The city was alive with noise.
Banners hung across stone archways, painted with dragons and swords, fluttering above packed streets. Vendors roasted skewers that filled the air with savory smoke, gamblers shouted odds on fighters they hadn't even seen yet, and children ran with wooden practice swords, clanging them together with shouts of "Champion!"
For the first time in his life, Orin felt small beneath something so big. But only for half a second. Then his grin stretched ear to ear.
"WAAAAHHHH! LOOK, MASTER CODE!" he shouted, arms spread wide. "They're already celebrating me!"
"They're celebrating the tournament," Code said, staff tapping against the cobblestones.
"Same thing!" Orin spun in a circle, nearly colliding with a man carrying a basket of fruit. "Strongest fists! Strongest cheers! Strongest wives!"
The man snarled. "Whose brat is this?"
"I'm the brat who'll be your next champion!" Orin declared proudly, peach juice dripping down his chin.
Code didn't even sigh this time.
The registration hall was chaos incarnate.
Burly mercenaries shouted their names. Lean monks stood calmly, waiting their turn. Knights in polished armor filled the chamber with the smell of oiled steel.
And then came Orin—pushing through legs twice his size until he slammed his palms on the clerk's desk hard enough to spill ink.
"SIGN ME UP FOR THE STRONGEST CATEGORY!" he bellowed.
The clerk, a man whose face looked older than paper, blinked down at him. "…Kid, the junior bracket is next door."
Orin puffed out his chest. "I'm no kid! Put me in the adult division!"
A wave of laughter rolled through the hall.
"Heh—this brat's serious?"
"Barely taller than my knee."
"He'll be carried out in pieces."
Orin ignored them. "My fists are already seventeen years old!"
The laughter grew deafening. The clerk groaned. "Minimum age sixteen. You're what, ten?"
Before Orin could shout again, Code stepped up. His presence silenced half the hall. His voice was calm, unshakable. "He will enter."
Something in those words made the clerk swallow hard. He scribbled Orin's name, stamping it. "Fine. But don't blame us when the boy doesn't walk out."
Orin leapt into the air, pumping his fists. "YESSS! STRONG PUNCHES, HERE I COME!"
The arena itself towered above the city like a crown. Orin snuck past a distracted guard and ran straight to the center ring.
He spun in circles, gazing at the vast stone stands rising like cliffs, banners whipping in the wind. His grin widened. "THIS IS PERFECT! I'll own this place tomorrow!"
"HEY! Get out of there!" a guard roared, chasing across the sand.
Orin shadow-boxed, sending loud whooshes through the air. "Don't worry, sir! I'm just blessing the ring with victory vibes!"
The guard swung his halberd. Orin ducked, sprinted through his legs, and bolted out laughing.
Night fell, and with it, the parade.
Trumpets blared from the governor's balcony. The crowd swelled beneath torchlight.
Mayor Geralt Veyra stepped forward, broad shoulders under robes, beard trimmed to sharp lines. He raised both arms.
"Citizens! Tomorrow, the Grand Martial Tournament begins. Fighters will battle not just for the crown, but for glory, and the pride of this city!"
Cheers thundered. And then she stepped beside him.
Silver-ash hair spilled down her back, catching torchlight in threads of pale blue. Emerald eyes scanned the crowd—sharp, calm, like a blade sheathed in velvet. She wore a gown of white and sapphire trim, jewels glittering at her throat.
The square erupted. "Lady Yullan Veyra!"
The wali kota's daughter.
Orin's jaw dropped so fast it nearly hit the cobblestones. His heart pounded like a drum.
"PRETTY GIRL ALERT!" he roared. "FUTURE WIFE CANDIDATE NUMBER THREEEE!"
The square froze. Then chaos. Laughter, gasps, curses. Guards cursed and pushed through the crowd.
On the balcony, Yullan blinked, cheeks flushed faint pink. But instead of outrage, she tilted her head slightly. Her lips curved. Her voice carried like a bell:
"Then survive the tournament, wild boy. Let's see if your fists are stronger than your mouth."
The crowd howled. Some laughed, some jeered, some clapped.
Orin's face lit up like fire. He pumped his fists. "YES! SHE ACCEPTED THE PROPOSAL!"
Guards surged toward him, but Orin slipped through legs, laughing like a demon set loose.
On the balcony, Yullan lowered her lashes, hiding her smile. Her father frowned in confusion, but she whispered softly: Interesting.
Among the competitors stood a youth in pristine martial robes, arms folded. His aura was steady, disciplined. He sneered.
"A circus brat. If this is my competition, what a waste."
His master, older and calm, only murmured: "Don't underestimate storms. Sometimes chaos wears a fool's face."
The prodigy scoffed, but his gaze lingered on Orin.
That night, Orin sprawled on his tavern bed, arms behind his head, drool pooling on the pillow. He mumbled half-asleep: "Tomorrow… stronger punches… bigger stage… and another wife…"
Code sat at the table in the corner, sipping tea in silence. His eyes flicked once to the boy.
The world is about to meet him, he thought. And the world is not ready.