[18th June]
The moment Rey stepped out of the arena—
The stadium changed.
Not in noise.
In focus.
His name spread through the stands like a ripple through still water. Low voices. Whispered guesses.
Heated arguments. Everyone had seen it—
That final punch.
That dominance.
The title Deathshot Archer… suddenly felt too small for him in public eyes.
—
Up in the Valemont stands, Edvarin Valemont leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on the arena.
A rare, satisfied glint passed through them.
Rey hadn't just won.
He had controlled the fight.
And that… mattered more.
—
Elsewhere, Hosric Valemont had already reached out.
The call came quickly.
Short.
Direct.
But even through his composed tone, there was something else beneath it—Acknowledgement.
Rey answered briefly.
Explained nothing.
He didn't need to.
What mattered more… was Fenlor.
"...He woke up."
That single line settled something inside him.
Not relief.
Not completely.
But enough.
Hosric added that the doctors had already put him back to sleep—his body needed it. Recovery wasn't something you rushed.
Then came the quiet remark—
Not everyone recovers like him.
Rey didn't respond.
But he understood.
Too well.
Back in the stands, he sat alone.
Phone buzzing.
Messages stacking.
Friend. Family. Unknown numbers.
Praise.
Questions.
Speculation.
He ignored all of it.
His gaze stayed forward—
But his thoughts weren't there.
They were still in that medic room.
Still on that broken body.
Still on that name.
Raviel.
—
Time moved.
Matches continued.
Fights came and went.
Some were skilled.
Some were desperate.
But something had changed.
After what Rey showed—
Everything else felt… quieter.
Less sharp.
Like the edge had already been revealed.
Until—
A shift.
Subtle.
But real.
"The next match—"
A voice echoed.
And just like that—
The attention returned.
Because one name remained.
Gravion.
—
He walked into the arena casually.
Too casually.
Smile light.
Posture relaxed.
Like he wasn't stepping into a ranked match—
But into something already decided.
Rey's eyes narrowed slightly.
Then—
He saw the opponent.
Recognition came instantly.
The same noble from the café.
The same one who had picked a fight before.
A coincidence?
Rey didn't believe in those anymore.
His lips curved faintly.
'No… this is how it works around him.'
The so-called chosen ones didn't chase moments.
Moments arranged themselves.
On the field—
The noble stepped forward first.
Confidence wasn't the right word.
It was… delusion.
"Referee," he said loudly, voice carrying across the arena, "you might as well stay ready. This won't take long."
A few scattered chuckles.
Most people didn't react.
Not the way he expected.
"I'll give you two minutes," he continued, looking straight at Gravion. "After that, you'll be carried out. You should consider yourself lucky you even made it this far."
—
Silence.
Then—
A shift in the crowd.
No agreement.
No support.
Something closer to secondhand embarrassment.
Even among the nobles, a few expressions stiffened.
Some turned away entirely.
—
Gravion didn't react immediately.
Then he lifted a hand—
And pointed… upward.
"Look around."
The noble frowned.
Then glanced.
And froze.
The crowd wasn't mocking Gravion.
They were looking at him.
—
"You're mistaken," Gravion said lightly.
"The one being laughed at… isn't me."
The noble's face tightened.
Confusion.
Then anger.
From the stands, Rey exhaled slowly.
'…Idiot.'
At this level—
If you still believed status decided outcomes—
You deserved what was coming.
—
The signal was given.
The match began.
The noble rushed forward immediately.
No control.
No patience.
Sword raised—
A straight strike aimed at Gravion's neck.
But it never reached.
Gravion's hand moved once.
Clean.
Precise.
He caught the blade mid-motion.
Not deflected.
Stopped.
Completely.
For a second—
The arena went still.
Gravion looked at the sword.
Then, at the man holding it.
His brows drew together slightly.
"…I'm curious."
His voice wasn't loud.
But it carried.
"How did you even make it this far?"
A small twist of his wrist—
Crack.
The sword snapped.
Clean through the middle.
The noble staggered back.
Empty-handed.
Eyes wide.
Breathing uneven.
Gravion stepped forward.
Slow.
