Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 927

In the gloom, the stage, illuminated by only two spotlights, was the most conspicuous place. By contrast, when Jenkins stood and raised his hand, only those nearest to him in the pitch-black theater could notice the movement.

As he rose, his gaze shifted to the central box on the second floor—the largest one. Miss Bevanna, Miss Broniaons, and three other demigods from the Orthodox Church were inside. They were all there to celebrate the victory over the Skull Sword and to express their gratitude to Jenkins.

"I'm here. Antac, I'm here!"

The threat of the steam bombs strapped to Antac had reduced the theater to a tense silence, broken only by intermittent sobs. But Jenkins's voice cut through the despair, sharp and clear. Heads immediately turned toward the sound, but in the oppressive darkness, no one could see who had spoken.

"I'm here! Don't you dare harm these innocent people. You're a coward! If you want a duel, you don't have to resort to this. I'm right here!"

Jenkins declared again, his voice ringing out as he moved from his seat toward the stage. Briny's hand shot out, clutching the hem of his coat in a death grip. He was forced to shrug out of it, leaving in just his shirt.

Hathaway remained silent. She, too, had wanted to grab his arm, but she felt the unyielding resolve in his posture. The cat, for its part, had intended to follow, but Jenkins firmly left it on the seat.

The sound of his footsteps ascending to the stage sent a ripple of murmurs through the audience. If the lights had come up then, they would have revealed a tableau of a thousand different expressions—a true drama of human life. But as it was, only Jenkins, with his monocle, could see it all. He was the one on the stage, yet he felt as if the crowd below were the true performers, and he, merely an observer.

When Duke Antac had blasted his way through the second-floor balcony down to the stage, he had destroyed nearly all the overhead lights. Only two remained.

"Williams. It's been a while. Listen to me. I am a man of my word. Regardless of this duel's outcome, I will not detonate these bombs. But tonight, one of us will die in this duel of honor. I trust you are prepared."

The duke's voice boomed with a feigned righteousness, a clear attempt to make the audience question the truth of recent events.

"Of course. A duel of honor. You coward. If you had any shred of a nobleman's honor left, you wouldn't have threatened me with all these lives!"

Jenkins retorted, giving the sword in his right hand a few test swings to feel its weight and balance. When it came to feigning righteousness and innocence, the young duke was no match for the young writer.

Antac seemed to realize this too. Unwilling to waste any more words, he stated bluntly:

"The rules are simple. Neither of us may leave the stage. This duel ends only when one of us is dead."

The sword in his hand shimmered with a red spiritual aura, though Jenkins couldn't discern what ritual had empowered it. He knew, however, that the moment their blades met, his own would surely shatter.

"Well, I've certainly broken my fair share of swords lately..."

Shaking his head to clear the stray thought, Jenkins refocused. Though both men were young, Jenkins—more confident, more handsome, and dressed simply in his shirtsleeves—seemed to shine brighter.

"Antac, you must know you can't escape tonight, regardless of the outcome. I thought you'd have fled Nolan by now. Are you insane, choosing to do this?"

The harsh glare of the spotlights poured down from above, making the steel of their swords gleam. It was hot under the lights; even in just his shirtsleeves, Jenkins could feel the heat.

"Williams, you will never understand. I am the protagonist of this stage! The stars tonight shine for me!"

Antac's voice was steady and powerful, betraying no panic. He swept his gaze over the audience once more, and the strange look in his eyes sent another wave of unease through the crowd.

The audience had adjusted to the situation; many were now genuinely anticipating the duel's outcome. A wanted criminal, a nobleman, a fight for a beautiful maiden, a young writer, and one favored by the gods (as the common folk saw Jenkins)—it was all like a scene from a play.

"And you're so certain you'll be the winner?"

Jenkins began to circle counter-clockwise, sword in hand. Antac mirrored his movement, stepping out of the spotlight's glare. They maintained a perfect opposition, circling each other. Though the rest of the stage was dark, the ambient glow from the two beams allowed the audience to faintly make out their silhouettes.

"Yes. The winner will be me. Because I am the protagonist. Of that, there is no doubt."

