"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Pierre clicked his tongue, the sharp sound slicing through the quiet alley. "Lost already?"
"Aaaah… whaaatever shall we dooo about this?" he dragged his words out mockingly, leaning back casually. His fingertips traced lazy patterns along his head, a picture of amused superiority.
Jurgen blinked, eyes narrowing, cheeks burning faintly. "I — I'm not lost!"
Pierre tilted his head, smirk widening like a predator's. "Oh? Not lost… really now?"
Jurgen's hands flailed, one clutching the crumpled map, the other raking through his hair in frustration. "I just… I just need a minute!"
"Tch… a minute, huh?" Pierre's finger tapped lightly against his temple, the other eye winking mischievously. "Sure, take your aaaah… whaaatever time you need."
Jurgen groaned, shoulders slumping against the cold, rough wall, exhaustion and exasperation etched into every line of his posture. "You're enjoying this way too much…"
"Of course," Pierre replied smoothly, leaning back once more, eyes glinting. "Who among the two of us, EXCEPT YOU! might know the wayyyyyy, hmm… I wonder."
"You know the way, don't you?" Jurgen's voice cracked slightly, frustration bleeding into reluctant humility, his wide eyes shimmering like tiny, pleading kittens.
"Who knows?" Pierre answered sharply, eyes darting with amusement and mischief.
Jurgen's map drooped from his grasp as he snapped his gaze back, desperation flaring. "So… which way do I go?"
"Hm? Sounded like you said something… I didn't quite catch that." Pierre leaned forward, hands pressed lightly behind his ears in mock attentiveness, smirk playing on his lips.
"Please, Pierre… which way do I take to get to the Trials?" Jurgen's voice softened, almost pleading this time, the rigidity of his pride melting under sheer exasperation.
Gohon! A soft cough punctuated the moment. Pierre finally turned, gesturing vaguely to the left. "Well… you would've known if you'd waited for your map to be delivered."
"Map?" Jurgen tilted his head, brow furrowed, irritation cracking his voice. "What map?… I thought we had to find the way ourselves… I even went out of my way to get this rough old map of the town!"
"You're hopeless. The map probably just arrived at your home; the Trials are still two hours away."
Pierre let out a low, measured sigh, the sound faint but deliberate. "Officials' maps are delivered directly to the homes of participants. Not that you'd know."
"Well…" Jurgen paused, the corner of his mouth tightening. "Yeah, I have no argument."
Ah… dammit. Jurgen's thoughts flickered behind his calm façade. "If the map gets delivered it'll end up with Hana. Tch… I can only pray she doesn't get any funny ideas.
"What is it?" Pierre asked, eyes flicking briefly to the delicate sweep of his pocket watch.
"Nothing. Just… remembered something." Jurgen tightened the strap of his slightly loose bag, the leather creaking faintly beneath his fingers.
Ahead, a large, weathered wooden gate slowly emerged through the morning haze, its paint faded and peeling, hinges groaning softly as the wind stirred around it.
Jurgen's eyes narrowed, every muscle in his body taut.
"You're going to meet a lot of people there," Pierre said calmly, voice smooth and measured. "Best keep your cool."
"Don't insult me," Jurgen shot back, tone sharp as ice. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, "So… how do you know the way so well?"
Pierre adjusted his glasses sharply, tilting his head to meet Jurgen's gaze, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Well… I… I've been here before. B-Besides, I'm helping you, aren't I? That's more than enough." A nervous chuckle followed, betraying his composed exterior.
Jurgen spared him only a sidelong glance, his attention already drawn to the imposing gateway ahead.
His heart thudded in his chest, the rhythm quickening as he approached.
Every step carried a mixture of anticipation and unease; his eyes were wide, alert, brimming with the weight of what awaited beyond the old wooden doors.
They approached the gate with slow, measured steps, each one echoing faintly against the weathered wood.
Jurgen paused at the threshold, eyes scanning the winding pathways that led to the massive doors.
Shadows shifted in the distance, silhouettes flickering like restless phantoms, their forms half-hidden in the morning light.
His heart pounded, a drumbeat against his ribs. Sweat slicked his palm as he gripped the cold metal latch, fingers tightening instinctively.
With a forceful push, the enormous doors groaned, protesting with a low, resonant creak as they swung open.
Beyond them, a carpet of green grass stretched endlessly, vibrant and almost unreal beneath the sun's early glow. The doors swung fully aside, revealing the open expanse like a stage awaiting its first player.
He stepped forward, calm in appearance, though a shiver ran down his spine. A soft breeze whispered across the field, ruffling his hair and brushing his skin, prompting him to lift a hand instinctively to shield his eyes from the sunlight.
Across the field, faces turned toward him, strangers and perhaps familiar figures alike, all eyes unreadable, tracing his movements with quiet intensity.
A trickle of sweat slid down his chin, dampening the tension in his jaw.
"Hey, Pierre—" he called over his shoulder, glancing back.
The space behind him was empty. Pierre was gone.
Only the remained eyes fixed upon him from every angle, some curious, some indifferent, some judging.
He drew a slow breath, gathering every ounce of composure he could muster, forcing his legs to carry him forward.
Damn that bastard, he thought, a flash of irritation mixed with adrenaline.
As he advanced, the collective gaze of the crowd seemed to lift, almost predatory, following his every step.
From the elevated platform where spectators watched the tournaments, shadowed figures lingering in observation, analyzing, studying, their intentions hidden beneath darkened silhouettes.
A deep, resonant voice boomed across the arena, rolling over the gathered crowd like a wave of command.
"Prodigies from the four corners of the world, I welcome you to the Truemann Trials! My name is Lord Nemesio Aurelius… Emperor of Mercedes!"
He stepped forward with measured grace, each movement exuding authority, the hem of his ceremonial robes brushing lightly against the polished platform beneath him.
The sun caught the gold embroidery on his shoulders, casting a subtle, almost blinding gleam.
"Every one of you stands among the finest of your generation. Skill, talent, potential, they are meaningless unless you push beyond them.
This tournament is not merely a showcase of what you can do, but a crucible to reveal what you cannot… and then shatter those limits."
His gaze swept the crowd, sharp and unwavering, eyes that seemed to pierce through hesitation.
"Do not fear your rivals. Do not fear defeat. The only thing you should fear is holding yourself back, letting doubt blind you to the heights you are capable of reaching."
He raised a hand, palm open, gesturing to the field below. "Step forward. Test your limits. Reveal your talent, your strategy, your heart. Face your reflection on the battlefield, and become the strongest version of yourself!"
A short pause followed, the weight of his words settling over the arena like a tangible force. Then his voice softened slightly, still commanding, still regal:
"Now then, I've said enough. I will leave the rest to Lord Leonidas. I wish you all a successful match today, fight with honor, and fight with courage!"
With that, he slid smoothly, the motion precise and controlled, and settled into his ornate seat at the edge of the platform. Every eye followed him as he sank into position, a living symbol of authority and expectation.