Measured.
Each step heavier than the last.
Not physically.
But in the presence.
He grabbed the noble by the collar.
Lifted him slightly.
Brought him close.
Close enough to see the fear settling in.
"I told you before," Gravion said quietly, almost conversational.
"Some people… you shouldn't look down on."
Then he let go.
The noble dropped.
Hard.
"What do you want?" Gravion tilted his head slightly.
"A broken arm?"
"A leg?"
"…or both?"
—
The answer never came.
Because the beating started before the question finished settling.
Not wild.
Not uncontrolled.
But deliberate.
Each strike placed.
Each hit measured.
Slaps.
Kicks.
Blows that humiliated more than they injured—
But hurt enough to be remembered.
The noble didn't fight back.
Couldn't.
—
By the time it ended—
His face was swollen.
Unrecognizable.
His body barely holding itself up.
Gravion stepped back.
Looked at him once.
Then—
A single kick.
Clean.
Brutal.
The noble's body flew out of the arena.
Hit the ground outside.
And stayed there.
—
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
But not for Gravion.
He turned.
Walked off after taking his ID badge.
Didn't look back.
—
No one spoke.
Not the crowd.
Not the nobles.
Not even the ones who had stood beside that man before.
Because everyone understood one thing now.
That wasn't cruelty.
That was a consequence.
Medics eventually stepped in.
Picked the noble up like a discarded weight.
Removed him.
Quietly.
—
From the stands, Rey watched it all.
Expression unreadable.
'Unlucky.'
That was the only word that fit.
Not because he lost.
Because of who he stood against.
—
Rey had seen enough stories.
Enough patterns.
People like Gravion—
They didn't just win.
They moved forward.
And everything in their path either followed…
Or broke.
He leaned back slightly.
Eyes half-lidded.
'Better to stay out of that current.'
If fate wanted to revolve around someone—
Let it.
He had no intention of becoming another piece inside it.
—
The final match of the round followed.
Fast.
Clean.
Forgettable.
No one said it out loud—
But the day had already peaked.
As the arena settled—
And the officials began preparing for the next phase—
One thing became clear.
From hundreds…
Only a few remained.
Twenty-five contestants.
And from here—
There would be no easy fights left.
The arena didn't move forward.
It stalled.
The crowd buzzed with confusion.
Twenty-five contestants remained.
An uneven number.
No one understood how the next round would proceed.
Speculation spread quickly—different formats, sudden eliminations, maybe even special matches.
But nothing concrete.
—
Time passed.
Slow.
Dragging.
Nearly half an hour later—
The lights shifted.
The murmurs died down.
—
The judges returned.
The Host stepped forward once again, holding a thin sheet in his hand.
All remaining contestants—whether in the stands or resting areas—focused.
Even those injured.
Even those eliminated.
Because from here on—
Every decision mattered.
But not everyone was watching from the stands.
Inside the medic hall—
Gravion sat beside a resting figure.
Davin.
His face was still swollen.
Bruises hadn't fully settled.
But he was awake.
—
"…I don't remember the end."
Davin spoke quietly.
Fragments only.
The fight.
The pressure.
Then—
Nothing.
A blank void.
—
Gravion didn't explain everything.
Didn't mention how he lost control.
Didn't mention how close it could have gone.
He only told him one thing.
"You lost."
—
Silence followed.
Brief.
Then—
"…He's strong."
No frustration.
No anger.
Just certainty.
Davin leaned back slightly, eyes drifting.
"That guy… he should join us."
—
Gravion blinked once.
That… wasn't the reaction he expected.
Not disappointment.
Not even irritation.
Just… acceptance.
And interest.
"He's needed."
Davin added, almost stubbornly.
"You said we need strong people."
—
Gravion exhaled softly.
Then nodded.
"I'll try."
That was enough.
Davin relaxed.
Closed his eyes.
Within moments—
Sleep took him again.
Gravion remained seated.
His gaze shifted to the large screen mounted on the wall.
The Host had already begun.
"As the Third Round concludes… we now stand with the Top 25 contestants."
His voice echoed across the entire stadium.
Clear.
Controlled.