They continued to circle, swords held ready, eyes locked as they searched for an opening. Every few moments, their dance would carry them back into the light. Jenkins had no idea if the duke had ever formally studied swordsmanship, but he himself certainly hadn't.

"The protagonist? I don't think I've ever heard someone publicly declare themselves the protagonist... Have you no shame?"

Jenkins could have sworn he heard a few stifled chuckles from the audience.

"Shame? No, Williams. We may both stand upon this stage, but there is a chasm between us. I am of noble birth, the center of everything since the day I was born. If the world is a stage, then I am its most important actor. Yes, just like now. I am the protagonist."

As if by unspoken agreement, they both stopped in the brilliant pools of light and raised their swords.

"The most important person on the stage..."

Jenkins felt a power welling within him, waiting for him to speak the answer. In the month or so since the vampire incident, he had experienced so much, a constant stream of dramatic twists of fate.

Some events had felt like the deliberate arrangements of a play, but every choice had been his own. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he had come to understand.

Duke Antac's ability was glowing; he had arranged everything. His [Stage Arcane Lock] was active, guaranteeing his final victory.

"The most important person on the stage... is the audience!"

Swords raised, they charged out of the light simultaneously, meeting in the deepest darkness at the center of the stage. Destiny collided. A wave of gasps and shouts erupted from the audience. But it was over in a single, sharp clang of steel.

They stumbled back into the light, each in the other's former spot. Jenkins staggered to a halt, then dropped to one knee.

The surrounding darkness of the theater only made the two spotlights seem brighter. The two men in the light were the focus of every eye, but one was fated to become nothing more than a stepping stone for the other.

"Something's wrong... Who are you?"

Antac demanded. His black greatcoat stood in stark contrast to Jenkins's white shirt.

"I am Jenkins Williams."

As Jenkins rose from his kneeling position, the first drop of blood fell from the duke's chest, staining the stage's wooden floor.

The young writer turned, holding the two halves of his broken sword.

The duke forced himself to turn, a pool of blood already blackening the floorboards beneath his feet.

"How amusing. This isn't how I planned it."

As he spoke, the hand he had kept inside his coat, ready to detonate the steam bombs, instead pulled a pistol from his pocket. He leveled the dark muzzle at Jenkins, the polished black steel glinting in the stage light.

Shrieks and gasps rippled through the audience. To pull out a pistol in a formal duel—Antac had clearly abandoned all pretense of honor.

"Yes," Jenkins agreed, nodding slowly. "This is interesting indeed."

He voluntarily tossed aside the broken halves of his sword. They clattered loudly on the wooden planks.

"Believe me, Antac, I am on the side of justice. The gods always protect the upright and kind-hearted. I'll make you a bet, Williams—your gun is empty."

He said this to provide an explanation for what was about to happen. Of course, he expected the Church would issue its own statement later to help conceal his true nature.

Loudly reciting a proverb of the Sage, the young writer paid no mind to the gun aimed at him. Instead, he raised a hand to trace the sacred emblem over his chest and said in a clear voice:

"Praise the Sage. May Your brilliance illuminate the path before me."

The duke pulled the trigger. For an instant, a sound loud enough to burst eardrums filled the theater.

In that single, frozen moment—Antac's face a mask of savagery, Jenkins with his eyes closed in prayer, the worried young women in the audience, the astonished gentlemen and ladies, and the wide-eyed cat watching the drama unfold—everything seemed eternal.

The pistol backfired, the explosion knocking its owner to the ground. The report of the gun echoed through every corner of the theater, ringing in every ear.

As the echo of the shot died, the duke collapsed backward, landing flat on his back. In the ensuing silence, the heavy thud of his body hitting the stage was shockingly loud.

Before Jenkins's eyes, a vision bloomed. His purple [The Observer] ability merged with the fading remnants of the [Stage] Arcane Lock. Six points of light flared into existence, forming a new Soul Emblem. It settled into the core of his being, joining his other abilities—[Life Source], [The Unknown Road Ahead], [Twin Demons], [Undying Man], and [Real Illusion]—to become a new foundation for his very soul.

On the second floor, Miss Bevanna struck down the demigod from the Tree House.

On the stage, under two lonely spotlights, one man stood while another lay fallen.

And from the audience below, thunderous applause erupted. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novel✶fire.net