"You still haven't fixed your hair," Lexy said, pointing directly at the mop of blood-matted strands hanging over Xain's face. Her tone wasn't mocking—just matter-of-fact—but it still made him pause.
He blinked, realizing she was right. He hadn't fixed it—Annie had styled it like that earlier, and somehow he hadn't noticed it was still covering half his face. *How the heck did I not notice that?* With a quick pass of his fingers, he pushed the hair back and ruffled it into something closer to his normal look.
Zeva crossed her arms, her sharp gaze locking onto him. "Alright, now explain what that was," she said, her voice edged with challenge. "Because it didn't feel like the same thing you did before."
"Yeah," Gurion muttered, ears flattened tight against his head. "The way you moved—it was off."
"And how come you didn't do that when... all of that happened between us?" Even asked, narrowing his eyes.
A few feet away, Roland wasn't saying anything. He stood apart from the group, watching Xain with an unreadable, almost concerning expression. There was something too quiet about it, as if he was studying him. After a moment, Roland looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
Xain sighed as he finished fixing his hair and raised both hands. "Calm down. I will explain—or at least try to—since I don't fully understand it myself. But not now."
Ulrich frowned. "What do you mean, not now?"
"Yeah, what's stopping you explaining now?" Amos asked as he adjusted the brim of his hat.
Annabel stepped closer, curious. "And what do you mean you don't understand it yourself?"
"Because," Xain said, glancing around the group, "not everyone's here. Calvinel and Bryanard are preparing from their match, and there are others who'll want to hear it too. So when we're all back at the Raging Eagle, I'll do my best to explain."
He turned to Annabel directly. "And It's exactly what it sounds like—I don't really know what happened."
Edluar nodded. "Alright. We'll talk at the inn, then." He squinted at Xain. "By the way... are you okay? Your face is still covered in blood. And your hair too."
Xain froze. *First the hair, now the blood? Why am I such a scatterbrain today?* He internally groaned as Ercale's voice echoed dryly in his head. *Because you're rushing and are an idiot, ape.* Then a beat later, in an even flatter tone, *Also—'scatterbrain'? Really? What are you, a grandmother?*
Xain exhaled slowly, choosing to ignore him entirely.
"If this is all getting explained later," Hittag said, already turning away, "we should get back to the viewing window. The next match is about to start."
One by one, the others nodded or muttered in agreement and followed. Xain, relieved that they didn't press further, joined them at the window. They all stared out together, waiting for the next match to begin.
In the stands, "Heh, heh, heh, would you look at that, Drift. Look who won," Jefferey said with a wide, smug grin. "Just shut up and take the coin," Drift muttered, already digging into his pouch and slapping a small stack into Jefferey's outstretched palm. "Thanks! Now, for the next bet—who're you putting your faith in this time?" Jefferey asked, cheerfully pocketing his winnings. "Calvinel. New over old and all that." Drift's tone was clipped, short, already bracing for more gloating. Jefferey chuckled. "Well get ready to lose three times in a row!"
In a VIP stand, Samwell gripped the armrest of his chair tightly. "I can't believe that barbarian won," he muttered bitterly. "But the next fight should be more your taste, right?" Matthew asked, noticeably dropping the usual Father he always added. Samwell didn't seem to notice the omission. "It'll be better than the drivel we just witnessed, yes," he replied with a huff, eyes locked onto the arena with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
In another VIP stand, the Emperor of Aeruna sat forward slightly, his hands clasped together. "This will be entertaining, I suspect with The Victorious fighting again." Tianteng nodded. "With The Victorious's flair, it certainly will." She rested her elbow on the railing, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Though... The Warhammer won't make it easy. I doubt he'll allow another flashy spectacle like last time."
In yet another VIP stand, "How do you feel about this next match, Zara?" Prince Mark asked, shifting to look at his sister. "I hope Sir Bryanard breaks his spine with his war hammer," Zara replied, her voice cold and exact. "Then breaks each limb slowly. Then smashes his teeth and shoves them down his throat." She was, as anyone could see, handling the marriage refusal with spectacular grace. Mark blinked. "...Right."
Far above, Quincy hovered in the open sky, her wings catching the sunlight. "Okay! After that surprising match," she called, her voice booming across the stands, "let's begin the next one between two knights! One of old, and one of new!" She swooped downward in a smooth arc, slowing just above the center of the arena. With a wide flourish of her arms, she swept her fingers upward—and the arena began to shift.
The walls at the eastern and western ends groaned open in unison, stone slabs sliding up to reveal the two combatants.
"On one side!" Quincy's voice rang clear, "We have a legendary knight and warrior, who has previously bested a renowned bounty hunter. The knight who serves no lord and bears no crest—Sir Bryanard Temple, The Warhammer!"
Bryanard stepped out from the west with steady, thunderous steps. His dented full plate clanked with each movement. Both hands gripped his massive war hammer, the weapon resting against his shoulder. His eyes scanned the arena with the same hard edge as before—though this time, there was a deeper weight behind them. "It's time," he muttered.
"And on the other side!" Quincy went on, "We have a rising legend, a knight who previously won against a giant of a man that had won many other tournaments! It is Sir Calvinel Snow—The Victorious!"
From the east, Calvinel strode into the arena to thunderous applause. His gleaming silver armor caught the sunlight like a mirror. With one smooth motion, he raised his greatsword high above his head. "I'm not going to learn a lesson from you, old man," he muttered under his breath. Then louder, to the arena ahead, "You're the one who's going to learn how to lighten up."
Quincy clapped her hands—and the arena rumbled.
A long groan echoed from beneath the ground. The sand began to shift, parting as thick stone tiles rose into place with heavy thuds. The arena reformed into a clean, divided field: on Bryanard's side, a rugged courtyard of cracked stone and scattered broken pillars—reminiscent of an old, ruined castle yard; debris lay strewn about, and the floor was uneven, weathered by time. On Calvinel's side, smooth, white tiles lined the ground in neat rows, flanked by low walls and polished arches—resembling the pristine training yards of a royal academy.
Between them stretched a wide, flat center strip of packed earth, untouched and neutral, the only space where both old and new would meet head-on.
Quincy raised one hand high into the air. "Alright!" she shouted. Then—with a sharp sweep downward—"BEGIN!"