenced doubts with raised hand. “Enough. The hunt ends. The feast begins.”

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## The Victory Feast

Twilight cloaked the grand hall—a cavernous marvel of gold-veined marble, chandeliers dripping crystal fire, long tables groaning under roasted direbear haunches, wyrmcoils in honey glaze, stormstag pies steaming with spice. Bards strummed epic ballads of the Crimson Hunt. Wine flowed like rivers.

Empress —now Heena in the feast’s intimate glow—reclined on the main chair at high table, crimson gown pooling like blood, ruby tiara casting ruby flecks across her pain-pale face. Lungs burned, bones ached, but her smile ruled supreme.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep