Reborn as the Last van Ambrose

Verin didn’t wait for further ceremony. With a shout of rage, he launched himself forward, blade extended, wind energy swirling around him in a visible aura. "Serene Wind: Piercing Gale!"

The hooded figure didn’t move.

"Dodge, you fool," Levenhart muttered.

But at the last possible moment, as Verin’s blade seemed certain to strike true, the figure simply... wasn’t there anymore. No dramatic movement, no obvious evasion. It was just an empty space where a person had been.

Verin’s momentum carried him forward, his blade cutting through nothing but mist.

"Sloppy," came the voice from behind him. "You always did telegraph your moves."

Verin whirled, swinging his blade in a wide arc. "Serene Wind: Dancing Tempest!"

A whirlwind formed around his sword, expanding outward to cover the entire platform. The technique was impressive. It was designed to hit an opponent regardless of where they might hide or dodge.

The mist dispersed under the force of the whirlwind, revealing the platform in its entirety. The hooded figure, standing calmly at its center, unmoved by the raging wind.

"My turn," he said simply.

He made no grand gesture, no showy stance.

And then he was beside Verin, one finger pressed lightly against the swordsman’s throat.

The whirlwind died instantly. Verin froze, his eyes wide with shock and growing fear.

"I could end your life with this touch," the hooded figure said, his voice pitched for Verin’s ears alone. "Just as I took your ear twelve years ago. But unlike you, I understand restraint."

He withdrew his hand and stepped back. "Show me what twelve years of hatred has taught you, Terras. Make this interesting, at least."

With a roar of fury, Verin launched into a flurry of attacks. "Serene Wind: Cutting Gale!"

The air itself seemed to sharpen around his sword, each swing sending invisible edges slicing through the space where his opponent stood. The platform floor was soon scored with dozens of thin cuts where the wind blades had struck.

Yet each attack met only mist. The hooded figure moved quickly, sometimes appearing to dissolve completely as he executed the technique.

In the royal box, Alexia hadn’t taken her eyes off the mysterious contestant. "It can’t be," she whispered. "He’sstill alive after all these years."

Verin’s frustration was mounting visibly. His techniques grew wilder, less disciplined, as he exhausted himself trying to land even a single blow.

"Twelve years," the hooded figure commented, his voice carrying across the now-silent arena, "and you’ve learned nothing about patience."

That seemed to push Verin beyond rational thought. "Serene Wind: Blade Tempest!" he shouted.

A cone of concentrated wind energy formed before him, sharp enough to slice through stone. The technique shot forward across the platform, cutting a shallow groove in the floor as it sped toward its target.

"A desperate move," Archmage Marcus commented. "Effective but predictable."

The crowd gasped as the wind blade sliced across the platform, cutting through the mist and seemingly through the hooded figure himself.

When the technique dissipated, Verin stood breathing heavily, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as he surveyed the platform.

"Match to Verin Ter—" the announcer began.

"I don’t recall surrendering," came a calm voice from behind Verin.

The hooded figure stood there, completely untouched, not a single fold of his white robes disturbed by the wind technique.

"Celestial Mist: Drifting Steps," Grim said quietly, naming the technique that had allowed him to move faster than the eye could follow.

Verin’s face drained of color. "What are you?" he whispered.

The figure reached up and slowly lowered his hood, revealing his face to the arena for the first time.

A collective gasp rose from thousands of throats. In the royal box, Liona pressed a hand to her mouth, tears springing unbidden to her eyes.

Grim Van Ambrose stood revealed, his pale blue eyes intense in a face both familiar and transformed. The scar that ran from temple to jaw on the right side of his face seemed to pulse in the sunlight, faint traces of darkness occasionally visible beneath the healed skin. His once-boyish features had hardened, his expression was cold but grinning.

"I am the product of this country," Grim answered Verin, his voice carrying in the stunned silence. "How this country failed to prevent a catastrophe. Now, let me show you what twelve years of exile taught me."

He moved—truly moved for the first time in the match—and it was like watching water flow around stone. One moment he was three paces away, the next he was inside Verin’s guard, his hand on the hilt of Verin’s own sword.

"This will be quick."

A pulse of energy traveled from Grim’s hand through the sword and into Verin’s body. The heir to House Terras froze mid-motion, his eyes wide but unable to move a single muscle.

Grim leaned close, his voice once again pitched for Verin’s ears alone. "I could kill you right now. It would be easy—like cutting off an ear." He smiled thinly. "But you’re worth more to me alive. Run back to your father with a message: The Ambrose line isn’t dead. And we remember our debtors."

Then, louder, for all to hear: "Do you yield?"

Unable to speak, Verin could only manage the slightest nod, humiliation burning in his eyes.

Grim released him and stepped back. "Verin Terras yields," he announced, his voice carrying to the announcer.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then the announcer remembered himself. "Victory to Grim Van Ambrose!"

The crowd exploded. Not in the usual cheers that followed a skilled match, but in a cacophony of exclamations, questions, and shocked discussions. Grim Van Ambrose, heir to House Ambrose, was alive after twelve years. And he had just demonstrated power that few in the arena could comprehend.

As Verin stumbled from the platform, his earlier confidence shattered, Grim turned slowly, his gaze traveling deliberately to the royal box.

His eyes met Liona’s across the distance. For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression—something softer than the cold purpose he had displayed throughout the match. A soft smile. Than turned to the Empress, his expression was void of emotion. He just stared at her for a minute.

Then he pulled his hood back up, gave a slight bow to the Empress, and walked calmly from the platform, vanishing into the swirling mist that seemed to follow him like a loyal companion.

In the royal box, chaos erupted in whispers.

"It’s impossible," Levenhart insisted. "We confirmed his death twelve years ago."

"Apparently not thoroughly enough," Alexia replied, her voice tight. "Marcus, what did we just witness?"

The Archmage shook his head slowly. "Something beyond my understanding, Your Majesty. That was the Celestial Mist Sword Dao as practiced by Cassius Van Ambrose. It seems Grim is as efficient as his grandfather."

Liona remained silent, her fingers still touching the sapphire hairpin, her eyes fixed on the now-empty platform where Grim had stood.

He was alive. After twelve years of mourning, of forcing herself to move forward, of agreeing to marry a man she didn’t love—Grim Van Ambrose was alive.

And from the cold purpose in his eyes, he had not returned merely to compete in a tournament.