The announcer's majestic, booming voice rang across the arena: "The first match is over!"
Millie's racing heartbeat, which had been pounding in rapid bursts, slowly began to calm. The fresh thrill of excitement had wrapped everyone seated around her in heavy silence. Only the announcer's dignified, weighty voice remained dominant in the air.
Millie found Keave sprawled unconscious, face-down on the red stone. When she glanced toward Rukmini, he stood perfectly straight. Streams of blood covered his face. This was not the outcome Millie had hoped for. Watching Keave's moves earlier, she had been certain he would be the victor.
She had already placed both of them in the category of unbelievable performers. Jaw-dropping and strange — these two words described them perfectly. After all, in Millie's opinion, it was rare to witness such raw power in people so young.
The announcer glided through the air and reached the two of them. While carefully inspecting their condition, his lips curved into a smile and trembled slightly as he declared: "Rukmini is proclaimed the victor of this round. 10 points go to his name."
Half the speechless crowd suddenly found their voice and erupted into powerful cheers. The other half remained stunned and silent.
For Millie, words like "defeat" and "victory" felt absurd. When two people fight each other, they pour their entire life force into it. Victory may belong to the stronger, but the one who loses — he too was fighting with every single drop of his blood. Both fighters battle for their deepest desires. Both desperately want to win. When there is no difference in their will, what does mere strength matter? Her gaze remained fixed on Keave.
Beside her, the once‑wilted Tessa's face had brightened. Her eyes were fixed on Rukmini, drenched in blood. Pulling her gaze away from the admiring Tessa, Millie looked toward Neon, who sat with the same lifted expression as before.
The announcer circled around Keave and declared, "Keave is given one minute. If he does not rise, without another round, Rukmini will be announced the victor." Rukmini, standing with his head bowed, suddenly turned his eyes toward Keave. Millie saw it clearly—Rukmini's gaze shifting to the blood‑soaked face lying motionless on the stone.
After a brief wait, the announcer's lips fluttered: "Ten… nine…" Millie longed to see Keave rise. From what Millie had seen of him, he was strange, but she is certain of one thing that surrender was not in his nature. Her eyes stayed locked on Keave, just as Rukmini's did.
"Seven… six…" Still nothing. He remained silent and still. A part of Millie believed in him, while another part trembled in fear. "Four… three… two…" The fearful part grew stronger—until a burst of mad laughter seized the moment.
Keave, lying flat, was laughing. Blood poured rapidly around him. Planting both hands firmly, he pushed himself upright. His face was torn and battered, his skin split, streams of blood cascading. Yet the strange thing was—he was still smiling. Millie thought that if anyone else had suffered such wounds, they would have been unconscious. But this was Keave Rogers.
Then, woven into his laughter, Millie heard the words: "I am always ready, brown‑moustached one!" The announcer faltered, startled. Keave's eyes locked onto Rukmini—whose own eyes were fixed on Keave.
The announcer, his expression subdued, said, "The second round between Keave and Rukmini will begin shortly." He said something to them in low voice after that".
Millie no longer watched them. Her neck, held upright for so long, had grown weary. She leaned her head back against the surface of the chair. After a while, she saw Keave and Rukmini walking down the dark road toward her. Why were they coming closer? Could it be that they knew she was Miss Maryland's only daughter, and were approaching to ask her about them?
Millie quickly criticized her own wandering thoughts. Then she remembered—every year the fighters rested in the privileged area.
Turning to Tessa, who sat beside her lost in daydreams, Millie said, "They'll sit on the golden chairs! Every year the fighters sit there." Tessa said nothing. The fire of her daydreams had already gone out.
A little ahead, Keave and Rukmini were indeed seated on the golden chairs—two seats apart from each other.
In a rough voice, Tessa said, "Keave has lost so much blood—why is he here instead of with a healer?" Millie knew the answer. He couldn't leave; it was the rule of the tournament. She told Tessa, "He can't go. No one is allowed outside before three rounds are complete." Neon added sharply, "The wielder's rules have always been senseless."
Millie was about to respond when she noticed Keave looking around. His pale blue eyes suddenly fixed on them. She saw him scanning the crowd, then stopping on them. With his blood‑soaked hand, he gave a faint wave. Beautiful though he was, the gesture seemed terrifying. His hand, dripping with blood, lifted again—it was haunting.
Tessa, frightened, said nothing. Neon dismissed such gestures without care. And Millie herself had no idea how to respond. In that moment, all three of them ignored him in silence, as if speaking a single language of avoidance.
Rukmini felt it all in silence. After some time, the announcer summoned both of them back into the arena. Keave rose with renewed energy, though blood was still dripping from his wounds. Turning toward the three girls, he called out, "Ladies, don't worry about me—this time I'll be the one to win."
Millie had no idea how to respond to such strange behavior. From beside her came a muttered voice: "If you focused more on fighting than talking, you might actually win." It was Neon.
Once again, the two fighters stood face to face. Not far from them was an ordinary man, his hands and feet bound with thorny green ropes. Two others held him tightly in place.