The night before the tournament, Mireholt did not sleep.
The city's lower districts hummed with energy—flickering lanterns swaying over cobbled streets, music echoing from corner taverns, vendors shouting over the din to sell charred meat skewers or fried lotus cakes. Laughter mingled with the clink of mugs and the occasional distant shout of a thief caught mid-swipe.
Tarin had nearly chased down a pickpocket himself before dinner.
"I wasn't even holding anything," he'd muttered after. "They just assumed I had coin."
"You look like an easy mark," Veyla had teased.
That night, the group slept in a modest stone lodge near the arena's outer ring. Marcel barely slept, shard pulsing faintly under his skin. Not from threat, but from something else—excitement. Or perhaps wariness. The competition was important.
Crucial, even.
It wasn't just about strength.
It was integration. A way to step into this world without leaning on the shard. A chance to stand on his own and measure where he was.
Dawn broke like thunder.
By midmorning, the circular arena was alive. Thousands gathered, flanked by warded watchtowers and shaded stone steps. Merchants sold trinkets bearing contestant names. Crowds yelled, cheered, and speculated wildly. Banners fluttered in the breeze, some gilded, others smeared with painted sigils.
Commentators spoke from an elevated platform near the judges' seat.
"—and here's the updated betting board, folks!" one boomed. "Top of the list, as expected, Veyla of the Blazing Grove! Eight-to-one odds! And let's not forget Kael 'The Splitjaw'—rumor says he took down a frost-tiger last week without drawing steel!"
A massive parchment list had been nailed to the outer gate wall. Contestants' names were etched in black ink, with rumored abilities scribbled beside them:
Veyla – Beastcaller, Dual Emberblades – 'Unmatched speed' Kael Splitjaw – Two-Handed Wrecker – 'S-ranked brawler from the 8th' Lira – Focused Magic – 'Silent but sharp' Tarin – Power Striker – 'Untrained but dangerous' Marcel – ??? – 'Unknown potential, linked to shard'
There were others, dozens more—hunters from nearby cities, wanderers, Guild trainees. The gossip around them thickened like fog.
"I heard the boy with the bandaged hand survived the Mistveil Dungeon."
"No way. That's suicide-tier."
"Still betting on the Veyla girl. Look at her—she's not even winded."
Marcel's first match was against a flame-weaver from Stonegrove. She moved fast, streaks of fire lashing from her fingertips. But Marcel had trained his body relentlessly. Without relying on the shard, he used raw speed and instincts—dodging low, countering high, until the girl yielded beneath his sweep kick.
The crowd exploded. Cheers rang from every side. A group of younger girls near the eastern terrace shrieked his name. "The shard boy! He's cute!"
"Cute?" one man laughed. "He moves like a ghost."
Tarin's bout followed. He faced a brute with reinforced gloves, but Tarin's precision—deceptively clean—let him knock the man cold with a palm strike to the neck.
"Didn't expect that from the quiet brother," a betting agent muttered. "Odds just shifted."
Lira's battle was graceful—magic circles blinking around her like petals. She subdued her opponent without even landing a physical blow. A pair of twin brothers watching from a shaded ledge immediately started arguing over who should court her first.
Then came Veyla.
She didn't fight.
She dismantled.
A rank C martialist came at her with twin axes, and in four seconds flat, he was on the ground, wheezing, Emberjaw growling softly from the waiting pen. The crowd was silent for a heartbeat—then roared.
"She's not even trying!" someone shouted.
Marcel wiped sweat from his brow. Watching her, he felt it—how far he still had to go.
But that was fine.
He was climbing.
Other matches blurred by, but some fighters stood out. Rokan the Chainwinder—his style bizarre but effective. Aya of the Sapphire Fang, a spear-dancer with venom-tipped strikes. Even a dark horse archer named Sylen who never missed a shot.
Commentators called names, speculated ranks, shouted the highlights.
"And THAT'S how you make a blade sing, folks! Did you see Sylen's last shot?"
One match before the quarterfinals, the bell sounded and the last pair clashed in the center. Sparks flew. Blood splattered the sand.
But the crowd wanted more.
Betting agents threw up new slips. Spectators shouted across aisles, some waving flags, others painted with names across their bare chests. A merchant's daughter swooned at the sight of Kael flexing after his win.
The air thickened with heat, excitement, desire.
And the next round hadn't even begun.
Marcel looked toward the sky, his breath even.
He was still in. So were his siblings.
The quarterfinals were next.
And something told him the real battles hadn't begun yet.
The morning air buzzed with excitement. Flags fluttered along the walkways, painted in the colors of local guilds and noble sponsors. By dawn, the stands were already half full, the scent of roasted meats and spice wine floating through the coliseum.
Marcel stood behind the inner gate, fingers laced behind his back as he listened to the chants from the crowd. His name had grown louder with each round. Not from dominance—no, his fights had been hard-earned. But the mystery of his strength, the subtle hum of his aura without a clear artifact, had sparked countless whispers.
Tarin clapped him on the shoulder, his armor scuffed from his own bout earlier. "Don't freeze when the crowd roars. Just think of it like another spar."
Marcel smirked. "That why your opponent's still groaning in the healer's tent?"
Tarin laughed. "That one called me a sidekick. I had to kick him."
Veyla leaned against the gate's stone edge, silent. Her earlier duel had ended in under a minute, her opponent floored by a single burst of compressed flame from Emberjaw. The crowd had gone silent, then erupted. She didn't show it, but Marcel knew she enjoyed the quiet awe.
A loud voice echoed from the center platform.
"Attention! The final pairing for the quarterfinals is up!"
All heads turned toward the huge parchment nailed to the Arena's stone wall. Spectators rushed over, scribes noting updates. A murmur spread.
QUARTERFINAL MATCHES
1. Lura Veld vs Rakan Ironspine – "Wind Fang vs Shield Beast"
2. Kessai Drehl vs Veyla Thorne – "Twin Claws vs Emberjaw's Flame"
3. Tarin Jekz vs Roul Skarn – "Blade Storm vs Earth Pulse"
4. Marcel Jekz vs Saren Vok – "The Unknown vs The Clanless Hunter"