Chapter 6: The Tournament Begins
The toxin hit Ethan's nervous system like a wildfire.
His muscles locked mid-breath, fingers spasming around the dagger hilt. Lira's grinning face swam in his vision—her lips moving, but the words drowned in the roaring bloodrush filling his ears.
*Paralysis venom. Fast-acting. Probably derived from dreamspinner spiders.*
The analysis flashed through his mind even as his knees struck the rotting floorboards. His body's enhanced metabolism was already fighting the poison, but not fast enough to prevent collapse.
"Disappointing." Lira's boots circled him like a vulture. "And here I thought you might actually—"
Ethan's hand shot out, grabbing her ankle.
Lira's eyes widened as he **stood up**, the last remnants of toxin steaming from his pores. "Impossible! That dose kills dire wolves!"
Ethan exhaled a lungful of contaminated air. "Try harder."
The fight lasted seventeen seconds.
When the attic's single oil lamp guttered out, Lira lay pinned beneath Ethan's knee, her own dagger pressed to her throat. Sweat glued her flame-colored hair to ashen cheeks.
"Who sent you?" Ethan demanded.
Lira bared bloodied teeth. "The Count likes to test his investments."
A floorboard creaked outside the door.
Ethan rolled left as a crossbow bolt embedded itself where his skull had been. The second bolt took Lira through the shoulder.
"Traitorous bitch!" hissed a voice from the stairwell.
Ethan dove through the window as the third bolt shattered the attic's lone oil lamp. Flames erupted behind him, painting the night orange as he caught the gutter and slid down three stories into a reeking alley.
Somewhere above, Lira screamed.
---
### Tournament Day*
The tournament arena smelled of fresh sand and old blood.
Ethan took his place among the remaining 64 contestants, his hood drawn low. Rumors buzzed through the crowd like angry hornets—Lira had vanished, her rooms burned to cinders. The Count's guards were questioning everyone.
"First round matchups!" bellowed the herald.
The crowd roared as pairings appeared on the enchanted scoreboard:
**TORREN vs. KELVIN OF THE SALT MINES**
**GARRIK vs. WILHELM THE IRON**
**KAEL vs. DORAN THE STUBBORN**
A meaty hand clapped Ethan's shoulder. "Bad luck, runt." Torren's breath reeked of last night's ale. "Doran's not flashy, but he's broken more limbs than the plague."
Ethan watched as the named contestant—a grizzled boy with forearms like tree trunks—demonstrated his signature move for the crowd: snapping an iron rod over his knee.
"Thanks for the warning," Ethan said.
Torren smirked. "Don't die too quick. I want my turn with you."
---
### **First Match**
The arena sand clung to Ethan's boots as he faced his opponent. Doran stood a full head taller, his nose long since flattened from countless brawls.
"Yield now, weakling," torren growled, cracking his knuckles. "This ain't the place for children."
" Bro, you are just a year older than me"
The bell rang.
Doran charged like a runaway oxcart—
And met empty air.
Ethan pivoted, letting momentum carry the brute past him. His elbow struck Doran's kidney—once, precisely.
The crowd gasped as the grizzled fighter stumbled.
"Lucky shot," Doran spat, wheeling around.
Ethan let him come again.
This time, when Doran swung, Ethan caught the massive fist in both hands—and **twisted**.
The snap echoed across the suddenly silent arena.
Doran stared at his dangling hand, too shocked to scream.
"Winner: Kael!"
The crowd's roar was deafening.
From the royal box, Count Ivera leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
---
### **The Count's Invitation**
A liveried servant intercepted Ethan as he left the arena.
"His Lordship requests your presence."
The private viewing box smelled of spiced wine and intrigue. Count Ivera lounged on velvet cushions, watching the next match through half-lidded eyes. Up close, Ethan noted the man's hands—soft as a scholar's, but with the faint scars of someone who'd once wielded blades.
"You fight like a man with nothing to lose," the Count mused. "Yet you carry yourself like nobility."
Ethan remained silent.
Ivera snapped his fingers. A servant presented a silver platter bearing a single black feather—identical to the one left in Ethan's room.
"Curious, isn't it?" The Count twirled the feather between manicured fingers. "How certain... anomalies appear when least expected."
Ethan's pulse quickened. The amber-eyed observer.
"Tomorrow's match will be against Garrik." Ivera's smile didn't reach his eyes. "He's been promised a recommendation if he kills you."
"Why tell me?"
"Because games are only fun," the Count said, pouring two glasses of wine, "when both players know the rules."
He pushed one glass toward Ethan.
"To your health."
---
### **Night time**
The flophouse attic had been reduced to cinders.
Ethan watched from a nearby rooftop as the city guard sifted through ashes. His meager possessions were gone, but the real loss was the stolen cultivation notes—and the beast cores.
A shadow detached itself from the alley below.
Vesrik's scarred face peered up. "Heard about your fire. Silver Serpent barracks have an extra bunk."
Ethan hesitated.
The mercenary sighed. "Look, kid. Whatever game you're playing? The Count's been playing longer." He tossed up a cloth bundle. "Supplies. Don't get yourself killed before I recruit you."
The bundle contained:
1. A whetstone
2. A vial of counter-poison
3. A map of the arena's underground tunnels
Ethan looked up to thank him—
But Vesrik was already gone.
---
### **2nd Match**
Morning brought thunderstorms and bloodsport.
Garrik stood motionless in the downpour, his mineral-embedded skin glistening like wet granite. The crowd's cheers faded to murmurs as Ethan entered the arena—no fanfare, no theatrics. Just a hooded figure walking calmly toward certain death.
"Contestant Kael," boomed the herald, "versus Garrik the Stone!"
The bell rang.
Garrik moved with surprising speed for his bulk, his first punch cratering the sand where Ethan had stood.
"You're quick," the Stone acknowledged, shaking water from his eyes. "But stone outlasts flesh."
Ethan dodged another crushing blow, feeling the wind of its passage. Garrik wasn't just strong—his crystalline deposits made him nearly immune to blunt trauma.
*Adapt.*
Ethan let Garrik back him toward the arena wall. At the last second, he pivoted—
Garrik's fist shattered stonework.
As the giant struggled to free his embedded arm, Ethan struck. Three precise blows to the same spot on Garrik's ribcage—where the mineral deposits thinnest.
A crack echoed across the arena.
Garrik roared, swinging wildly with his free arm. Ethan ducked—
And drove his palm upward into the Stone's exposed armpit.
Garrik's eyes rolled back as he collapsed.
Silence.
Then—
"Winner: Kael!"
The crowd erupted.
From the royal box, Count Ivera smiled and whispered to the hooded academy evaluator.
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