The aftermath of the Second Trial did not fade gently.

It hardened.

Victory on Var'Khal had not crowned a champion. It had revealed fault lines. The imperial court did not celebrate. It recalibrated. Succession was no longer theoretical. It was imminent.

One day after the recall from the demon world, the announcement came.

It did not arrive as a proclamation shouted across plazas or carved into the sky. It arrived as a synchronized transmission that rippled across every imperial channel, from the Core World's highest judicial spires to the furthest listening outposts at the empire's edge.

Seven figures appeared in projection, seated in a circular arrangement of light.

At the center stood the imperial arbiter, expression unreadable.

"The Third and Final Trial is hereby declared," the arbiter said.

The chamber holding the candidates fell silent.

Renka felt her breath catch. Zutian leaned forward unconsciously. Even the princes and princesses, hardened by centuries of cultivation and politics, straightened.

"The Third Trial is named: Mighty Hands."

The projection shifted.

A colossal arena unfolded in the air.

It was not a simple battlefield.

It was a world fragment.

A floating landmass thousands of kilometers wide, suspended in voidspace by imperial law constructs. Mountains rose like blades. Rivers of condensed qi flowed openly across the terrain. Ancient ruins dotted the landscape, their origins lost even to imperial records.

At its edges, the void shimmered, reinforced by layers of absolute containment.

"This trial," the arbiter continued, "will be broadcast in real time."

A murmur spread.

"Viewership access will be granted to the Astralis Empire and all allied and neighboring galactic regions."

Millions.

No.

Billions would watch.

"For the first time in imperial history, the final succession trial will be conducted openly."

Prince Kaelen's eyes narrowed. Princess Lysera's lips curved faintly. Others masked their reactions carefully.

"The objective is simple," the arbiter said. "Combat."

The word settled like iron.

"All heirs will enter the arena simultaneously."

"No restrictions on techniques."

"No restrictions on cultivation methods."

"No alliances enforced by rule."

A pause.

"But."

The word carried weight.

"Lethal force is permitted only to the point of incapacitation."

Imperial law symbols flared briefly.

"Permanent death of a candidate will result in immediate disqualification of the attacker."

The meaning was clear.

This was not a deathmatch.

It was a demonstration.

Strength.

Control.

Dominance.

"Mighty Hands will determine the successor."

The projection faded.

Silence lingered.

Then the room exhaled.

---

The news detonated across the Empire.

Imperial capital districts flooded with commentary. Noble houses began frantic calculations. Sect leaders convened emergency councils. Military academies paused training to broadcast analysis.

For the public, it was spectacle.

For the powerful, it was judgment.

In Celestine's private audience chamber, the atmosphere was tense but focused.

"They want clarity," Renka said, arms folded. "After Var'Khal, too many variables emerged. Too many philosophies."

Zutian snorted. "So they solve it the old way. Punch it out."

Celestine stood at the center of the chamber, hands clasped behind her back, eyes distant.

"They want to see who breaks," she said quietly. "And who does not."

Her gaze shifted to Vahn.

"You expected this," she said.

"Yes," Vahn replied. "After the war trial, it was inevitable."

She studied him. "You are not an imperial heir. Yet you are now central to the trial's outcome."

"I did not choose the stage," Vahn said. "I chose not to hide."

Renka frowned. "Millions will watch you fight princes and princesses of the Empire. Every faction will dissect your techniques."

"Good," Vahn replied calmly. "Let them."

Celestine's eyes narrowed slightly. "This is not Var'Khal. There will be no armies. No attrition games. No logistics."

"I know," Vahn said.

"This will be personal," she continued.

"Yes."

Zutian shifted uncomfortably. "And you are going in alone."

Vahn nodded.

"That worries me," Zutian admitted.

"It should," Vahn replied. "It worries them more."

---

Preparation was brief.

There was no time for extended cultivation seclusion. No ritual enhancements. The Empire wanted raw capability, not last minute miracles.

The arena world fragment stabilized over the Core World's orbital plane.

Imperial constructs locked into place.

Transmission arrays aligned.

In noble districts, colossal projection mirrors rose from the ground. On frontier worlds, sky arrays activated. Even neutral regions tuned in, hungry to witness history.

Seven platforms materialized above the arena.

Seven heirs stood upon them.

Prince Kaelen, radiating disciplined aggression.

Princess Lysera, calm and analytical.

Prince Halvar, still carrying the scars of Var'Khal.

Princess Myrienne, silent and unreadable.

Two others whose names mattered less now.

And Vahn.

He stood without imperial regalia.

No crown.

No sigil.

Only a simple dark robe, the Void within him restrained but present.

The arbiter's voice echoed across space.

"Final Trial begins."

The platforms dissolved.

Gravity took hold.

Seven figures fell.

---

Vahn landed first.

The ground cracked beneath his feet, qi dispersing outward in a controlled wave that absorbed impact without destruction. He straightened, senses expanding instantly.

The arena was alive.

Law currents flowed unpredictably. Terrain shifted subtly, responding to presence. The world fragment was designed to adapt, to prevent static dominance.

He felt it.

Movement.

To his left, Princess Lysera had already begun repositioning, establishing high ground.

To his right, Prince Halvar charged forward recklessly, aura flaring as he sought immediate confrontation.

Above, Prince Kaelen descended like a spear, trajectory precise, intent focused.

Vahn exhaled slowly.

So this is how they want it.

The first clash erupted seconds later.

