[17th June]
The arena did not rest.
Even as the remnants of the previous match were cleared—fractured stone swept aside, blood washed into the sand—the next pair of contestants were already stepping forward.
There was no pause long enough to think.
No silence long enough to forget.
Steel met steel again.
At first, the fights had been loud. Chaotic. Driven by nerves and reckless bursts of strength.
That phase was over.
Now, the movements were tighter.
Measured.
Each strike carried intent, not desperation.
Each step served a purpose.
The crowd still reacted—cheers rising, voices crashing into one another—but beneath that noise, something had shifted.
The matches were no longer about spectacle.
They were about selection.
High above, within the private galleries, the nobles watched.
Not with excitement—
But with patience.
A missed step.
A delayed reaction.
A poor recovery after overextending.
Nothing escaped their notice.
Careers were being decided in seconds.
Inside the Valemont gallery, the air felt heavier than elsewhere.
No one spoke unless necessary.
At the front sat a man none dared to disturb.
Edvarin Valemont.
The true head of the family.
Father of Hosric, Jasmine and Vaelis.
The foundation upon which everything stood.
Age had carved lines into his face, but not weakness.
If anything, it had stripped away everything unnecessary.
What remained was clarity.
His gaze moved slowly across the arena.
Not following the fights—
Studying them.
Hosric sat beside him, silent.
Even he did not interrupt.
Further beside, Fenlor watched with a faint crease in his brow.
Each passing match chipped away at that calm.
"These aren't the same opponents anymore…"
His fingers tightened slowly.
"If I want to climb… I'll have to bleed for it."
The realization settled in.
And it stayed.
The matches continued.
Until—
"Next match."
A simple announcement.
But something shifted.
The screen flickered.
ID: 01
The noise in the arena thinned.
Not instantly—
But enough to be felt.
Raviel Ashcroft stepped forward.
He carried no visible tension.
No anticipation.
Just stillness.
His opponent followed after a brief delay.
A commoner.
The difference between them was obvious before a single move was made.
Not in status.
In composure.
The man's grip on his sword was tight enough to pale his knuckles.
His shoulders slightly raised.
Breathing shallow.
He knew who stood in front of him.
The referee gave the signal.
"Begin."
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
The man did not advance.
His body refused the first step.
Raviel watched him quietly.
Then spoke.
"If you're not going to fight…"
A slight pause.
"…leave."
No mockery.
No irritation.
Just dismissal.
It struck deeper than an insult.
The man's jaw tightened.
His breath steadied, if only slightly.
He shifted his footing.
Lowered his center of gravity.
Forced control back into his limbs.
"I didn't come this far to stand still."
He moved.
A sharp step forward, heel digging into the ground to drive momentum—
His blade cut downward in a clean, practiced arc aimed at Raviel's upper body.
It was fast.
Well-timed.
And it hit nothing.
The resistance he expected never came.
His body overcommitted by a fraction—
Just enough.
Raviel was no longer in front of him.
A presence to his right.
The man twisted, trying to recover mid-motion—
Too late.
Raviel stood just outside his reach, weight balanced, posture relaxed.
Already settled.
No wasted movement.
A chill crept up the man's spine.
He stepped back instinctively.
Raviel moved.
A short pivot of the hip.
A controlled extension of the leg—
The kick landed where the man had stood an instant before.
The ground caved in with a sharp crack, fractures spreading outward in jagged lines.
Dust rose.
The man rolled, shoulder scraping hard against stone before he forced himself back up.
That would have ended it.
His heartbeat surged, loud enough to drown out the crowd.
He attacked again.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
Step in.
Slash across.
Shift weight.
Reverse cut.
His movements flowed better now.
Fear still present—
But pushed into action.
His blade moved faster with each strike.
Angles changing.
Tempo increasing.
But Raviel—
Did not meet him head-on.
A slight turn of the shoulders.
A half-step back.
A shift just outside the arc of the blade.
Every strike missed by inches.
Too small a gap to adjust.
Too precise to exploit.
The man's breathing grew heavier.
His arms slower to recover.
And still—
Nothing connected.
It felt wrong.
Like fighting something that had already decided where he would be.
A minute passed.
Raviel exhaled softly.
Almost inaudible.
Then his hand moved.
For the first time—
Toward his sword.
The shift was subtle.
But the man felt it immediately.
Something in his chest tightened.
Raviel stepped back, creating space.
His fingers closed around the hilt.
"In respect for your effort…"
His voice remained calm.
"…watch closely."
He drew the blade in a single smooth motion.
No flare of power.
No dramatic change.
Just a quiet alignment of intent.
