I Decided to Let You Go (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 80

The “fighting arena” the Emperor spoke of was a secret place where boys were selected to become the imperial family’s shadows. It was said that only one would survive and become the shadow of the imperial house.

The “proof” the Emperor mentioned meant proving one’s worth not just through skill, but through sheer survival.

Enoch Calent was a boy among his peers known for his skill with the sword. Yet that skill was only notable among noble youths; among those who fought for their lives, his technique was sorely lacking.

According to his roommate, they held annual combat trials to rank the boys in the fighting arena. Only half of the boys survived; the other half were eliminated—and met their deaths.

The roommate’s mocking words—“You probably won’t last long”—remained vivid in his memory, strikingly similar to the Emperor of Retiers’ sneer when Enoch had defiantly declared he’d become a dog.

At ten years old, the following year, Enoch barely survived by placing 97th. He felt the chilling threat to his life—he might die before even getting a chance at revenge.

Enoch cut down on his sleep to devote himself entirely to training. Blood and sweat flowed like water, yet he never let go of his sword. It was a desperate struggle just to stay alive.

At eleven, Enoch placed 24th, securing a mid-tier rank among the survivors.

His roommate, who had sneered that Enoch would be eliminated quickly, was eliminated himself in 53rd place. He’d been the kind of boy who, despite his grumbling, still looked out for Enoch.

Enoch secretly shed tears as he stared at the now-empty room. Sadly, he had little time to grieve; training resumed the next day. He was so busy that he didn’t even notice the chrysanthemums left on the boy’s bed had already rotted.

At twelve, Enoch placed 5th, finally entering the upper ranks. The Emperor, who had previously acted as if Enoch didn’t exist, unexpectedly invited him to a meal.

“You’ve grown much fiercer than before,” the Emperor remarked approvingly. “You finally resemble a dog.”

Back in his room, Enoch vomited blood repeatedly.

He felt a dizzying sensation, as if his lifeline were snapping. He pounded the floor and clutched his blanket, enduring the agony. Only then did he finally understand the Emperor’s words: if he wanted to live, he had to become even stronger.

“Damn it all,” Zieghart muttered for the first time—a curse taught to him in another language by his roommate, whose face had long since faded from memory.

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