Chapter 5: The Gathering Storm
Aslaug City smelled of sweat, frying dough, and shattered dreams.
Ethan adjusted his hood as he navigated the swollen crowds, his stolen boots kicking up dust from the packed earth streets. The provincial capital pulsed with a frenetic energy he'd never known at the Valen estate—street vendors hawked "surefire" cultivation elixirs, pickpockets worked the distracted spectators, and armored guards in Count Ivera's livery broke up the occasional brawl with electrified batons.
"Get your tournament programs here!" a toothless crone cackled, waving inked parchment. "Only two copper bits to know who'll stomp who!"
Ethan ignored her, moving toward the scent of roasted meat. Three days of hard travel had left him famished.
"—say Torren's reached **Level 7** now," a meaty armorer told his apprentice at a food stall. "That boy's been carving up the underground fight pits since he was sixteen."
The apprentice nearly dropped his skewer. "Gods above! And he's still eligible?"
"Barely. Turns twenty next week." The armorer noticed Ethan listening and scowled. "What're you gawking at, runt? You one of this year's doomed hopefuls?"
Ethan took his roasted rabbit and melted back into the crowd.
---
### **The Broken Shield Tavern**
The tournament registration hall stank of desperation and cheap ale. Ethan's boots stuck to ale-sodden floorboards as he navigated the packed common room. Every table brimmed with would-be contestants—hulking farmboys with calloused hands, wiry street rats with knife scars, even a few noble-born second sons slumming it in commoner garb.
At the center of attention sat a trio everyone seemed to know:
1. **Torren "The Mauler" Duskvalley** - A slab of muscle with a broken nose, casually arm-wrestling three men at once. The underground pit fighter radiated the steady pulse of **Level 7 Mana Condensation**.
2. **Lira of the Crimson Quarter** - A whip-thin girl with flame-kissed hair, flipping a dagger across her knuckles. The crowd gave her wide berth—rumor said she'd poisoned her last three opponents in unsanctioned duels.
3. **Garrik the Stone** - A square-jawed youth whose skin shimmered faintly with embedded mineral deposits. The mining town prodigy had apparently crushed last year's semifinalist with bare hands.
"Fifty silver on Torren to win the whole thing!" someone shouted.
"Thirty on Lira making the finals!"
Ethan slipped through the betting throng toward the registrar's table.
"Name?" The clerk didn't look up from his ledger.
"Kael."
The man's quill paused. "No family name?"
"No."
A snort came from behind. Ethan turned to face a mountain of muscle—one of Torren's hangers-on.
"Another lamb for the slaughter," the brute sneered, breath reeking of onions and arrogance. "You know the Mauler broke a man's spine last week? Just for looking at him funny."
Ethan met his gaze. "I'll try not to stare."
The tavern erupted in laughter. Torren himself glanced over, then dismissed Ethan with a smirk.
"You've got stones, kid."
The grizzled mercenary from the market square slid onto the bench opposite Ethan, pushing a tankard of ale across the scarred table. "But stones don't win tournaments."
Ethan left the drink untouched. "You followed me."
"Call it professional curiosity." The mercenary—Vesrik, he'd introduced himself earlier—tapped his broken sword brand. "Silver Serpents always scout new talent." His eyes dropped to Ethan's hands. "You move like someone who's killed before."
A serving wench passed by, laughing at something Garrik said. When her shadow crossed their table, Vesrik leaned in.
"Listen close. That poison girl Lira? She's Count Ivera's bastard niece. The Stone boy's family owns half the mineral rights in the province." He jerked his chin toward Torren. "And the Mauler's backed by the Crimson Blades syndicate."
Ethan finally took a sip. The ale tasted like piss. "Meaning?"
"Meaning the 'fair tournament' is anything but." Vesrik dropped a chipped token on the table—a coiled serpent. "My offer stands. Join us, skip the pageantry, and earn real coin."
Ethan pushed the token back. "I appreciate the warning."
The mercenary sighed. "Your funeral. Just remember—" He pointed to a shadowy alcove where a hooded figure consulted with tournament officials. "See that? Academy evaluators picking favorites before the first bell. They already know who's getting recommendations."
As if sensing their gaze, the hooded figure turned. For a heartbeat, Ethan glimpsed **amber eyes** beneath the cowl—
Then the figure was gone.
---
### **Day before Tournament**
At dawn, the contestants assembled in the training yards for "official evaluations"—a thinly veiled chance for the elite to size up the competition.
Ethan stood in line behind a trembling farmboy who reeked of manure. Ahead, Torren and his entourage shoved their way to the front, the crowd parting like wheat before scythes.
"Pathetic," sneered a voice like grinding stone.
Garrik stood nearby, his body adorned with jews with his arms crossed. "Look at them. Like sheep to slaughter." His crystalline eyes appraised Ethan. "You at least seem competent."
Ethan said nothing.
"Garrik! Quit scaring the children!" Lira appeared like smoke, her dagger dancing between fingers. She leaned close to Ethan, smelling of belladonna and burnt sugar. "Don't mind the walking quarry. He's just sore I poisoned his breakfast yesterday."
Garrik's fist clenched, grinding in his teeth. "That wasn't funny."
Lira winked at Ethan. "It was a little funny."
A trumpet blast cut through the banter.
Count Renly Ivera had arrived.
The provincial ruler moved through the yards with practiced ease, his velvet robes whispering across sawdust. His gaze lingered on Torren's display of strength, nodded approvingly at Garrik's stone skin, and even shared a quiet word with Lira.
When his path brought him before Ethan, the Count paused. "And who might you be?"
"Kael, my lord."
"No family name?" The Count's fingers brushed the ruby pendant at his throat—so like the one Lady Maerin had framed Ethan with. "How... unusual."
Before Ethan could respond, a commotion erupted at the yard's entrance.
"Make way for the Academy evaluators!"
Three figures in sapphire robes entered, their faces obscured by enchanted veils. The tallest—a man with an eagle's bearing—surveyed the crowd before whispering to the Count.
Ivera smiled. "It seems we have special guests for this year's trials. How fortunate."
His gaze lingered on Ethan a heartbeat too long before moving on.
---
### **NIGHT TIME**
Ethan sharpened his stolen dagger in the rented flophouse attic, his ears straining for the telltale creak of assassins on the stairs. The tournament began at dawn, and every instinct screamed that tonight would be eventful.
He didn't disappoint.
The first knife came through the window at midnight—a whisper of steel on air. Ethan caught it by the hilt, his enhanced reflexes turning what should've been a killing strike into a mere graze along his ribs.
Lira of the Crimson Quarter stepped from the shadows, a second dagger already spinning.
"Not bad," she purred. "But the real question is—" Her blade flashed. "Can you dodge **this**?"
The vial shattered at Ethan's feet, releasing a cloud of shimmering toxin.
As the world dissolved into pain, Ethan's final thought was:
*So this is how the game is played.*
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