[17th June]
The first round of rankings—
Had ended.
And it ended loudly.
Not quietly.
Not forgettably.
But as something people would talk about long after the tournament was over.
Fights that felt real.
Clashes that carried weight.
Every victor carved their way forward.
Every loser—
Faced a choice.
Stay where they fell.
Or fight again.
The staff moved quickly, contacting each defeated contestant.
Offering them a chance—
To battle in under-matches.
To decide the ranks below.
Some refused.
For them, it was enough.
The result didn't matter anymore.
But others—
Didn't think that way.
Because rank—
Meant opportunity.
And opportunity meant power.
Noble houses were already watching.
Choosing.
Waiting.
The higher one stood, the greater the support.
Resources.
Training.
Connections.
A single rank could change a life.
The stadium filled once more.
Contestants returned.
Spectators flooded back in.
The atmosphere—
Heavier than before.
Rey sat quietly in the public stands. His gaze wasn't on the arena.
It moved.
Calculated.
Toward the noble section. Toward the Duke's stand.
Silent.
Still.
Too still.
'Nothing…'
No visible movement or obvious reactions.
And yet—
That silence itself spoke volumes.
Rey shifted his focus.
Toward another section.
The Valemont family.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
More people had gathered.
Not just Hosric.
There were others now.
And one—
Stood out.
Not by action.
Not by presence in the usual sense.
But by something deeper.
Rey couldn't see him clearly.
But he could feel him.
A weight.
Subtle—
But overwhelming.
His breath slowed unconsciously.
'…So he's here.'
His grandfather.
It made sense.
There was no one else—
Who could give him that feeling?
Rey leaned back slightly.
'Then this tournament… really matters.'
Before his thoughts could settle—
His phone vibrated.
A sharp, synchronised buzz echoed across the stadium.
Every advancing contestant—
Received it.
The second round draft.
Rey opened it immediately.
Fifty matchups.
IDs lined against IDs.
Clean.
Simple.
Decisive.
His eyes scanned quickly—
Until they stopped.
His match.
A brief pause.
Then—
His expression changed.
"…Tch."
Annoyance.
Clear.
Unhidden.
ID: 1197
He didn't need a name.
He already knew.
Marin.
The Ice Queen.
The Freezing Beauty.
A contestant whose presence alone—
Was enough to make others cautious.
Her style was simple.
Beautiful.
And brutal.
She didn't just defeat opponents—
She froze them.
Turned them into standing sculptures.
Then walked away—
Like it meant nothing.
Rey exhaled slowly.
It wasn't fear.
Not even concerned.
"…Of all people…"
The problem—
Wasn't her strength.
It was something else.
'Gravion.'
Where she was—
He wouldn't be far.
And where Gravion was—
Trouble followed.
Always.
Rey leaned forward slightly.
For a moment—
He considered it.
'Should I withdraw?'
A clean option.
No risks.
No unnecessary involvement.
But the thought didn't stay long.
"…No."
He shook his head.
That wasn't him.
'Win or lose… doesn't matter.
Just don't get involved.'
That was the line.
Clear.
Simple.
"I'll stay away from that guy."
A quiet mutter.
"…And if he tries something—"
"I'll shut it down before it starts."
Firm.
Resolved.
And yet—
A small part of him knew.
Things rarely stayed that simple.
Rey leaned back again.
His eyes drifted toward the arena.
'Still…
An Elementalist…'
A faint spark of interest surfaced.
'Let's see what you can actually do.'
Moments later—
The host stepped onto the stage.
The noise dipped.
Not silence—
But attention.
"After the first round…"
His voice echoed across the stadium.
"You all should understand by now—"
"This is no child's play."
A pause.
"Every opponent from here on…"
"Will be stronger."
"Sharper."
"More dangerous."
The air tightened.
"And it won't stop."
A smile.
"So—"
"Let's not waste any more time."
His hand rose.
"Let the Second Round of Rankings—"
"BEGIN!"
The sky exploded.
Two massive firebursts lit up above the stadium.
A wave of sound followed.
Cheers.
Shouts.
Excitement surged again.
The host stepped back.
The system moved.
Fast.
Efficient.
This time—
There was no delay.
The matches would be quicker.
Shorter.
Five minutes each.
