By the time the sun set, the Phoenix Pavilion had transformed from an arena of steel and sweat into a palace of firelight and celebration. Crimson banners, embroidered with phoenixes in full flight, caught the glow of hundreds of lanterns strung from eaves and columns. The Firefly Lagoon shimmered in the distance, its waters lit with drifting blossoms, and as darkness deepened, the insects themselves rose like sparks, twinkling above the banquet as though the stars had come down to honor the Latian Clan's triumph.
Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted venison, whole boars glazed in honey, steaming bowls of rice, and amphorae of wine and spiced cider. The fragrance of smoke, meat, and lotus wine mingled with incense that burned from tall braziers. Music carried — zithers, bamboo flutes, and the beat of skin-drums — guiding the laughter of guests and the booming voices of warriors recounting the day's duels.
Zed sat near the central table, the place of honor reserved for the champions of the four arenas. Though exhaustion pressed down on him like lead, his posture was unyielding. His arms bore faint bandages, his knuckles still raw from gripping the Shadow Staff through six relentless matches, but his eyes burned with the quiet focus that had carried him this far.
"Phoenix Arena's champion!" the herald had declared earlier, voice thundering across the grounds. And the name had spread like wildfire: Zed, son of Varun. The pugilist who defeated beast-wielders with nothing but steel and his own body.
Admiration swelled around him like the tide. Parents pointed him out to their sons and daughters, whispering with excitement. "See? Even with only a zombie — the weakest of summons — he conquered the Phoenix Arena. Strength lies in will and discipline."
A father nearby raised his cup. "If even a boy with a corpse for a companion can climb to glory, then so can you. No excuses." His son, cheeks red from wine, nodded fiercely.
Others murmured of his techniques — his footwork like shadow, his strikes like the fangs of beasts, his mastery of a weapon no one had seen before. The word example lingered in the air. For some, he was no longer just a competitor; he was proof that weakness could be overcome, that even those at the bottom could claw their way to the peak with focus, commitment, and an unbending will.
But not all voices sang with admiration. In corners of the banquet hall, skeptics spoke in lowered tones.
"He shines now, yes. But pugilists burn out fast. Without a proper summon, his path will dead-end."
"Exactly. While others evolve their beasts, while their companions grow into warriors and kings of the field, he clings to a zombie. Dead weight. He cannot rely on brute strength forever."
"One year, perhaps two, and he will be left behind."
These whispers were not shouted, but they carried the edge of envy and disbelief. Zed felt them — he had trained himself to sense the weight of eyes, the shifts in the air around him. Yet he gave no outward sign. He ate sparingly, sipped from his cup, and let the noise of the hall pass like wind over stone.
At the head of the banquet, the Latian elders basked in the triumph. Their voices rang out, proclaiming Zed as proof of the clan's rising genius. "Even with a corpse-beast, our youths carve glory!" Elder Varrek raised his own cup and spoke of the Latian legacy to foreign envoys and noble guests from the capital. The Phoenix Pavilion's firelight reflected in their eyes — calculating, admiring, curious. Merchants leaned to one another, already whispering of investments. "Weapons. Armor. Training contracts. His path may yet be forged with gold."
Zed listened, but his thoughts turned inward. Every clash in the tournament, every dodge and counter, had etched deeper into him than words of praise could. His body hummed with the scars of combat, but more than that — with the dark pulse of Asura's Breath. Each time he neared defeat, each time blood spilled and his body strained on the edge of collapse, the breath had sharpened him, fueled him, made him more than he was the day before.
No one in the hall could see it. No one could understand it. They saw only a pugilist who defied odds, a boy who would one day falter against beasts beyond his reach. But Zed knew. He knew the undying bond hidden inside him — the evolving ghoul that none respected. The very thing they dismissed as weakness was his greatest strength, a secret blade hidden behind the quiet mask he wore now.
The night deepened. Fireworks cracked above the lagoon, scattering blossoms of red and silver across the sky. The fireflies answered, rising higher until they became a mirrored constellation, twin stars above and below. Laughter echoed, children danced between the tables, and the elders toasted again and again.
Zed excused himself at last, stepping away from the banquet. The air outside was cool, damp with river mist, the drums of celebration muted. He walked alone through the lantern-lit paths back to his quarters, the echoes of admiration and doubt still in his ears.
The night had crowned him champion, but to him, it was only the beginning.