The matches began at dawn.
The tournament organizers had divided the arena into five dueling grounds, each marked with a white sand boundary. Group matches would rotate through, with five candidates fighting simultaneously while the others watched. Aridel's Group 23 was assigned to Ground Three.
He stood watching as the first pairings were announced. The bracket was determined by a randomized draw, meaning matchups were unpredictable. Aridel's first opponent was Soren—the commoner who looked barely older than him.
They faced off in the sand. Soren was lean and quick, with the kind of build that suggested speed over power. He was also nervous; Aridel could see it in how tightly he gripped his sword.
"Whenever you're ready," the match official called.
Soren moved first, launching into an aggressive sequence of cuts designed to establish dominance. The strategy was sound—overwhelm your opponent early, break their confidence.
But Aridel had already seen the pattern in Soren's footwork. Fast, yes, but predictable. Each strike followed a rhythm. Aridel sidestepped the first three cuts smoothly, letting Soren's own momentum carry him past. On the fourth strike, Aridel parried and stepped inside Soren's guard, pressing the pommel of his sword gently against the younger man's chest.
"Yield," Aridel said quietly.
Soren's eyes widened—he realized he was trapped. He yielded.
The official raised his hand. "First match: Aridel, Group 23. Victor."
Aridel helped Soren to his feet. The commoner looked shaken but not angry, just outmatched. They bowed to each other and left the sand.
His second match came an hour later. This time, his opponent was Marcus Hadfield—one of the nobles. Marcus was heavier than Soren, built like someone who'd trained with weapons since childhood. He had the posture of a swordsman with formal training, likely from some military academy.
They circled each other. Marcus was patient, not eager to rush in. He tested Aridel's guard with a series of measured strikes, each one probing for weaknesses, looking for angles of attack.
Aridel defended methodically, learning Marcus's preferences. The noble favored overhead strikes, seemed to prefer closing distance quickly, liked to use his weight when pressed.
After three exchanges, Aridel understood the pattern. Marcus was technically sound but relied on predictable sequences learned from a school. Aridel shifted his footwork slightly, closing distance in a way Marcus's training hadn't prepared him for. When Marcus attempted his favored overhead strike, Aridel was already inside it, sweeping his leg out from under him.
Marcus hit the sand hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. He gasped for air and tapped the sand in surrender.
The official called it. Aridel was two wins in.
The third match was against Garrett, the scarred commoner in his late twenties. Unlike the first two opponents, Garrett was a veteran fighter. His scarred hands and the casual way he gripped his weapon suggested he'd done this before—probably in actual combat, not just tournaments.
They squared up. Garrett didn't rush. Instead, he moved with a kind of economical efficiency, each motion minimal, nothing wasted. He was testing Aridel's mettle, measuring his opponent.
Garrett was a survivor, someone who fought to win with minimal risk. He wouldn't commit fully unless he saw an opening.
They traded blows for longer than Aridel's previous matches. Garrett was skilled enough that Aridel couldn't simply read and counter; Garrett was watching just as intently, learning Aridel's patterns in return.
It became a game of mutual adaptation. Aridel feinted high, Garrett didn't react. Aridel committed to a low cut, Garrett parried and countered. The exchanges became faster, more intense.
Then Aridel noticed something: Garrett favored his right side. It was subtle, barely perceptible, but his recovery time was slightly slower when he had to twist left. Aridel pressed in that direction, forcing Garrett to move against his preference. After several exchanges pressing left, Aridel saw his opening—Garrett's left side dropped fractionally as he rotated. Aridel's blade found the space, and he tapped the hilt against Garrett's ribs, controlling the strike.
Garrett grunted, acknowledging the hit. He yielded with a nod of respect.
As they left the sand, Garrett actually smiled. "You're good, kid. Better than most nobles I've fought."
Aridel returned the nod. Three wins.
The afternoon brought his fourth match. Aldric Venn, the other noble from his group. Unlike Marcus, Aldric fought with a kind of artistic precision. His strikes were beautiful—perfectly angled, gracefully executed, the kind of swordwork that would impress judges in a formal setting.
But beauty didn't win fights. Efficiency did.
Aridel matched Aldric's forms for the first few exchanges, but when he saw that Aldric was prioritizing elegance over pragmatism, he changed approach. He became aggressive, pressing in, tightening the space between them. Aldric's elaborate techniques required room to execute. Without space, they became liabilities.
Aldric tried to adapt, but he'd been trained to fight a certain way, and breaking from that training in the middle of a match was difficult. Aridel exploited the hesitation, pressed further, and after a series of quick exchanges, had Aldric backed against the boundary of the sand.
Aldric yielded before Aridel could force him over.
Four wins. Still undefeated.
By the time his fifth match arrived—against Kess, one of the unknowns—Aridel was beginning to feel the strain. Not physical exhaustion, not yet, but the mental fatigue of constant analysis, constant adaptation. His Genius Mind was working overtime, processing each opponent, finding patterns, executing counters.
Kess, as it turned out, integrated mana into their combat like Henry Kartier. It was the first time Aridel had faced someone actively using mana in the tournament, and it showed him the gap between his world and theirs.
Kess's strikes carried more weight than they should. His movements were faster, sharpened by mana reinforcement. When Aridel blocked one of his cuts, he felt the difference—the raw power behind it was beyond what pure muscle could generate.
But Kess wasn't experienced in actually fighting someone without mana. He relied too heavily on the advantage, trying to overwhelm rather than strategize. Aridel couldn't match his physical power, but he could match his wit. He began defensive, learning how Kess's mana moved, where his actual skill ended and the mana's amplification began.
Then Aridel did something dangerous: he let Kess press him, let him think he was winning, let him commit more deeply to his attacks. And when Kess overextended, relying on mana to recover quickly, Aridel was there—inside his guard, blade pressed to his throat.
Kess yielded, breathing hard, frustrated that superior power hadn't won the day.
Five matches. Five victories. And Aridel stood clearly in the top tier of his group.
That evening, as the other matches were still ongoing, Aridel sat on a bench overlooking the arena. Mira, the older woman from his group, approached and sat beside him without invitation.
"You're good," she said simply. "Trained?"
"Not formally," Aridel replied.
"Shows." She was quiet for a moment. "Still got four more opponents to face before top five is decided. Some of them haven't fought yet. Could be anything."
"You're not worried about making top five?" Aridel asked.
Mira smiled. "Child, I've been swinging a hoe for forty years. Made it here on the chance I might do something else before I die. Top five would be nice, but I'm not stupid enough to think I'm in your league." She paused. "You're different though. You move like someone who understands something the rest of us don't."
She left before Aridel could respond.
That night, lying on his cot, Aridel felt the weight of the quest again. Four more matches. Four more opponents. And then, if he succeeded here, the double elimination bracket waited with 224 other candidates, each one looking to claw their way to imperial squiredom.
He was going to need to get stronger.
His body needed to recover from whatever these curses were doing to him. His mind needed to prepare for opponents who would be faster, smarter, more dangerous than those he'd faced today.
Tomorrow, Group Play would continue.