Preliminary Rounds - The Arena Flooded with Blood
The fights began. Dozens of soldiers, bounty hunters, and hired swords fought to the death.
In Group A, Altair stepped into the center of the arena. His opponent was a large, burly man with an iron mace.
The man grinned. "You look weak, boy."
Altair did not reply. As soon as the bell rang, he moved like lightning. In a single strike, his sword hit his opponent's knee, sending him crashing to the ground.
One more strike—it was over.
In Group B, Feran faced an opponent wielding two daggers. His opponent moved quickly, but Feran was faster. With precise swordsmanship, he parried every attack and brought his opponent down in seconds.
Duke Alvred grew increasingly interested.
"Even the veterans aren't as fast as them..."
The Toughest Fight in Group A
Amidst the series of fights in Group A, one of the most brutal duels caught the audience's attention. A skull-masked man with a barbed chain weapon fought against a young girl armed with a crystal spear.
The chain swung, smashing the ground around her. The girl danced between the deadly attacks, her eyes focused, her breathing steady. However, one small misstep caused her to stumble.
The chain struck her shoulder—blood spurted. The audience screamed.
The girl struggled to her feet, enduring the pain. With a piercing cry, she leaped and thrust her spear into her opponent's chest.
They both fell together.
As the dust settled, only one rose. The girl stood, swaying, staring at the stands with eyes full of anger and determination.
Duke Alvred smiled thinly. "Even the wounded... can still show their fangs."
Feran vs. The Shadow Dancer
In the second round of Group B, Feran faced an opponent different from the others—a slender man armed with a pair of curved swords, wearing thin black clothing like a desert dancer. His every movement was almost silent, like a living shadow. Without warning, the dancer vanished from sight. Whispers circled the arena. "Behind you," a voice said—but Feran was not surprised. He spun around, swinging his sword in a sharp arc. Metal met metal. A sharp clang echoed. The dancer recoiled, his face surprised. "You can catch my movements?" Feran did not answer. With a clean and precise movement, he struck his opponent's knee, causing him to fall, then pointed his sword at the man's neck. "Yield?" Feran asked coldly. The dancer simply nodded slowly.
The Fat Dodger
One of the most unique duels occurred when a bare-chested fat man entered the arena carrying a large wooden spoon. "Where's your weapon?" his opponent asked in confusion. "This is it, an heirloom from my mother," the fat man replied with a proud smile. The fight began, and the fat man immediately ran away, dodging attacks. "Hey! According to the rules, you have to fight!" the referee shouted. "I am fighting... against fear!" he yelled back. The audience laughed, and even Duke Alvred raised an eyebrow. But as his opponent lost focus due to frustration, the fat man suddenly jumped and hit his opponent's head with the large spoon. Once. Twice. Until his opponent fainted. The arena fell silent. Then... cheers erupted. "Never underestimate a wooden heirloom spoon!" the fat man shouted, raising his spoon to the sky. The Duke simply sighed. "Good heavens... alright. He passes."
The Mysterious Participant: Red Mask
In the third round of Group A, Altair was supposed to fight a small, old man. However, when his name was called, what appeared was someone hooded in black with a red mask carved with strange symbols. The audience began to murmur. The referee hesitated. "Are you a replacement for the previous participant?" The masked figure did not answer. He simply stepped into the center of the arena and drew a long, purplish sword with an eerie aura. Altair narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong. As soon as the bell rang, the masked figure's movements were far faster than any normal human could manage. His attacks were precise, dangerous, and as if he knew every gap in Altair's defense. Altair held back—not wanting to use his Elementan powers. But this man... The opponent's sword almost touched Altair's face before he leaped back, grazing his cloak. Their eyes met. From behind the mask's slits, the man's eyes glowed... dark purple. Altair gritted his teeth. "Some kind of abnormal being..." However, suddenly, a voice from the stands rang out: "The fight is stopped! Aeron's opponent is disqualified due to unclear identity!" Soldiers entered, but the masked figure had already vanished—as if he had never been there. Feran, watching from afar, also became wary. "You saw that, right?" Altair nodded slowly. "He's not just any participant."
The Final Round - The True Winner
After a long series of fights, only two people remained—Altair and Feran.
They stood in the center of the arena. This tournament required a single true winner.
The audience cheered, but the Duke only smiled thinly.
"The final act," he murmured.
The fight began. Altair and Feran lunged at each other, their swords clashing with incredible force.
However, they were not fighting seriously.
They were acting—manipulating the fight to avoid suspicion. After a few minutes, Feran was "knocked back," and Altair was declared the winner.
The audience roared, but the Duke merely tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair.
"Now, it's time to see who they really are."
The Duke's Trap
As Altair and Feran headed towards the prize announcement area, several soldiers suddenly surrounded them.
Duke Alvred stood up, his smile cold.
"This tournament was indeed to test the best fighters," he said. "However, unfortunately, I have a suspicion that our winner today is no ordinary person."
Altair and Feran immediately became alert.
"So, I suppose... it's time we had a more private conversation."
In an instant, the Duke's elite soldiers attacked.
...vred rose from his throne, his eyes gleaming with suspicion. "Your performance was extraordinary," he said in a heavy voice. "Too extraordinary... for two strangers who appeared out of nowhere."
Altair and Feran exchanged glances, their bodies remaining alert.
"You didn't use any conspicuous powers. No magic, no techniques that could link you to a specific race. But the way you fight... military discipline, elegant technique, precision. That's not the style of street fighters."
Feran began to move slowly, his hand touching the hilt of his sword.
But before he could react, five of the Duke's mages appeared at the sides of the arena, forming a space-locking magical formation.
"Now, before I present the prize... how about we talk a little?" the Duke continued, stepping down the stairs with arrogance.
Choices and Threats
Duke Alvred stood only a few steps away from them. "I know who you really are," he whispered softly. "Or at least... I know you're not ordinary people. But I also know you're not enemies—not yet."
Altair replied calmly, "Then why bring out the troops? Is this a warm welcome?"
The Duke smirked. "Because I want to offer you a choice. You can stay alive and help me in the coming war—in exchange for information about your family. Or... remain stubborn and become experiments for my mages."
Feran moved closer to Altair. "You want us to surrender just like that?"
Altair looked at the Duke, then replied flatly, "Give us the information first. Then we'll talk about cooperation."
The Duke chuckled. "Clever. Alright... let's make a deal, Altair."
The audience heard nothing. But that night, two disguised fugitives managed to break through the Duke's trap... and walk right into his political game.