Halvar collided with another heir in a thunderous exchange, shockwaves tearing through nearby terrain. The crowd roared as the projection magnified the impact, slow-motion replays capturing every fractured stone and flaring technique.

Vahn did not move.

Not yet.

Kaelen landed across from him, feet sinking slightly into the earth, eyes locked.

"At last," Kaelen said, voice carrying easily. "No armies. No systems. Just you."

Vahn regarded him calmly. "Is that what you wanted?"

Kaelen's lips curled. "It is what decides thrones."

He attacked without further words.

Dragon qi surged, coiling around his limbs as he struck. Each blow carried the weight of imperial cultivation perfected through generations.

Vahn met the first strike with an open palm.

The collision sent a ripple through space, compressing air into visible rings.

Kaelen's eyes widened a fraction.

They exchanged blows rapidly.

Fists.

Elbows.

Knees.

No wasted motion.

The arena trembled as they moved, each step reshaping terrain. Kaelen pressed relentlessly, his style direct and overwhelming, designed to crush opposition through superior force.

Vahn yielded ground deliberately.

Observers leaned forward.

Some scoffed.

Others frowned.

Then Vahn stopped retreating.

He stepped inside Kaelen's guard and struck once.

Not with force.

With precision.

Kaelen's breath left him in a sharp exhale as Void pressure collapsed around his core momentarily, disrupting circulation.

Kaelen staggered back, shocked.

"What was that?" he snarled.

"Control," Vahn replied.

They clashed again.

Elsewhere, the battle intensified.

Lysera engaged two heirs simultaneously, her techniques weaving fate threads that redirected attacks.

Myrienne revealed her strength at last, her movements blurring as she overwhelmed Halvar with ruthless efficiency.

The sky was filled with light, sound, and motion.

Millions watched.

Commentary exploded.

"This is unprecedented!"

"They are tearing the arena apart!"

"Look at Lord Vahn's restraint!"

The Void within Vahn stirred as Kaelen escalated.

Dragon qi flared brighter, law symbols igniting along his arms.

"I will not lose to an outsider," Kaelen roared, unleashing a devastating strike meant to shatter Vahn's torso.

Vahn caught it.

The impact drove him several meters into the ground, stone exploding outward.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then Vahn rose.

Unhurt.

The Void rolled outward like a tide.

Not violently.

Authoritatively.

The ground flattened. Law currents bent. Kaelen's aura faltered as if pressed down by an unseen hand.

Vahn stepped forward.

Each step sent ripples through reality.

"You misunderstand something," Vahn said quietly, his voice carrying across the arena.

"I am not here to take your throne."

Kaelen strained against the pressure, teeth clenched.

"I am here," Vahn continued, "to prove who deserves it."

He struck.

The blow was simple.

A straight punch.

The Void compressed at the point of contact, bypassing defenses, striking directly at Kaelen's cultivated foundation.

Kaelen flew backward, crashing through three ridges before slamming into a containment barrier.

The barrier flared.

Imperial law intervened.

Kaelen slid down the wall, unconscious.

The crowd went silent.

The arbiter's voice echoed.

"Prince Kaelen incapacitated. Disqualified."

The arena shifted.

Attention snapped to Vahn.

Elsewhere, Lysera had defeated one heir through clever redirection, but Myrienne remained undefeated, her movements sharp and merciless.

She turned toward Vahn.

Their gazes met across shattered terrain.

She smiled.

"So you are the gravity everyone speaks of," she said.

Vahn inclined his head slightly.

They moved simultaneously.

Their clash was different.

Myrienne was speed and lethality, her attacks precise and relentless. Vahn responded with minimal movement, redirecting, absorbing, neutralizing.

Their battle became a dance.

The crowd watched in awe.

"Look at that control!"

"He is fighting without killing intent!"

Myrienne's smile faded as frustration crept in.

She launched a final all-out assault.

Vahn stepped through it.

One hand gripped her wrist.

The other pressed lightly against her shoulder.

Void pressure surged.

Not enough to harm.

Enough to end.

Myrienne collapsed, unconscious.

Another disqualification.

Now only two remained.

Vahn.

Celestine.

The arena quieted.

They stood across from each other, the world fragment reshaping subtly to accommodate them.

Celestine's presence was different.

Not overwhelming.

Balanced.

Her power resonated with imperial law itself, harmonized rather than forced.

She regarded Vahn steadily.

"So it comes to this," she said.

"Yes," Vahn replied.

"For the eyes of the Empire," she said softly.

"And beyond," Vahn answered.

They did not rush.

Their battle unfolded slowly, deliberately.

A test, not a spectacle.

Celestine moved with elegance, her techniques weaving stability and suppression. Vahn countered with adaptability, his Void bending but not breaking law constructs.

They pushed each other.

Tested limits.

Neither sought decisive domination.

Minutes passed.

Then Celestine halted.

She lowered her hand.

The crowd gasped.

"I yield," she said.

The words echoed across worlds.

The arbiter froze.

"What?" Renka breathed.

Celestine turned toward the projection arrays.

"This trial has shown what needed to be shown," she said calmly. "Further combat proves nothing."

She looked at Vahn.

"You have demonstrated strength, control, and authority without ambition to dominate," she said. "That is what the Empire needs."

The silence was absolute.

Then the arbiter spoke, voice measured.

"The Third Trial concludes."

"The results will be deliberated."

The arena dissolved.

As Vahn felt recall light surround him, he met Celestine's gaze one last time.

This was not an ending.

It was a declaration.

The Empire had seen him.

And it would never look away again.

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