Whistles followed Marcel's match-up. Saren Vok's name had risen quickly in popularity. The Third Domain gladiator had yet to lose a fight longer than two minutes. Rumors claimed he had declined a shard, choosing to remain free of system entanglement.
"That Saren guy... didn't he beat a B-rank last year?" someone whispered.
"Yeah, without even using a weapon. Just pressure and fists."
"Poor kid. That Jekz boy's toast."
The betting boards lit up. Massive slates were etched with odds, names, and projected ranks.
Saren Vok – 1.3 odds, Speculated Rank: B-
Marcel Jekz – 3.7 odds, Speculated Rank: D+
Meanwhile, gold exchanged hands like wildfire. Bookkeepers shouted odds. Some men staked whole heirlooms. Girls clustered around the arena's edge, eyes fixed on warriors they admired. Some waved embroidered scarves toward Tarin or Rakan. Others giggled when Saren passed, unblinking.
"Wonder if he ever smiles," one of them mused.
Up above, noble families watched from private balconies. A robed commentator, flanked by illusion casters, announced the match-ups.
"Each round has cut the weak from the daring. And now, eight stand before us. One will leave with the title—and favor from the Guildmasters. But tonight, one match stands above the rest: The Chosen with no allegiance, Marcel Jekz… versus the Desert's Iron Ghost, Saren Vok!"
The crowd thundered.
---
Earlier That Night
The city never slept. Lanterns glowed like falling stars across the night market. Street musicians played haunting chords, and lovers danced beneath the moonlight. But not all was elegant.
Marcel and Lira had walked near the water district when a cry rang out. A merchant's stall overturned. Thieves scattered. Lira caught one by the wrist and knocked him into a crate.
"Should've picked an easier mark," she muttered.
Guards arrived, taking the boy into custody. Marcel offered the merchant a few coins, but the old man just nodded. "Don't let the charm fool you. Mireholt's shadows cut deep."
Later, Marcel returned to his cot and stared at the ceiling. He barely slept. Thoughts of Saren circled him. Not in fear, but anticipation. Saren was like him. No system crutch. No artifact advantage. Just grit.
And tomorrow… he'd test himself.
---
Now
The horn blared. Sand kicked up as the Arena gates opened.
Saren Vok stepped onto the field, eyes calm, blades sheathed across his back. Cheers broke through the stadium like a wave.
Then came Marcel.
He wore no armor beyond leather bracers. No glowing weapon. Only a steady pace and quiet eyes.
The commentator raised his hand. "Begin!"
Saren moved first—fast, circling. Marcel watched, not rushing. A test of footwork. They exchanged feints, then broke into real combat.
Marcel's style was direct. Quick punches, rapid shifts in stance. Saren deflected with his blades, but he didn't strike—not yet.
Spectators held their breath.
"They're reading each other," one said.
"No wasted motion. This is high-level."
A few teens nearby clutched betsheets, whispering their hopes.
As the round wore on, Saren grinned slightly. The first emotion he'd shown. Then he whispered, "Not bad. But how much longer can you keep up without the shard?"
Marcel smirked. "Long enough."
They clashed again—this time, harder.
And as the crowd rose in a frenzy, neither warrior backed down.
The quarterfinal matches resumed under a sky half-drenched in silver cloudlight. The crowd was thinner now, but their cheers louder, more focused. Every name called was known. Every strike judged.
Lira Jekz stood at the edge of the arena, her breath shallow. Across from her, Rakan Ironspine adjusted the grip on his tower shield. He was built like a wall, his muscles braided with years of defense-heavy training. He hadn't even budged in his last two matches.
This won't be easy, she thought.
Lira struck first—nimble, sharp. Her wind magic danced like invisible blades, buffeting the crowd with a rush of air. Rakan grunted, absorbing her flurry with that unyielding shield.
"Come on, Lira!" a voice cried from the stands. A few girls near the front waved streamers painted with her crest.
But soon, Rakan pressed forward, step by implacable step. The fight turned to attrition. Lira was faster, more strategic—but Rakan had endurance like a stone. His final blow—an overhead slam—shattered her gust barrier and forced her to yield.
Silence.
Then scattered applause, respectful.
She limped back toward Marcel, refusing help. "I should've gone for the legs," she muttered, jaw tight. Marcel wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
"You lasted longer than most," he said. "You made him work."
In the semi-final fights, Tarin clashed with Roul Skarn in a whirl of blades and terrain-shaking blows. The ground cracked beneath them, but Tarin adapted—sliding under, flipping over, until a last-second pommel strike to the temple dropped Roul cold.
Cheers erupted.
Not long after, Veyla faced Kessai Drehl. Flame against claws. The battle was furious—Kessai's twin daggers carving through air like lightning—but Emberjaw's roar echoed across the city. One searing blast forced Kessai to surrender, knees to sand, breathing smoke.
By dusk, only four contestants remained.
A bard near the betting boards updated the final standings, his voice booming:
Final Four:
Marcel Jekz
Tarin Jekz
Veyla Ardent
Rakan Ironspine
....
Whispers raced through the crowd. People wagered heirlooms, coin purses, even marriage proposals. Girls flirted shamelessly with injured warriors. Boys tossed flowers toward Veyla's end of the stands—though she ignored every one of them.
From a raised balcony, Elder Vess finally stood.
Robes like living ink spilled around him. His voice came amplified by the magecasters stationed beside him.
"The competition ends today. Not in bloodshed, but in brilliance."
He paused, letting the murmurs settle.
"The top fifteen shall receive commendations from the city's Guild. The top five will be offered sponsorships, apprenticeships, or direct invitations into elite hunting circles. The top three—audiences with nobles. And the Champion…"
The silence was absolute.
"…will be given rights to bear a domain sigil, choose their first sanctioned expedition, and gain unrestricted access to artifact libraries."
A storm of noise followed. Fists in the air. Screams of names. Even Veyla's stoic expression twitched at the prize.
Suddenly, multiple representatives stepped down from balconies—elegantly dressed agents of guilds and family heads. Some held cards. Others bore rings or seals.
"The Flamewright's Guild is interested in Veyla Thorne!" one shouted.
"We seek Tarin Jekz for mentorship under Grand Duelist Fraen!"
"I offer coin and lodging for Marcel Jekz—speak with House Ferra's envoy!"
Dozens swarmed.
One noblewoman approached Lira, gently grasping her hand. "Your loss was honorable. If you ever consider training beyond this city, come to Eridelle."
Elsewhere, admirers clustered around their favorite fighters. Girls surrounded Rakan, painting battle lines on their cheeks to mimic his scars. Two boys trailed after Kessai, asking about her footwork.
But amid all the attention, Marcel stood slightly apart. Watching. Thinking.
Not about the cheers or the guild offers.
But about Saren Vok, still seated alone in the shadows of the coliseum. Watching him.
And smiling.