Chapter 5: Before The Exchange
Morning light hit his face like a personal insult.
He squinted. Blinked. His eyes felt like they’d been replaced with sandpaper and regret.
Rows upon rows of shelves stretched endlessly into the shadows. Books, recording orbs, ancient journals, military reports, family records, technique manuals, church documents, maps, old expedition logs.
Caelus sat at the central table, buried beneath open books. His eyes were bloodshot. Dark circles pooling beneath it. His hair stuck up at odd angles from hours of running his hands through it.
He hadn’t slept.
Empty coffee cups formed a small graveyard at his elbow. Wax candles had burned completely down, their melted remains pooling on saucers. Several recording orbs still glowed faintly, their contents exhausted hours ago.
He flipped another page, scanned it and threw it aside.
Nothing.
He grabbed another book. Combat Records of the Second Era. Flipped through it. Closed it.
Nothing.
He slammed the book shut.
The sound echoed through the vast archive.
He stared at the ceiling and almost laughed like a lunatic.
Because he’d actually known this would happen. Deep down, he’d always known.
He’d written Lucian. He’d intentionally never given him obvious weaknesses.
Past Lark had been thorough and meticulous. He’d created a protagonist who was genuinely unbeatable.
Past Lark had also been an idiot.
Why couldn’t you write one flaw? he thought. Didn’t think i would suffer from my own writing skills.
He leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked beneath him. His eyes hurt. His head ached. His body felt like it had been running on fumes for hours.
You spent years making fun of authors who gave their protagonists plot armor.
And then you made your protagonist too competent.
Congratulations. You played yourself.
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
The darkness helped, at least just for a moment.
Then he dropped his hands and looked at the mess around him.
None of it mattered.
He stared at the ceiling again. He closed his eyes.
I’m going to die today.
---
Knock.
He looked up.
The door to the archive creaked open.
Mira stepped inside. Her eyes swept across the scattered books, the dead candles, the exhausted young man sitting in the middle of it all.
She didn’t say anything at first.
Then, quietly: "The carriage is ready."
He nodded. "Thank you."
She hesitated. "...You didn’t sleep."
"No."
---
Back in his room, he changed clothes.
Practical combat attire. Dark blue fabric, flexible, designed for movement. Light armor pieces that wouldn’t restrict his range of motion.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
Caelus stared back. Young, tired and pale.
This is the face of a man about to die.
He looked away first.
He shook his head and reached for his sword.
His old sword. A gift from his father. Given on his twelfth birthday. The last birthday his father had acknowledged.
He slowly unsheathed it.
The sword was Just... reliable. The leather around the hilt had darkened where years of training had worn it smooth. The blade caught the morning light, reflecting it in a clean, steady line.
It had accompanied Caelus through every training session. Every failure. Every moment of frustration.
He looked at it.
He sheathed the sword and strapped it to his hip.
---
Outside the manor, the air was crisp. Morning mist still clung to the ground, burning away slowly as the sun climbed higher.
He approached the gate.
And paused.
Azrael was standing there.
His older brother. The heir and perfect son of the vesperas. Taller than Caelus, broader, with the same sharp Vespera features but none of the exhaustion.
He looked cold and efficient. Like a machine assessing a malfunctioning component.
His eyes swept over Caelus, then he spoke.
"Win."
He paused.
"Or die."
His eyes gleamed.
"House Vespera has no place for failures."
He turned and walked away.
Caelus stared after him.
Thanks, he thought. What an incredible confidence boost.
He walked through the gate.
---
The carriage ride was the worst part.
The carriage itself was comfortable enough. The worst part was the noise.
The closer they got to the Colosseum, the louder everything became. The streets filled with people. Merchants. Students. Knights. Children. Nobles. All of them moving in one direction.
Toward the arena.
Toward his death.
He kept the curtains closed.
Didn’t matter. He could still hear them through the thin fabric of the carriage walls, their voices reached him.
"They’re here."
"It’s Caelus."
"He’ll die."
"I heard he accepted immediately."
"I wonder how many exchanges he’ll last."
"He’ll die."
"He’ll die."
"He’ll die."
His hands tightened around his sword.
The Colosseum rose before him.
Stone walls that had stood for centuries, weathered by time and countless battles. Thousands of seats surrounding an arena of packed earth. Flags snapped in the morning breeze. The crowd’s roar was a living thing, echoing off the ancient walls.
Today, someone died here.
He stepped out of the carriage.
The roar intensified.
He walked through the entrance tunnel. The stone walls were cool beneath his fingers. The acoustics made every sound louder, footsteps, breathing, the distant crowd.
Then—
He stepped into the light.
Thousands of faces turned toward him. Some curious. Some eager. Some already bored.
He ignored them all.
He looked at the Hero.
Lucian Ashborne stood across the arena.
The commoner. The protagonist. The man he’d written to win.
He was taller than Caelus had imagined. Broad-shouldered. Golden hair that caught the sunlight like a halo. Blue eyes that seemed to hold genuine warmth.
Reality seemed to stabilize around him. People unconsciously stepped aside. Even the crowd grew quieter.
Sacred Light wasn’t active. Yet somehow, the world already felt brighter around him.
Caelus understood immediately.
This is why everyone believes he can’t lose.
Because he’s everything I’m not.
A strange smile tugged at his lips.
Because—
This is surreal. I actually get to meet a character I created.
He’s real. He’s standing right there.
And I’m about to fight him.
This is insane.
Lucian approached.
Calmly and espectfully. But the flash of hatered in his eyes betrayed him.
He stopped a few feet away.
"I respect that you didn’t withdraw."
His voice was steady. Genuine. Like he actually meant it.
Caelus looked at him. "I’m glad to see you alive."
Lucian frowned.
"...What?"
Caelus smiled.
"Nothing."
The referee stepped forward.
A tall man in ceremonial robes. His voice carried across the arena.
"Prepare yourselves."
Caelus didn’t move.
Instead, he spoke.
"May I ask something?"
The referee paused. Glanced at Lucian. Then nodded.
Caelus turned to face the Hero fully.
"You possess Sacred Light."
"SSS-rank potential."
A nod from Lucian.
"The strongest talent alive."
Lucian said nothing.
"You issued a duel with someone everyone already expects to lose."
Caelus looked directly into his eyes.
"Where exactly is the honor in defeating me?"
Silence.
The entire arena went quiet.
Lucian frowned.
He opened his mouth.
"You want me to fight without my affinity?"
He actually looked uncertain. He’d probably prepared for anger. For desperation. For anything but this.
"I want you to explain why humanity’s greatest hero needs it against someone everyone calls worthless...."
Caelus said with a smile and waited.
You’re not a bad person, Lucian. You’re genuinely good. That’s why you’re the Hero.
And that’s exactly why this works.
You can’t ignore a question like that.
Because you already know the answer.
Lucian brows furrowed.
His gaze drifted across the arena then returned back to Caelus.
"..."
lucian’s expression tightened. "you struck the saintess."
He paused.
"I believed defeating you was the proper response."
"But..."
He looked at Caelus.
"...you’re right."
"If victory is already guaranteed..."
"...then there is no honor in it." He smiled towards the crowd.
The crowd immediately erupted.
"I won’t use my affinity."
Caelus smiled.