The Dragon Emperor of Another World: Awakening of a Legend

CHAPTER 3: Champion of the Arena

Feya Town’s outskirts had never seen such fervor. The grand coliseum—once a crumbling relic of a forgotten war—now blazed with life. Banners depicting swords, dragons, and arcane runes fluttered above the gates. Crowds roared with anticipation, packed into stone bleachers while food vendors shouted over the noise, hawking flame-grilled meat skewers and fizzy mana elixirs.

Ethan Lockwood adjusted the straps on his Arcane Godslayer Gear. The amethyst rune etched into his breastplate pulsed with a rhythmic hum. Celestia Draconyx, ever poised and deadly, stood beside him, arms folded, her silver hair braided tightly down her back.

"You know," she said with a slow glance toward the thundering stadium, "this isn't exactly a subtle way to keep a low profile."

Ethan grinned. "Who said anything about subtlety? I'm here to make a statement."

"You? Making statements? Next you'll say you're entering for the prize money."

He glanced at her. "It pays in gold and attention. Both of which we need."

Celestia muttered something in Draconic that Ethan suspected was not complimentary.

The registration line snaked past a marble statue of a long-dead champion. Swordsmen, monks, sorcerers, and beastmasters checked in with various levels of bravado. When Ethan approached in his Arcane Godslayer Gear, enchanted armor gleaming with amethyst runes, the murmurs started immediately.

“Who’s the cosplayer?” one warrior snorted.

“Too clean. He won’t last two rounds.”

“Bet he’s sponsored by a noble. Rich kid with a death wish.”

Ethan simply nodded to the guard at the table. “Name’s Ethan.”

The guard looked him over. “Fancy armor. Let’s see if you can swing that blade.”

The gates creaked open. A robed announcer stood at the threshold, his voice magically amplified to echo across the plaza. "Next entrant—Ethan Lockwood, hailing from the unknown reaches!"

Inside the arena, heat shimmered off obsidian tiles. Runes glowed faintly beneath the surface, ready to activate when combat began. Across the battlefield, Ethan’s first opponent stood—a hulking mercenary armed with twin axes and armor stitched with wyvern leather.

The gong echoed.

The mercenary lunged, roaring, his axes descending like twin thunderclaps. Ethan slid sideways, ducking the strike. With a flick of his wrist, his greatsword spun into his palm.

"Void Arc!"

The blade released a crescent-shaped slash, slicing across the mercenary’s pauldron. Sparks flew. The crowd gasped.

The mercenary snarled and charged again, this time feinting left before swinging right. Ethan blocked the blow, boots sliding against the rune-etched floor.

“Fast,” Ethan muttered, "but sloppy."

With a twist and a pivot, Ethan sidestepped the next blow, ducked low, and brought his sword up in a vertical arc. The strike connected with the mercenary’s chin guard, sending him sprawling backward. One final pulse from Ethan’s blade and the mercenary’s axes clattered to the ground.

"Victory: Ethan Lockwood!" the announcer shouted.

The crowd roared. Celestia watched from the VIP gallery, unimpressed but mildly pleased.

The second and third rounds followed quickly. A duelist whose speed rivaled the wind; a beastmaster with a thunder wolf. Ethan met each with measured precision, never overreaching, always calculating. He took bruises and scrapes, but he kept his footing and his rhythm.

By the time the semifinals arrived, Ethan’s name had become a chant among the crowd.

His next opponent—a knight clad in enchanted silver armor, known for his unbreakable defense and his radiant longsword.

“You fight well,” the knight said, saluting. “I’ve heard of you. I’ve come to test your limits.”

“Then let’s see if either of us finds the edge,” Ethan replied.

Their duel was a clash of titans. Blade met blade in a thunderous cacophony. Runes flared, shields splintered, and magic cracked the sky above them. The knight’s sword was a force of light; Ethan’s a blade of shadow.

Minutes stretched. Neither gave ground. Blood beaded at Ethan’s temple. Celestia leaned forward, tension in her jaw.

Finally, Ethan caught the knight’s pattern—a half-second pause before each backswing. He baited a forward strike, twisted inside the guard, and landed a hilt-punch to the knight’s ribs, followed by a sweep to his legs.

The knight went down.

“I yield,” he gasped.

The crowd erupted.

The final round loomed.

His last opponent was not a warrior but a spellcaster—an elven woman draped in robes that shimmered with ever-changing colors. Her staff levitated beside her, crackling with elemental power.

“You are powerful,” she said. “But raw strength cannot outmatch true magic."

Ethan smiled. “Good. I was hoping for a challenge.”

The duel began.

Fireballs. Ice shards. Lightning whips.

Ethan moved like a shadow through them, cloak ablaze, armor scorched. He deflected, dodged, retaliated. She tried to blind him with light—he closed the gap and forced her into melee. She teleported—he anticipated her landing.

One final lunge. His blade shattered her staff.

Silence.

She raised her hand in surrender.

“Winner: Ethan Lockwood!”

The crowd roared like a storm.

The tournament prize—a dimensional pouch woven with storage magic—was presented to him in a velvet-lined box.

Yet even as he took the pouch, Celestia’s expression darkened.

“What is it?” Ethan asked, descending from the arena stairs.

She didn’t answer at first.

Then, quietly, she said, “We’re being watched.”

Ethan followed her gaze. A cloaked figure lingered in the crowd. Not cheering. Not clapping. Just watching.

Before Ethan could speak, the figure slipped into the shadows.

“Looks like we’ve made an impression,” Ethan said.

Celestia nodded, eyes narrowing. “Yes. And not all of them are friendly.”

From the shadows of the arena, a new player had entered the board.

That night, the tavern was buzzing. Locals bought him drinks. Adventurers offered party invites. Nobles extended invitations to closed-circle galas. Yet Ethan felt… watched.

Celestia sat beside him, eyes never leaving the tavern door.

“I thought I’d feel safer after winning,” Ethan murmured. “But I feel like I just painted a target on my back.”

“You did,” Celestia said. “And not just for petty challengers.”

Across the room, a man in a dark cloak embroidered with a scorpion emblem sipped from a glass of amber wine. His eyes never left Ethan.

“He’s with the Syndicate,” Celestia whispered. “Artifact smugglers. Killers. They want that pouch.”

Ethan’s fingers tightened around the leather prize.

Back in their inn, he paced while Celestia checked the windows.

“You sense it too?” she asked.

Ethan nodded. “It’s like a dungeon boss is prepping its ambush.”

Celestia’s tail flicked. “Stay alert. If anyone tries anything, I’ll burn the whole building down if I have to.”

Ethan smirked. “Remind me never to cheat on you.”

She glanced at him, a flicker of warmth in her eyes. “As if I’d let you.”

But outside, the night had turned cold. The Syndicate had begun to move.