Tareth slashed again — high, then low, then twisted in for a gut strike, his blade came ablaze with fire mana. Caelith didn't dodge this time.
He stepped into the blade, pivoting slightly, catching the inside of Tareth's wrist with one hand, and slammed his shoulder into the boy's chest. Tareth stumbled, feet skidding in the dust.
Then Caelith moved.
One cut upward — not with his blade, but with the back of his hand. It caught Tareth under the chin and snapped his head back.
He followed with a kick to the thigh. When the noble staggered, Caelith spun for a spinning heel kick, feinted high, and swept Tareth's legs from beneath him.
The boy landed hard. Sand sprayed. The crowd gasped.
Tareth coughed and rolled, scrambling up, but Caelith was already on him. He drew Ashthorn — not fully, just enough to let the light catch the strange alloy. It shimmered, both dull and sharp, as if resisting the sun.
Tareth looked up, eyes narrowing. His voice had lost its mockery.
"Who are you?"
Caelith didn't answer.
He moved.
Ashthorn came down in a rising arc, meeting Tareth's blade. Steel rang out, and the noble's sword flew from his grip.
Tareth was on his back now, blood in his mouth, his hair tangled across his brow. He looked up — and for a flicker of a moment, Caelith saw it.
Shame.
And behind it?
Panic.
The crowd was watching. His family was watching.
Caelith followed his gaze — to the noble box on the far left tier.
A tall man in deep frost-colored robes stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Lord Kelenvas. Tareth's father. Other nobles leaned in beside him, whispering behind fans and wine cups.
Disappointment rippled through them like smoke.
Tareth's shame was complete.
Caelith turned.
But that was a mistake.
Behind him, Tareth let out a half-snarl and raised his hand. Mana flickered to life — too rough, too fast. A raw fireball burst toward Caelith's back.
He didn't flinch.
Ashthorn slid from its sheath in one smooth motion, and with the flick of his wrist, he wove the faintest strand of Rejection into the blade.
The fireball struck steel — and scattered.
Not exploded. Not extinguished.
Dispersed.
As if the air itself had denied it form.
Caelith turned again, eyes dark.
Tareth tried to crawl backward. "W-wait—"
Too late.
Caelith stalked forward, grabbed the boy by the collar, and drove the hilt of Ashthorn into his jaw.
The crack was audible even above the crowd's roar.
Tareth crumpled, spitting blood — and a broken tooth — onto the arena floor.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat.
Then chaos erupted.
The proctor's voice cut through, strained but firm. "Match over! Victory: Orien Blackhall!"
Caelith stood above the boy, unmoving.
Then — slowly — he sheathed Ashthorn and turned from the ring.
Instructors in the higher tiers began scribbling notes. Some nobles murmured in fury. Others watched with narrowed eyes.
A no-name had just humiliated one of their own.
The next name echoed through the arena.
Not a house. Not a banner. Just a name barely anyone recognized.
"Candidate Rellin Margrave. Arena Ring Three."
No cheers. No chants. Only silence — the kind that spread not from confusion, but anticipation.
A figure stepped onto the obsidian ring.
Tall. Composed. His duelist robes were deep black with a subtle iridescence, cut with precision, and utterly lacking insignia. No crest. No trim. Just the faint shimmer of fire-thread lining woven into the seams — elegant, but understated.
He moved like smoke — fluid, without wasted motion. His shoulders never tensed. His head never turned. The moment he entered the ring, the air changed.
Even Caelith, watching from the side alcove, felt it.
There was nothing overt. No mana pressure. No intimidation. But something in the man's stance said everything.
Controlled. Cold. Calculated.
The opposing fighter entered a moment later — a bulky man with the lean build of a mercenary and the stance of someone who'd survived more brawls than tournaments. He raised his blade with a grin, confident in the anonymity of his opponent.
It lasted less than ten seconds.
The fight began with a pulse — a flick of the proctor's hand, the shimmer of mana suppressants lifting — and in that instant, the black-robed fighter moved.
No wasted movement. No build-up. Just a single step forward.
A burst of flame coiled up from his palm — not wild, not raw. It didn't explode. It narrowed, condensed into a perfect spear of heat and pressure. It struck the mercenary's blade, shattered his stance, and sent him stumbling.