Then—
He moved.
The man's eyes tracked forward—
And lost him.
No visible acceleration.
No clear direction.
Just absence.
And then—
Presence.
Behind him.
A sharp line of pain cut across his chest.
His body froze before his mind caught up. Terror filling his eyes.
He looked down.
A thin line had opened across his torso—
Then widened as blood surged out.
His strength left him all at once.
The sword slipped from his grasp.
His knees gave out.
He fell forward.
Raviel flicked the blood from his blade with a small motion of his wrist and returned it to its sheath.
"End it."
He didn't turn.
"Or he dies."
The referee reacted immediately this time.
"Match over!"
Medics rushed in, lifting the fallen man and carrying him away with urgency.
The arena remained quiet.
Not from shock.
But from clarity.
That distance—
Could not be crossed.
Rey watched from the stands, eyes fixed on the spot where the man had fallen.
He had followed the movement.
Not fully.
But enough.
"That wasn't teleportation…"
The transition.
The timing.
The way Raviel controlled distance before the strike even happened.
"…he decided the outcome before moving."
Rey exhaled slowly.
Even without his abilities—
That wouldn't be an easy fight.
The matches continued.
But something lingered.
A standard had been set.
And everything after felt… insufficient.
"Next match."
Rey stood.
No hesitation.
He stepped away from the stands, already reaching for his bow.
The familiar weight settled into his hand as he moved.
By the time he reached the preparation hall, his dagger was secured at his side.
On the screen, the current match ended quickly.
"Next contestants."
His ID appeared.
A ripple passed through the arena.
In the gallery, Hosric frowned.
"…He's not here."
He began to turn—
To issue the order—
Then stopped.
A figure had already stepped onto the arena.
Alone.
Murmurs rose.
And then—
Another figure entered.
Measured steps.
Calm.
Unhurried.
A long coat shifting slightly with each movement.
A bow resting across his back.
Rey stepped fully into the light.
The reaction was immediate.
"He came back…"
"After yesterday?"
The referee approached quickly.
"Show your ID."
Rey handed it over, then pulled back just enough of his covering for confirmation.
The cameras caught it.
His face appeared across the massive screen.
Recognition spread instantly.
No noble house had forgotten what happened the day before.
The attack.
The destruction.
And now—
He stood here.
Ready to fight.
The referee stepped back.
"Match begins shortly."
Rey took his position.
Across from him, his opponent raised a round shield, saber angled slightly behind it.
Defensive.
Cautious.
Rey lifted his bow.
His fingers settled against the string.
The noise of the arena returned—
But distant.
Right now—
Only the space between them mattered.
And how it would be closed.
The moment Rey took his stance, the difference became clear.
His opponent wasn't careless.
A saber alone would have been expected.
Instead—
A round shield rested firmly in his off-hand, angled slightly inward to guard his torso while leaving enough freedom to strike.
A defensive core.
Built for endurance.
Murmurs spread through the stands.
Some impressed.
Others confused.
It wasn't a common choice.
Not here.
Rey noticed it too.
His gaze lingered on the shield for half a second longer than necessary.
'So that's your answer to me.'
He didn't frown.
Didn't hesitate.
He simply adjusted.
High above, Hosric's expression had already darkened.
He had seen Rey's face.
Confirmed it.
Which made it worse.
"He shouldn't even be here…"
His jaw tightened slightly as his thoughts ran ahead.
He had already ordered the servants to monitor Rey.
Yet somehow—
He had slipped through.
A mistake.
One that shouldn't have happened.
But in front of Edvarin, he remained still.
Silent.
That conversation would come later.
Below—
The referee dropped his hand.
The match began.
Rey moved first.
Not his feet.
His hands.
The arrow was already nocked before most people registered it.
His draw was smooth—no wasted motion, no visible strain—
And then—
Release.
The string snapped forward with a sharp, clean sound.
The arrow cut through the air.
Fast.
Direct.
It reached his opponent in an instant.
The man didn't dodge.
He stepped into it.
Shield raised—
Angle adjusted at the last possible moment—
Impact.
The arrow shattered against the shield's surface.
Fragments splintered outward—
But the force didn't disappear.
It drove through.
The man's arm jerked back as the impact traveled through the shield into his shoulder, forcing him two steps behind.
His boots scraped hard against the stone before he stabilized.
A dent remained where the arrow had struck.
Not deep—
But visible.
The smile on his face didn't vanish.
But it changed.
"…That's some force."
He didn't wait for a second shot.
He pushed forward.
Rey was already moving.
Step back.
Release.
Step back again.
Another arrow.
