Investing in My Crippled Wife: My Duchess Makes me Overpowered

She was tall. Elegant. Dressed in a sharp business suit—dark grey, tailored, expensive. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes were sharp. Calculating.

She smiled.

”Emeric Halden.”

He stopped.

”Who are you?”

”Someone who has been watching you.” She extended a hand. ”My name is Emira Grey. I represent the Grey Talent Agency. We scout warriors. Fighters. Vessels. People with potential.”

Emeric didn’t take her hand.

She didn’t seem offended. She just smiled and pulled out a card.

”You fought well today. You fought well in the qualifiers. You have something—I can see it. Potential. Raw. Untapped.”

She held out the card.

”If you’re interested in a career beyond the Trials, I’d like to talk. Representation. Sponsorships. Contracts. The kind of opportunities that don’t come along often.”

Emeric took the card. Looked at it.

EMIRA GREY

GREY TALENT AGENCY

AURELIA, MEGANTA

”I’ll think about it.”

Emira smiled.

”Please do. And Emeric?”

He looked at her.

”Watch your back. You’ve made some enemies in this tournament. Powerful ones. They won’t stop just because you won a few matches.”

She turned and walked away.

Why was everyone saying that?

Emeric stood in the tunnel for a moment.

He looked at the card in his hand.

Then he pocketed it.

He walked back to the staging grounds.

The tournament continued.

---

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]

[ROUND OF 16 — COMPLETE]

[OPPONENT DEFEATED: VAELOR THE SILENT]

[TIER PROGRESS: 30% → 34%]

[COMBAT EXPERIENCE GAINED]

[STRENGTH: 74 → 75]

[AGILITY: 72 → 73]

[DP AWARDED: +15]

[CUMULATIVE DP: 3708]

[DEVOTION LOGGED: ADVANCING FOR TARGET]

---

Emeric read the notification. Closed it.

He had advanced.

But this was just the beginning.

The arena was packed.

Emeric arrived early again. Found his usual seat in the upper tiers. Close enough to see. Far enough to be unnoticed.

The Quarter-Finals were today. Eight matches. Eight warriors. The best of the best.

He watched.

The first match was Vespera Pendragon’s.

He had seen her before. Once. At the hunt and if he recalled, she wasn’t too pleased that he won.

She stood in the arena, her expression unreadable. Across from her stood a fire mage—a young man from the southern kingdoms, his hands already crackling with flame.

The crowd favored him. They always favored the flashy ones.

Vespera didn’t care.

The signal sounded.

The fire mage attacked first.

A wave of flame erupted from his hands, roaring across the arena like a living thing. It was beautiful. Terrifying. The kind of attack that ended fights in seconds.

Vespera didn’t dodge. She didn’t block. She simply raised her hand.

The flames stopped.

They hung in the air, frozen, as if time had stopped. The fire mage stared. His mouth opened. Closed. He tried to summon more fire. Nothing came.

Vespera flicked her wrist.

The flames reversed. They flew back at the mage. He screamed. Dove to the side. The fire scorched the sand where he’d been standing.

He scrambled to his feet. Threw another fireball. She caught it. Sent it back. He dodged again.

Over and over.

She was toying with him.

Emeric leaned forward.

What is she doing?

He watched closely. The way she moved. The way she redirected his attacks. It wasn’t elemental magic—not like his Wind or Lightning. It was something else. Something subtler.

Telekinesis. Or something close to it.

The fire mage was exhausted now. His flames were weak. His movements sluggish. He threw one last fireball—a desperate, final attempt.

Vespera caught it. Held it. Then she sent it back.

The mage didn’t dodge this time. He couldn’t. The fire hit him square in the chest. He flew backward. Hit the ground. Didn’t move.

”Yield,” Vespera said.

The mage’s voice was barely a whisper. ”I yield.”

The crowd was silent. Then they roared.

Vespera inclined her head. Walked off the arena.

Emeric watched her go.

Powerful. Precise. Terrifying.

The second match was one of the Vaelthorne elves.

Aerion.

Emeric recognized him immediately. The silver hair. The cold eyes. The arrogant set of his jaw. He was older now—taller, broader, more powerful—but the face was the same. The face of the boy who had burned his books. Mocked his magic. Ordered his beating in the courtyard.

Aerion stood in the arena, his robes immaculate, his expression bored. Across from him stood a knight—a massive man in full plate, carrying a shield and a mace.

The crowd favored the knight. They always favored the big ones.

Aerion didn’t care.

The signal sounded.

The knight charged.

Aerion didn’t move. He raised his hand. Fire erupted from his fingertips—a wave of flame that roared across the arena. The knight raised his shield. The fire hit it. The metal glowed red. The knight screamed. Dropped the shield. It clattered to the ground, warped and useless.

Aerion attacked again. A second wave. The knight dove to the side. Rolled. Came up in a crouch. He drew a dagger—a small thing, useless against a mage.

Aerion laughed.

He raised both hands. Fire gathered. A sphere of flame, growing larger and larger. The knight stared at it. His face went pale.

Aerion threw it.

The knight didn’t dodge. He couldn’t. The sphere hit him square in the chest. He flew backward. Hit the wall. Slid down. Didn’t move.

The knight was unconscious.

The crowd cheered.

Aerion raised his arms. Soaked in the applause.

Emeric watched.

He didn’t cheer.

The third match was Caelum Vaelthorne.

Aerion’s younger brother. The one who had kicked the book out of Emeric’s hands. The one who had followed his brother’s lead. The one who had laughed when Emeric fell.

Caelum stood in the arena, his robes flowing, his expression smug. Across from him stood a woman—a water mage from the eastern isles. She was calm. Precise. Deadly.

The signal sounded.

Caelum attacked first.

Wind gathered around him—a vortex that lifted sand and debris into the air. He sent it toward the woman. She raised her hands. Water erupted from the ground—a wall of liquid that absorbed the wind. The vortex dissipated.

Caelum frowned. Attacked again. Another vortex. Another wall.

Over and over.

The woman was calm. Patient. She waited for him to tire. She waited for him to make a mistake.

He did.