Once Thierry stepped into the colosseum, the murmurs from the audience thinned out, like wind slipping through cracks in stone. The moment was still—too still. His heartbeat echoed inside his chest, like a war drum only he could hear. Each breath dragged like smoke through cracked lungs.
All I have to do is put on a good show. That's simple enough.
He flexed his fingers on the hilt. A crooked smirk crept across his lips—he wasn't a fighter, not yet. But he was a performer. That, at least, hadn't changed.
Veron walked forward, measured and calm, like a predator indulging in a stroll. Then, without warning, he hurled his spear.
Thierry barely ducked in time. His body moved on instinct, but his mind lagged behind.
He's already—?
A sweeping blow caught his legs. The world tilted. He hit the ground.
By the time he blinked, Veron was back in control, spear in hand, poised to end the match. Thierry scrambled up, bringing his blade into a guard. His stance was shaky but focused.
He's fast. Too fast.
Veron lunged.
Thierry blocked. Then dodged. Then blocked again.
The duel spiraled into a rhythm—strike, evade, clash—until Thierry's breath grew ragged. Veron, in contrast, hadn't even broken a sweat. But something was strange. His gaze never once met Thierry's eyes. It was fixed on the sword.
"You know," Veron called out mid-thrust, "if you're going to hold a blade, you should try cutting me with it."
He sounded bored. Like this was barely worth his time.
Fine, you smug bastard.
Thierry lunged in silence, blade arcing down—but hit nothing. Veron had sidestepped, fluid and effortless. Before Thierry could react, three strikes landed in a blur. Chest. Shoulder. Stomach. Then came the kick, and Thierry was skidding across the sand.
He stood again, wincing. He was angry now—not just at Veron, but at something deeper. The others hadn't been humiliated like this. What had he done to earn this particular brand of cruelty?
He brandished the sword again. Veron's gaze followed the motion.
Why do you keep watching the blade…?
This time, Thierry charged—but feinted just as the spear came down. He took the blow willingly, let it crash into his ribs, just to open a hole in Veron's stance. The edge of his blade sliced down Veron's chest.
Blood.
What? That shouldn't have—
He blinked, stunned, forgetting the fight in favour of confusion. That was his mistake. Veron's retaliation came instantly, a downward strike.
Thierry rolled under the blow, spun behind Veron, and slashed. The shirt tore, but no blood this time. Still, Veron flinched.
The crowd noticed too.
Veron stared at the ruined cloth, then at Thierry. His expression tightened. And again… his gaze returned to the blade.
"I guess I'll need to get serious," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He stepped back and broke the spear in two. Each half became a crude sword. He took a stance—one blade high, the other low. A duelist's posture.
Thierry mirrored him, as best he could. One weapon. One chance.
They collided.
Wood clashed against metal, and the air filled with sharp, snapping sounds. Veron moved like flowing ink—fluid, unpredictable. Thierry held on, parrying where he could, retreating when he had to. Veron's strikes were sharper now, more brutal. One of his makeshift swords splintered.
Thierry saw his moment. He slashed Veron's back and darted away before the retaliation landed. It wasn't deep, but it was something.
But something else clicked in his head.
Wait... he can't track me when I'm not in his field of view. He reacts to the sword, not me.
The realisation struck like lightning. Veron's pattern, his odd movements, his inability to respond when Thierry attacked from blind angles—it all fit.
He doesn't have a strength enhancement... He sees it. His chain—it's connected to his sight.
A grin stretched across Thierry's face, wild and sharp. He raised his blade slowly, deliberately. Veron's eyes snapped to it.
Perfect.
Thierry rushed forward, then at the last moment—threw the sword.
Veron caught it on instinct. He glanced up.
Thierry was gone.
A fist slammed into Veron's jaw from below. He reeled—more shocked than hurt—as Thierry crouched beneath him, grinning up like a jester who'd stolen the crown. He stared incredulously, blood dripping from his nose.
"I surrender, sir!" Thierry called out cheerfully from below, crouched between Veron's legs.
Veron's eye twitched. The crowd stilled. Then came the laughter, hushed and nervous.
Magnus arrived, expression unreadable, though the corner of his mouth twitched — barely. He helped Thierry to his feet. The rest of the duels were a blur—none matched the spectacle of that clash.
At the end, the veteran stepped out again, dust coating his boots.
"You've all proven yourselves. Come back at nightfall. Those chosen will either join the young master's cohort, or be granted the chance to pledge loyalty to clan Mara."
The reactions were mixed. Clan heirs grinned with satisfaction. The less connected ones practically shook with excitement. As for the newly initiated, most were pale, still reeling from the experience.
Except Thierry.
He leaned back against the stone bench, half-lidded eyes lost in thought.
What should I eat for dinner?
After all, the hard part was over.