The follow-up was precise. A rotation, a short blade flickered into the man's hand, and the flat of it cracked across the mercenary's temple with surgical force.
The man hit the sand, out cold.
No theatrics. No overkill.
The winner stood for a single moment longer. Then turned and walked away, vanishing through the ring's side tunnel without a word.
The crowd didn't cheer.
They just stared.
Something about that fight unsettled them more than the bloodiest matches had.
Caelith narrowed his eyes.
He didn't know the name. Didn't recognize the face. But instinct twisted in his gut.
Whoever that was — they didn't come to win a spot.
They came to leave a message.
The bracket boards shimmered overhead — golden threads of mana adjusting, rotating names, updating scores.
New names rose. Old ones vanished. Caelith's — or rather Orien Blackhall's — now held a place closer to the center.
He was through.
He stood just outside the southern corridor, Ashthorn sheathed across his back, when a familiar voice broke the air beside him.
"Barely even two minutes," Farren said, slipping out from a line of stone columns. "Not bad for a ghost."
Caelith gave no reply.
Farren didn't need one.
"Word's spreading," he continued, tone light, grin tight. "They're not saying your name yet — but the scribes have started circling it. You've officially graduated from 'unremarkable' to 'we should keep an eye on this one.'"
He whistled low. "Brutality gets attention. Precision earns fear. You, my friend, gave them both."
Caelith shifted slightly, his gaze on the boards above.
"Last match, Farren of the plains versus John Verbolt." The announcer's voice echoed.
Farren gave a wry smile and walked toward the deck. Caelith, intrigued to learn more about the mysterious sly man, followed, an excitement in his heart to see how well the confident companion he had found could fight.
Ten minutes later, Caelith was severely disappointed, as Farren stood alone on the field.
"Winner Farren of the plains, forfeit."
Farren walked into the hold smiling widely while he greeted Caelith.
Caelith gave a quiet remark. "What are the odds?"
Farren gave him a dubious smirk and replied, "100%".
Farren continued before Caelith could reply. "Ah, yes. The next test."
A ripple of energy swept through the arena as new banners unfurled — this time black-trimmed with copper threads. The proctor's voice echoed moments later.
"Round Four: Commencing in four hours. 80 competitors."
A beat.
"Battle Royale format. Mana permitted. Elimination by knockout, submission, or ejection from the field. Last three standing advance."
The crowd roared in anticipation.
Farren exhaled through his teeth. "There it is. The bloodletting. This round isn't for sport — it's to weed out the clever ones who slipped past the last fights. Chaos and open mana? The board's going to light up like a bonfire. This test doesn't even matter for you, you've already secured a place with your skill. The fourth round is for weeding and ranking. The top ten when you enroll in the academy will receive 'honors' status."
He leaned in, voice quieter now.
"This is where the rules stop pretending to be fair. Where nobles can gang up to remove all the commoners in the ring, the ultimate test for us. Where the instructors look the other way. You see someone too clean still standing after this? A House backs them. This test is also why I've enlisted your help. Get me to the second test and we're square."
Caelith still didn't speak. But his jaw shifted — slightly clenched.
Farren nodded once. "Yeah. I figured you'd get it. This round isn't about winning. It's about surviving the lie."
He turned to go — then paused.
"Oh. And before I forget…" His eyes gleamed. "That black-robed fellow in Ring Three? No one knows who he is. Not even the bookies. They couldn't trace the sponsor. No sigil. No origin. Name on the sheet means nothing."
He met Caelith's gaze fully now.
"Which, between you and me, is terrifying. Because if I can't find a thread on someone? They either don't exist — or they're someone too high to be named. Thankfully, we do know that he's connected to House Vykrall, which changes this from a 'thankfully' to an unfortunately. Seriously, what is the royal family doing?"
Farren whistled again and gave a salute.
"See you before the chaos."
He vanished back into the stone corridors like a rat who knew which walls breathed.
Caelith stood alone once more, watching as the banners above began to list the groupings for Round Four.
Four sections to a ring. Twenty people start in each section. All armed. All empowered.
The shadows were gone now.
Round Four would reveal everything.