Non-stop rotation.
Hours of continuous battle.
The arena below shifted.
Markings adjusted.
Barriers reinforced.
Even the referees changed.
No longer ordinary officials—
But trained martial warriors.
Necessary.
Because earlier—
Too many had nearly died.
Too many moments—
Where control was lost.
Now—
They were prepared.
Within minutes—
The first battlefield was ready.
Two contestants stepped forward.
Both carried swords.
Different styles.
Different builds.
Same intent.
The referee checked their IDs—
Then stepped back.
"Positions."
They moved.
Silence spread.
Tension coiled.
"Begin."
They vanished.
Steel clashed instantly.
Fast.
Too fast for the untrained eye.
The longsword user surged forward—
Like a storm.
Precise.
Relentless.
His blade moved like a striking serpent.
Sharp.
Unpredictable.
Each swing—
Carried intent.
The greatsword wielder didn't retreat.
Didn't panic.
He held his ground.
Blocking.
Absorbing.
His arms reinforced with metal braces—
Not protecting his body.
But empowering his strikes.
Each collision—
Rang out.
Heavy.
Violent.
In less than thirty seconds—
More than twenty exchanges.
Not a single clean hit.
But both—
Were already feeling it.
The impact.
The pressure.
The fight wasn't slow.
It wasn't testing.
It was real.
Above—
The noble stands stirred.
Eyes sharpened.
Interest sparked.
"These two…"
"They're worth investing in."
Discussions began.
Silent.
Calculated.
Some already choosing sides.
Others—
Watching quietly.
Analyzing.
Two old nobles sat apart.
Calm.
Unmoved by the noise.
"Hoh…"
One spoke, sipping his tea.
"That boy with the longsword…"
"His movement is refined."
"Almost at an advanced level."
A pause.
"And that blade…"
"It bends like a serpent."
"Intermediate mastery, at least."
A faint smile.
"He'll end this soon."
The other old man chuckled.
"You still trust your eyes that much?"
He set his cup down.
"I see something else."
A glance toward the arena.
"That brute…"
"He's not losing."
"Not yet."
A pause.
"Maybe it's time you stopped judging too early, old bones."
A small smirk.
"And started watching properly." The second old man remarked as he sipped his tea.
The first man scoffed—
But said nothing.
Because deep down—
Even he wasn't fully sure.
And below—
The fight was only getting started.
"Someone who reached this stage…"
The old man's eyes remained fixed on the arena.
"…can't be weak."
A pause.
Then—
A slow smile crept onto his face.
"Alright."
He set his cup down gently.
"Let's make this interesting."
The second old man raised a brow.
"Oh?"
"If that swordsman wins…"
The first one leaned forward slightly.
"You give me that treasure wine you've been hiding."
Silence.
Then—
COUGH!
The second old man nearly choked.
His eyes snapped toward him.
"…When did you find out about that one?"
A glare.
Sharp.
Suspicious.
The first man only chuckled.
"You really thought you could hide something like that from me?"
A sigh escaped the second man.
"…Greedy old fox."
But after a moment—
He nodded.
"Fine."
A pause.
"But if I win…"
His gaze sharpened.
"You give me your blade."
The air shifted.
"The Green Horned Wolf sword."
A faint stillness settled between them.
"That weapon you brought back…"
"…after that hunt."
The first old man's expression changed slightly.
"…You still remember that?"
"Of course I do."
A small smirk.
"You think I'd forget something like that?"
The first man leaned back.
"That's just an old weapon now. Peak Stage 2."
"Nothing special."
But the second man didn't react.
"Maybe."
"…But I want it."
A pause.
Then the first old man exhaled quietly.
"…Not for you, I assume."
A faint smile.
"No, it's for my grandson. He's made it to the finals. And I don't plan on giving him something ordinary."
Silence followed.
Then—
The second man picked up his cup again.
"…Fine."
A sip.
"But bring that wine properly. It's about time you stopped hoarding it."
The bet was sealed.
And below—
The match reached its peak.
The longsword wielder pressed forward.
Relentless.
Precise.
Each strike cleaner than the last.
The greatsword fighter—
Was being pushed back.
His defense cracking.
His movements slowing.
From the outside—
It looked decided.
"He's about to lose."
