I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 850: [Absolute Zero]

Rhys reached behind the small of his back, his fingers wrapping around the leather-bound hilts of his twin daggers. He drew them smoothly, the metal singing against the sheaths as he brought them forward into a low, balanced guard.

“Draw upon your noble ancestors, Praetor,” Rhys said. “Let them save you from the death that awaits you.”

“I will sever your head and mount it upon the gates of the capital,” Theo bellowed, his voice cracking under the weight of his rage.

Theo drove his right boot into the basalt floor, his leg muscles straining as he channeled the entirety of his remaining light and wind mana through his scorched meridians.

A harsh, blinding golden radiance flared along the length of his broadsword, humming with high-frequency kinetic vibrations that kicked up clouds of black dust around his greaves.

Theo lunged forward, closing the distance in a single, explosive stride, executing the foundational high-elven martial art: Sunburst Cleave.

The broadsword descended in a sweeping diagonal arc, the compressed wind mana along the cutting edge whistling with enough rotational velocity to shear clean through solid granite.

Rhys did not retreat. He stepped directly into the path of the descending blade, crossing his twin daggers overhead to intercept the strike.

The impact resonated through the colosseum with a deafening, metallic ring, throwing a bright halo of golden sparks across the dark stone.

Rhys did not lock his elbows to absorb the blow. He allowed his knees to buckle slightly, his boots sliding backward three paces across the obsidian floor, his daggers vibrating wildly in his grip as if the kinetic force of the broadsword were threatening to crush his wrists.

Theo’s eyes widened with manic, bloodthirsty triumph. “You cannot even hold the centerline against a true officer.”

Theo pressed forward instantly, refusing to grant Rhys room to recover. He shifted his weight, pivoting on his right heel to unleash the textbook six-point offensive forms of the Sovereign Vanguard.

He drove a piercing thrust toward Rhys’s throat with Dawn’s Thrust, the radiant light along the blade blinding the immediate field of vision. Rhys twisted his neck, the razor-sharp edge passing within an inch of his ear, the compressed wind draft slicing a clean, shallow line across his leather collar and drawing a tiny drop of blood from his jawline.

Theo did not pause. He transitioned fluidly into Tempest Arc, sweeping the heavy broadsword in a low, vicious horizontal strike aimed directly at Rhys’s hips. Rhys leaped backward, bringing his left dagger down to deflect the blow, but the parry appeared hurried, clumsy, and late.

The heavy broadsword batted the dagger aside with brutal momentum, forcing Rhys’s torso wide open and sending him skidding another five paces across the stone.

Every strike landed with heavy, echoing clashes that filled the silent arena.

Theo pushed forward with relentless fury, his sword cutting through the air in vertical overheads, diagonal cleaves, and thrusts that drove Rhys steadily backward toward the center of the ring.

Rhys’s defenses grew visibly more desperate with every exchange.

His feet stumbled over the seams in the obsidian floor, his breath came in short, uneven gasps, and his daggers deflected the heavy steel only at the absolute last microsecond, giving the clear visual impression that he was being dismantled by the Praetor’s superior reach and martial discipline.

High above the arena floor, in the royal viewing box, the air warped with a low, tearing hum.

A spatial rift opened beside Jack Kaiser’s towering basalt throne.

Stepping onto the granite platform was Pho, the Deathfrost demon.

His massive frame was unarmored; his thick, marble-like skin pristine; his four sweeping horns of dark ice catching the violet flame from the braziers.

He crossed his colossal arms over his chest, his blue, slit-pupil eyes looking down into the arena pit with a deep, sour scowl etched into his scarred brow.

Ren Ryzard leaned his shoulder against the arm of Jack’s throne, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his katana as he watched Rhys stumble backward from another heavy broadsword swing.

“Your student plays with his food too much, Pho,” Ren remarked, his tone dry and smooth as polished bone. “He is letting that dying elf believe he has a chance at survival.”

Pho did not take his eyes off the duel. The sour scowl on his massive face slowly softened, his wide jaw parting in a low, thunderous chuckle that vibrated through the granite floorboards beneath the Councilors’ chairs.

“The boy is not playing, swordsman,” Pho rumbled, his voice thick with brutal satisfaction.

“Look at his weight distribution. Look at where his boots touch the stone. He is not being driven backward. He is steering the elven fool by the nose, leading him directly toward the center of the arena where the cold air settles. He is letting the dead man commit every drop of his remaining mana into a single, overextended strike. The boy has finally grasped it. He has learned how to manifest the technique without hesitation. I can feel it in my bones; it’s only a matter of time until he shows everyone who he has become.”

Jack Kaiser sat motionless upon his bone throne, his chin resting against his knuckles, his heterochromic eyes tracking the duel with cold, unblinking focus.

He said nothing, his silence carrying the absolute weight of a master who already knew the exact second the prey would fall.

Down on the obsidian floor, Theo saw the opening he had dreamed of for years.

With a savage horizontal wind-slash, Theo drove the flat of his broadsword into Rhys’s right dagger, striking the guard with immense strength, using the leverage of his stance to deliver a fatal blow.

The steel snapped from Rhys’s grip, spinning high into the air before clattering across the stone twenty paces away.

Before Rhys could reset his balance, Theo surged forward with a heavy shoulder barge, slamming his armored forearm into Rhys’s left wrist. The hidden dagger he had pulled out was torn from the prince’s fingers, tumbling into the dark dust.

Rhys stood completely disarmed, his hands open, his chest exposed.

Theo let out a wild, ragged laugh that tore from his bleeding lungs, his eyes wide and bloodshot with absolute, euphoric relief. “It ends here, bastard. House Althalos will never allow a vile blood to sit on the throne.”

Theo drew upon the final reserve of his soul core, his broadsword igniting with a blinding, golden sunburst that illuminated the entire colosseum.

He stepped forward with all his remaining strength, driving his right boot hard into the basalt bedrock to lock his stance, raising the broadsword with both hands overhead to execute a final, decapitating horizontal execution stroke.

Rhys did not reach for a hidden blade. He did not attempt to dive beneath the arc. He stood tall, his chin raised, looking directly into Theo’s crazed eyes.

The green hue in Rhys’s eyes dissolved entirely, replaced in an instant by a deep, ancient, luminescent blue.

The broadsword whistled through the air, descending toward Rhys’s neck at blinding speed.

Two inches before the glowing golden steel could touch Rhys’s flesh, the temperature between their bodies plummeted to absolute zero.

Rhys invoked the ultimate art of the Deathfrost lineage: Absolute Zero.