"But this presents… a complication."
A pause.
Just enough to pull attention tighter.
"To resolve this—seven contestants will receive a bye."
A ripple spread instantly.
—
"They will advance directly to the fifth round."
"While the remaining eighteen… will battle."
A box was brought forward.
Simple.
Sealed.
With a narrow opening at the top.
—
"The selection… will be random."
That single word changed everything.
Back in the stands—
Rey leaned forward slightly.
Eyes fixed.
Breathing steady.
Luck.
Something he rarely relied on.
—
The Host slid his hand into the box.
Pulled out the first chit.
—
An ID was called.
A cheer erupted somewhere in the stands.
—
Then another.
And another.
—
Each name removed tension from one person—
And added it to everyone else.
—
Rey watched carefully.
Tracking.
Calculating.
Three byes gone.
No major names.
—
Four.
Five.
Still nothing.
Gravion?
No.
Raviel?
No.
—
Six.
The pressure built.
—
Only one left.
—
Even Gravion, watching from the medic hall, narrowed his eyes slightly.
Not anxious.
But attentive.
—
The Host reached in one last time.
Pulled out the final chit.
Paused.
Let the silence stretch.
"And the last bye goes to… ID 21,048."
A roar.
Loud.
Explosive.
Someone's fortune had just changed completely.
Rey leaned back slowly.
Exhaled.
—
No luck.
Again.
—
But his gaze sharpened.
Because something mattered more—
Neither Gravion.
Nor Raviel.
Had received a bye.
—
Good.
No interference.
No hidden manipulation.
At least… on the surface.
—
But on the stage—
No one noticed the Host's hand.
Still partially closed.
Three chits.
Folded together.
Hidden within his hand.
—
His expression didn't change.
But his eyes—
Held something colder.
—
"As for the remaining eighteen contestants…"
He gestured upward.
"The matchups will now be displayed."
—
All eyes lifted.
—
The screen flickered.
IDs began to roll.
Fast.
Unpredictable.
—
Then—
Stopped.
First match.
Nothing major.
Second.
Still normal.
—
Then—
Third.
A shift.
—
A name that carried weight.
A flame elementalist.
Known.
Respected.
Feared for his destructive output.
—
A murmur spread.
—
Then—
The second ID rolled.
Slowed.
Stopped.
—
Silence.
—
Because the name that appeared—
Didn't belong there.
Not by chance.
Not by comfort.
Gravion.
Back in the medic hall—
Gravion's brows lifted slightly.
Surprise.
Just for a second.
Then—
A smile.
Slow.
Knowing.
'So it starts early.'
On the stage—
The Host's fingers brushed against the chit still in his hand.
Unseen.
—
Gravion's ID.
The other two chits still folded.
—
The matches continued.
Fourth.
Fifth.
Then—
Sixth.
—
The screen shifted again.
One ID appeared.
Clear.
Sharp.
—
19,082.
—
Rey.
—
His posture straightened.
Not tense.
But ready.
—
His eyes locked onto the screen.
Waiting.
—
The second slot began to roll.
Slow.
Slower.
The entire stadium held its breath.
Even Gravion leaned forward slightly now.
Interested.
The roll stopped.
And in that instant—
The noise died completely.
Because the number that appeared—
Didn't just announce a match.
It announced something inevitable.
ID: 01
A name without needing introduction.
Raviel Ashcroft.
—
For a moment—
Nothing moved.
Then the tension exploded.
Some felt excitement.
Some felt dread.
Some… simply watched.
—
Because everyone understood—
This wasn't just another match.
This was collision.
—
Rey didn't look away.
Not even for a second.
His lips curved.
Slightly.
Cold.
Sharp.
'Finally.'
His gaze lifted—
Toward the highest stand.
Toward the Duke.
'No more distance now.'
Inside him—
The anger that had been simmering—
Didn't calm.
Didn't fade.
It focused.
'Raviel…
This time—
You won't walk away untouched.'
As the host unfolded the two chits in his hand, both displayed the IDs of Rey and Raviel.
His cold gaze swept over the crowd as he hid away those sheets, not letting anyone see them.