The arena was alive with energy, the cheers of the crowd surging like ocean waves against the stone walls. The midday sun blazed overhead, casting stark shadows over the sand-strewn battlefield. Merchants shouted over one another at the betting pits, trying to entice gamblers with promises of easy fortunes. The scent of sweat, metal, and roasted meats filled the air, creating a heady mixture that made the moment feel larger than life.
The announcer strode to the center of the arena, his voice booming over the restless audience. "Next match! The cunning strategist Micah versus the elusive shadow, Dagger Fang!"
A ripple of excitement ran through the spectators as the two competitors stepped forward. Micah, standing tall, adjusted the belt strapped across his waist, fingers lightly brushing over the vials and pouches that hung from it. His opponent, Dagger Fang, was a wiry man with a grin that held the promise of a quick and painful demise. Twin daggers twirled effortlessly in his hands, glinting menacingly under the sunlight.
The referee gave the signal, and the fight began.
Dagger Fang exploded forward, his movements as fluid as a wraith's. He closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, his daggers flashing as he aimed for Micah's throat. But the moment he struck, Micah twisted away, hurling a small vial to the ground. A sudden burst of green smoke erupted, filling the air with a sharp, acidic scent.
Fang leaped back, coughing, his eyes watering as the fumes stung his senses. "Tricks, huh?" he growled, shifting his stance warily.
Micah smirked. "You think I'd let you get close? That would be your win condition. Mine is the opposite."
With that, Micah flicked another vial at his opponent's feet. This one shattered into a slick, viscous liquid. The moment Fang attempted to dash forward, his footing betrayed him, sending him skidding wildly.
"Damn it!" Fang cursed, barely managing to catch himself before toppling over.
Micah didn't waste the opportunity. He drew a thin bottle from his belt and flicked its contents towards Fang's daggers. The liquid hissed upon contact, eating into the metal and leaving deep, jagged grooves. One dagger snapped in half instantly; the other lost its edge.
Fang's eyes widened in horror. "You—!"
Micah was already moving. A well-placed kick sent Fang sprawling into the sand. He landed hard, his remaining dagger slipping from his grip. By the time he tried to push himself up, Micah was standing over him, another vial dangling between his fingers.
"Yield," Micah said simply.
Fang's hands clenched into fists, but the realization was clear in his eyes—he had no way to fight back. "Tch. Fine. I yield."
The crowd erupted into cheers, some boos mixed in from those who had bet on Fang. The announcer stepped forward and lifted Micah's arm. "Winner! Micah moves to the next round!"
As Micah stepped away, he caught Karthen's gaze from the stands. His friend nodded approvingly, but his expression was still heavy with thought.
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"Next match! A battle of spear wielders! Aile, son of Baron Geoftyr, against the Grall the Warden!"
Aile strode onto the battlefield, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. He grinned, flashing his teeth as though he were the most attractive man alive. Yet whispers ran through the crowd.
"Is he really as handsome as he thinks?"
"More like the opposite."
"Shush! That's Baron Geoftyr's eldest son."
Grall, in contrast, was silent as he stepped forward, his sword resting at his side. His expression remained unreadable.
Aile spun his spear with a flourish, pointing it at Grall. "Let's see if you can keep up, sword boy."
Grall said nothing, merely shifting into a stance.
The match began with Aile launching forward, his spear thrusting with rapid precision. Grall weaved between the strikes, his footwork masterful. The tip of the spear scraped past his cheek, but Grall didn't flinch.
Then, with a single step, he was inside Aile's range.
Aile's eyes widened, but before he could react, Grall's sword slashed downward in a brutal arc. Aile barely parried, stumbling back as the force rattled his arms. His smirk faded.
"Tch! You're stronger than you look," Aile muttered.
Grall didn't reply. Instead, he pressed forward, his blade a relentless storm of steel. Aile struggled to keep up, his spear becoming a wall of desperate defense. The crowd murmured—this wasn't a battle, it was a lesson.
Then, with a single, calculated move, Grall's blade slipped past Aile's guard. A deep gash opened on Aile's shoulder, and his spear clattered to the ground.
Aile fell to his knees, clutching his wound, his perfect image shattered.
"Winner, Grall!"
The spectators roared, some in awe, others jeering Aile's pitiful defeat.
Up in the stands, Karthen turned to Micah, his expression dark.