Aron hid himself behind the wood, peeking slightly at the man. It was the same man. His reaction became aggressive. Aron heard the man's words cut through the air: "I will kill that piece of shit with the finest poison in the world. Not even in hell will one find out how he died…"
The man dipped his sword carefully into a small vial — a poison invisible and deadly. A cold, ruthless look sat on his face. A little far from there, a distance away, Aron's blood boiled with rage.
In his mind Aron thought, How can he kill? I have to stop him. He moved step by step, silently. Then he stopped. The man noticed the boy and quickly hid the sword.
"Who are you?" the man spat. "Are you lost, boy?"
"How can you kill?" Aron asked. "Is life not meaningful to you?"
The man's face twisted. "You arrogant piece of—come here! I'm gonna teach you a lesson." He walked toward Aron with bare hands, trying to grab his neck.
But Aron moved like water, twisting the man down to the ground instantly. Water came out of the man's mouth as he gasped. Aron's hands were sudden and hard; the man's throat buckled under the boy's strength.
"Blah… how did he—?" the man sputtered, shocked, but Aron grabbed his neck again and threw him into a wooden stall nearby. The stall crashed and splintered; the wood gave with a loud crack. The structure was completely destroyed.
The man lay on the ground and could not make it. He saw Aron standing over him. Something different hung in the air — pressure that squeezed the chest. It felt like death itself was standing with Aron. The man stared up at his pathetic state and whispered in disbelief, "How… how did I end up like this?"
Aron crouched on his knees, eyes locked on the man. He stared like a judge. The man couldn't move; the air around him felt heavy and dreadful. Aron asked, low and cold, "Why do you want to kill?"
The man couldn't do anything but answer. "I wan… wanted to beat Redreign."
"Redreign?" Aron repeated. "Why? Why do you want to kill him?"
"Because he humiliated me… by beating me," the man said, voice small and ashamed.
"Losing is not humiliation," Aron replied. The man tried to smile, but it broke shallow. "It is," the man insisted. "Now you will face it!"
Two daggers flashed from Aron's back — suddenly, but instant they were knocked to the ground by the man's desperate move. The man, even on the ground, had one last trick: he created a sand air that blasted toward Aron, a swirl of grit and fury.
"Sounds like you're about to duel," Aron said, stepping slightly aside. He let the sand hit the wall and break. The man's trick only made him cough.
"Please—please, I'm sorry!" the man cried, voice shaking. Aron looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, quiet, "I have to cut either your legs or hands. Now decide which will it be."
The man's reaction was pitiful, the kind that made the eyes burn. Tears fell from his big eyes. The words hit him like a stone. He begged, bargained, promised to change. He begged for mercy. Aron watched his fear and the raw, desperate human beneath it.
Aron watched the man rise slowly, shame and relief mixing in his face. "I'm just kidding," Aron said after a beat, and a cruel little grin touched his mouth. "Look at you — crybaby." He pushed him with a light shove. "But one thing is for sure: if from this moment you never try to become better, I will kill you. Consider this an opportunity. Don't miss it."
The man clutched at that chance like a drowning man to a plank. He stood, wobbling, then took a stumbling step out of the street.
Aron breathed. He thought the scene was over — but then a door slammed open and a herald's voice called, "Come, Mr. Kron! It's your match now!"
Aron's face tightened. It was the same man he had just beaten. Aron could not do anything but get inside. He asked himself quietly as he walked, Why am I even going into the tournament?
Inside, the waiting hall was a large, beautifully engraved chamber. Rows of benches carved with old symbols lined the place. Contestants sat and stared, their armor clinking softly. A faint smell of sweat and metal and old incense filled the air. Many contestants were already there, preparing for duels. A murmur passed between them — gossip and insults floating like smoke.
"Who is this trash one?" someone sneered. Aron suddenly felt eyes on him; he became the spotlight. Everyone stared. Their faces were sharp with contempt and curiosity.
"Please pick a sword or dagger, anything you like," an attendant said, offering weapons in a long rack. Aron looked at the blades. Polished steel sang quietly under the overhead lights. But he didn't need a weapon.
Aron straightened. "I don't need one," he said.
The place exploded with whispers and laughter. "Does he have a death wish?" someone barked. "No one goes barehanded!" another cried. "Is he mad?"
The referee stepped forward, eyebrows raised. "Are you sure?" he asked, voice carrying.
"Yes," Aron replied, calm as stone.
"As you wish," the referee said. He led Aron to the giant gate that led to the battleground. The gate was carved with scenes of famous fighters, frozen in mid-strike. It groaned and began to open slowly — a huge iron thing moving like a sleeping giant waking to see blood.
Aron stood on the threshold. Behind him the waiting area's noise dimmed. Ahead, beyond the gate, the arena waited: a circle cut from earth and blood, lights perched high, faces like moons around it. The sand in the arena had been raked into patterns; it smelled of old fights and new fear.
Aron felt his heartbeat — steady, not loud. He remembered the man in the stall, the poison, the threat. He remembered the pressure in the air, as if something else had joined him — something dark and patient. He remembered his own words: If you never become better, I will kill you.
The gate opened wider now. The crowd's roar rose like a wave. Aron stepped forward with bare hands. He did not look for a sword. He did not need one.
Around the circle, faces leaned forward. Some spat. Some whispered. Some watched with a hunger the way wolves look at a fallen stag. A few eyes — sharp, measuring — met his and did not blink. They were the ones who recognized a dangerous thing in him.