Even the crowd could see it.
Even the nobles—
Had begun leaning toward one conclusion.
But—
The brute smiled.
"…Alright."
A quiet murmur.
"Let's stop playing."
Then—
CLANG!
A heavy sound echoed across the arena.
Something dropped.
The ground trembled slightly.
One brace.
Then another.
Both arms—
Freed.
The crowd froze.
"…What?"
Above—
The nobles leaned forward.
And the first old man's eyes widened slightly.
"…Those…At least ten kilos each."
A breath.
"…He's been fighting with forty kilos holding him back?"
The second old man smirked.
"…You were saying something earlier?"
Below—
It didn't stop.
The greatsword fighter bent slightly—
And removed the leg braces too.
Another heavy drop.
Another shockwave of sound.
Now—
He stood free.
Unrestrained.
And the air around him—
Changed.
The longsword user didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward.
Attacked again.
Fast.
Sharp.
Perfect.
But—
Clang.
Blocked.
Cleanly.
His eyes widened.
Another strike—
Blocked again.
No struggle.
No delay.
Again.
And again.
Every single attack—
Stopped.
Perfectly.
"…What—?"
His rhythm broke.
His breath hitched.
This wasn't the same opponent.
Not even close.
The brute stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
Slow.
But unstoppable.
The longsword user retreated.
Instinctively.
But—
He couldn't create distance.
He couldn't regain control.
It felt like—
He was being hunted.
In just seconds—
The advantage he held—
Disappeared.
Crushed.
He was driven back.
Step by step.
Until—
The edge.
One more step—
And it would be over.
The brute stopped.
Right in front of him.
A grin spread across his face.
"You didn't expect this, did you?"
His voice was calm.
Almost amused.
The longsword user let out a breath.
"…No."
A small laugh.
"I really didn't."
His grip tightened.
"I thought I had it."
A pause.
Then—
He raised his blade.
"Go on."
"Finish it."
"I'm not backing down without one last strike."
The brute's smile widened.
"Good."
They stood still.
Eyes locked.
No noise.
No distractions.
Just one moment—
Before the end.
Then—
They moved.
CLASH!
Steel collided.
A single exchange.
Clean.
Decisive.
And then—
A sharp crack echoed.
A blade—
Shattered.
Fragments spun through the air.
A body followed.
Thrown out of the arena.
The longsword user hit the ground—
Hard.
Silence fell—
Then erupted.
The brute stood alone.
Breathing steady.
Unshaken.
The referee stepped forward.
"The winner—"
"ID: 18,653."
The other guy lay on the ground.
His hands bleeding.
His weapon broken.
And yet—
His eyes were calm.
No anger.
No regret.
Only acceptance.
The greatsword guy walked toward him.
Then—
Extended his hand.
The guy blinked.
Surprised.
But after a moment—
He took it.
And stood.
"Well fought."
His voice was simple.
Honest.
The guy let out a breath.
"…I still lost."
He shrugged slightly.
"That happens."
"There's always someone stronger."
"…Heh."
The guy smiled faintly.
"…Can't argue with that."
A pause.
"My name's Carl." The long sword guy said with a smirk.
"Ben."
A firm grip.
A quiet understanding.
Two warriors.
Nothing more needed.
Carl glanced around.
"…We should move."
"The staff's waiting."
Ben scratched his head.
"…Ah—right."
They stepped away.
Leaving the arena behind.
The host's voice rose again.
Announcing the next match.
But for a moment—
The crowd was still caught—
In what they had just witnessed.
Not just a fight.
But a shift.
Proof—
That this tournament—
Was no longer a game.
At the edge of the arena—
Staff struggled slightly.
Lifting the discarded braces.
Heavy.
Unnatural.
"…What are these even made of…"
Meanwhile—
"…Wait—!"
Ben rushed back.
"…My stuff!"
He grabbed the braces quickly—
Almost sheepish.
As if nothing extraordinary had happened.
The crowd laughed lightly.
The tension eased.
But the impression—
Remained.
Because now—
Everyone understood.
This wasn't a stage for talent alone.
This was—
A battlefield.
Where only the strongest—
Would rise.
And with every passing minute—
Expectations grew.
Higher.
Sharper.
More dangerous.