Then another.
Each shot wasn't rushed—
But they came faster than expected.
The man raised his shield again, deflecting one—
Twisted his body to let another graze past—
Then accelerated.
He needed to close the distance.
"Get back here!" he barked, voice edged with irritation. "Or are you just going to keep running?"
Rey didn't answer.
His expression didn't change.
But his pace did.
He stopped retreating.
For a moment—
He stood still.
Then—
He reached back.
And pulled two arrows at once.
The shift was small.
But the effect—
Immediate.
The man's pupils tightened.
The first arrow came straight.
The second—
A fraction behind.
At a different angle.
He blocked the first.
The impact rattled his arm, sending a dull shock through his shoulder.
The second—
He tried to twist away—
Too late.
It scraped across his side, tearing through fabric and leaving a shallow but sharp line of blood.
He hissed.
More followed.
Not wildly.
Not carelessly.
Each pair placed with intent.
One to force a reaction.
The second to punish it.
The rhythm built.
Block—
Flinch—
Cut.
Dodge—
Turn—
Hit.
The shield began to feel heavier.
Each impact sent vibrations deeper into his arm.
Numbness crept in.
His grip tightened to compensate.
Which only made it worse.
His breathing roughened.
"Damn it…!"
He tried to push forward again.
Forced his way through a volley—
Blocked one arrow—
The second came immediately after.
This time—
It didn't bounce.
It punched through.
The tip drove past the weakened point on the shield, tearing through and stopping just short of his chest.
Close enough for him to feel it.
A thin line of blood formed where the tip grazed his skin.
His body froze for half a heartbeat.
That was all Rey needed.
Another pair followed.
Then another.
No wasted arrows.
No panic.
Just pressure.
Constant.
Measured.
Unrelenting.
The man's saber—
Once his weapon—
Now barely moved.
It hovered uselessly at his side, rising only when desperation forced it.
His world had shrunk.
To the space directly in front of him.
To survival.
Rage flickered through him.
"This wasn't supposed to happen…"
The shield—
His advantage—
Had become his only line of defense.
And it was failing.
The timer ticked down.
Thirty seconds.
His chest heaved.
His arm trembled.
Across from him—
Rey stood untouched.
That broke something.
A sharp breath.
A decision.
'If I keep defending—I lose.'
His grip loosened.
Then—
He threw the shield aside.
Gasps rose from the stands.
He surged forward.
Faster now.
Reckless.
The first arrow—
He dodged.
The second—
He met with his blade.
Steel struck wood—
The force exploded through his arm.
The arrow deflected—
But not cleanly.
It tore through his hand.
A sickening crack followed.
Pain surged instantly, sharp and blinding as his fingers lost strength.
The saber slipped—
Clattered against the ground.
His knees hit next.
Breath gone.
Rey was already moving.
Not rushing.
Not wasting energy.
Just closing the distance.
He stopped a single step away.
Another arrow was drawn.
Not fired.
Held.
The tip rested inches from the man's face.
Steady.
Unwavering.
The message was clear.
Move—
And it ends.
The man froze.
His chest rose and fell unevenly.
His eyes locked onto Rey's.
Then—
Slowly—
He let go.
"…I surrender."
The referee didn't delay.
"Match over!"
The crowd erupted.
Not as loudly as before—
But sharper.
Because this time—
They had understood what they saw.
This wasn't overwhelming force.
This was control.
Rey lowered his bow.
Stepped back.
The medics moved in, lifting his opponent carefully.
The man didn't look at them.
His gaze remained fixed on Rey.
Not fearful.
Burning.
A dream had ended here.
And it hadn't even been close.
Rey turned away.
He could feel that stare lingering on his back.
'He'll hold onto that.'
He didn't care much.
'He chose the wrong way to fight me.'
The shield.
The endurance.
It had only delayed the inevitable.
By the time he changed tactics—
His arm was already failing.
Rey exhaled quietly.
His body felt heavier now.
Not visibly—
But he could feel it.
The strain was there.
Still manageable.
For now.
He stepped out of the arena, heading back toward the inner corridors.
The noise of the crowd faded behind him.
Then—
Footsteps.
Fast.
Closing in.
"Stop."
The voice was sharp.
Controlled.
But beneath it—
Anger.
Rey's steps slowed.
He already knew.
Before he even turned—
A hand gripped his shoulder.
Hard.
Not enough to injure—
But enough to lock him in place.
Pain shot through his body anyway.
"Argh—"
His muscles tensed instantly, breath catching as the pressure dug into him.
There was no escaping it.
And no mistaking—
Who stood behind him.