Vane let out a deep breath as he looked at the lethal circle closing in around him. He dropped his shoulders, releasing all the tension from his body. There was no panic. There was only pure, ice-cold mathematics.
Seventeen people. Five earth, four metal, three wind, and the rest were complex aether manifestations.
The first move came from behind, from a metal vassal. The moment Vane felt the aether in the air condense into a razor-sharp, flexible metal whip, he instantly dropped into a crouch. The metal whip grazed through his hair and cracked violently against the chest of the wind vassal standing right across from him, sending the boy crashing to the ground.
The chaos had begun. Everyone swarmed Vane at the exact same time.
"If you are ever surrounded," Kael used to say, smacking Vane's legs with a wooden training sword, "never waste your own strength. Use their strength against them."
Vane did not summon his rusted dagger. He had no soul weapon; he was merely a target of flesh and bone. Instead of trying to deflect a sharp earth spear thrust at him, he grabbed the wrist of the boy holding it, used the momentum to his advantage by pulling the boy fiercely toward him, and ruthlessly drove his elbow into the boy's collarbone. With the sickening sound of bone snapping, Vane used the boy as a meat shield to block an incoming fireball.
The arena was utter chaos. The Pillar vassals were not used to fighting alongside one another; their coordination was zero, and their only motivation was to prove themselves to Julian. Vane turned this blind ambition into a weapon against them. He never stopped moving. He would slip into someone's blind spot, deliver a millimeter-perfect strike to a kneecap or windpipe, and instantly glide behind another target. He wasn't using his own strength; he was exploiting their blindness.
He waited for a voice in the depths of his mind. Lysandra? he probed that dark ocean. He expected her to whisper a tactic mid-battle or reveal the flow of aether. But nothing came. There was only absolute silence. The Empress was either sleeping or intentionally leaving him to face this arena alone.
A thin, satisfied smile appeared on Vane's lips. Good, he thought, grabbing another vassal by the shoulder and throwing him to the ground. I wouldn't want to share this victory with anyone anyway.
When a heavy earth hammer grazed his left shoulder, Vane gritted his teeth through the pain. His uniform tore, and blood began to seep from his arm. The blow could have shattered a normal vassal on the spot, but Vane's aether-forged veins held his muscle tissue together like armor. He didn't stumble. The heat of his own blood only made the calculating machine in his mind work faster.
Only three people were left. Vane was panting; his lungs burned and his knuckles ached, but he was still standing tall. The three vassals facing him hesitated as they looked at the fourteen bodies groaning on the ground and the cold, expressionless eyes of this "bastard." That one-second hesitation born of fear was all Vane needed.
Sliding rapidly across the sand, he closed the distance. He delivered a brutal palm strike to the jaw of the one in front, shoving the staggering body into the other two. The moment the two lost their balance, Vane's kicks—reinforced by dense, heavy aether—exploded right into their ribcages.
All three crumpled onto the sand.
The arena was finally silent. The only sounds were the groans of the writhing vassals on the ground and Vane's heavy, rhythmic breathing. His uniform was in tatters, his hands and arms covered in blood, but he had managed to walk out of that circle alone and still on his feet.
There was movement in the bleachers.
The maniacal laughter had vanished from the mysterious boy's face, replaced by a look of shock and deep discomfort. He hadn't expected Vane to be this savage, this skilled.
Julian slowly sat up straight in his chair. He fixed his eyes on Vane's bloody, expressionless face. There was not a single trace of emotion on the Prince's face—not the slightest hint of surprise or anger. With heavy steps, Julian stood up. He didn't even attempt to walk down the bleacher stairs. He just looked down at Vane from above with a soulless gaze.
"It can't be helped..." Julian said, his voice echoing through the massive arena. "I won't go back on my word, nor will I break my own rule."
Julian gave a slight nod to the mysterious boy beside him, signaling it was time to leave. Right before turning around to head for the arena's exit, he looked over his shoulder at Vane. With absolute coldness and a highly cynical expression, he whispered.
"See you at the event... brother."
The heavy iron doors opened with a loud creak, and Julian exited the arena.
Vane was left entirely alone amidst dozens of groaning Pillar vassals on the ground. He wiped a drop of sweat from his eye with the back of his bloody hand. His entire body was screaming in pain; he was completely exhausted.
But the very second he relaxed his muscles and took a breath of relief...
A shadow tore free from the darkness of the doorway. Moving across the sand at an impossible, blinding speed, the silhouette appeared right in front of Vane before he could even draw a breath.
The mysterious boy had not left the arena.
The tip of the boy's cold, jagged sword was suddenly and ruthlessly pressed directly against Vane's throat. That maniacal grin had returned to his face.