The arena's artificial sun had completed half its cycle across the domed sky by the time Jade's watch vibrated again. Five hours since his first match.
Jade opened his eyes as the alert pulsed against his wrist. Around him, Section 14 remained packed. The moment his watch lit up, dozens of heads turned in his direction.
Waiting to see if the first match had been a fluke.
The display showed his opponent's number. Participant 89,473. Elimination rank 1,300.
Higher than Jade's official ranking of 1,404.
Jade rose to his feet unhurried. He didn't bother checking the time remaining. Then vanished.
On Stage 14, he appeared in the same instant his opponent fully stepped into the platform from the opposite side. The other fighter was a woman with some kind of electrical ability based on the crackling blue energy already dancing along her forearms. She froze for a half-second when Jade materialized.
Her eyes went wide. Recognition and fear flickering across her features in rapid succession.
She'd watched the replay. Of course she had. Everyone had.
The referee appeared between them, confirming readiness with professional efficiency. The woman nodded and Jade inclined his head slightly.
"Match begins in three... two... one... FIGHT!"
The woman moved immediately. She didn't charge like the previous opponent, but created a distance. Electric currents crackled and she was suddenly twenty meters away, electricity propelling her backward in a burst of speed while her hands came up, blue energy gathering between her palms.
The strategy was tactically sound but utterly pointless.
Jade appeared behind her, palm already extending.
Her expression shifted from determination to shock to resignation in the span of a single heartbeat. The lightning between her palms flickered and died as her concentration shattered.
Jade's palm connected.
The impact was quieter this time—still devastating, but more controlled. She flew forward, but not as far. She hit the barrier wall with less force, slid down with more dignity intact. But unconscious before she finished falling.
"MATCH!, contestant 847,392 wins!"
The crowd's roar was louder this time. They'd been expecting this, but it was still exciting to watch.
Jade returned to his seat before the medical personnel finished their initial assessment.
...
Two hours later, his watch vibrated a third time.
Participant 156,889. An Earth manipulation specialist who'd clearly watched both previous matches and decided his best chance was overwhelming defense.
The moment the match started, massive walls of stone erupted around the fighter, creating a fortress of compressed earth and rock. Smart. If Jade couldn't reach him, couldn't land that devastating strike, then maybe—
But what to do ?. Jade appeared directly inside the fortress.
The earth manipulator's eyes went wide. His hands moved frantically, trying to create internal barriers, trying to trap Jade in stone before he could attack.
The palm strike landed before he could react. The fortress crumbled when its creator crumpled. Jade teleported out before the rocks finished falling.
"MATCH! Winner: contestant 847,392!"
Three matches. Three victories. Three different strategies, all ending the same way.
One hit. Complete knockout. Under a minute from start to finish.
The whispers in Section 14 had evolved from speculation into something approaching awe. Or fear. Possibly both.
By the time the sun began its descent toward evening, Jade had fought seven matches total.
Match four: A fire specialist who tried overwhelming offense, throwing waves of flame across the stage the moment the match started. Jade appeared above the flames, strike descending. One hit. Done.
Match five: Wind manipulator who stayed airborne, trying to use vertical advantage. Jade materialized at her side in midair. One strike. She fell. Medical personnel caught her with cushioning techniques before impact. Done.
Match six: Ice specialist—cruel irony that—who tried to match Jade's apparent speed with frictionless ice surfaces. One strike sent him sliding unconscious across his own ice. Done.
Match seven: Physical enhancement specialist. Another one. This fighter had watched all six previous matches, came in with a defensive technique that hardened his skin like steel, confident that enhanced durability would let him withstand one hit long enough to counter.
He was unconscious before the confidence finished fading from his eyes.
Seven matches. Seven victories. Combined duration: less than two minutes total.
The commentary teams had stopped trying to analyze individual techniques. Now they were tracking patterns, building narrative, creating the story that would define this tournament for millions of viewers.
"Participant 847,392 has fought seven matches across eight hours," the enthusiastic commentator announced, her voice carrying that edge of excitement that came from witnessing something unprecedented. "Seven opponents. Seven completely different combat styles and strategies. Seven knockouts. Average match duration: forty-three seconds."
"What's remarkable," the analytical commentator added, "is how none of these fighters were weak. Elimination rankings ranged from 987 to 3,100. Every single one earned their place in this tournament through legitimate combat capability. And every single one went down in one hit."
"The question everyone's asking," the critical commentator cut in, voice dry but intrigued, "is whether anyone can actually survive that strike. Because so far, the answer appears to be 'no.'"
The replay feeds showed all seven knockouts in rapid succession. Different approaches. Different talents. Same result.
One hit.
Every time.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the enthusiastic commentator said, "I think we're watching the emergence of this tournament's dark horse. Participant 847,392 who is unranked in the top thousand, and unknown until today, is making a statement that's impossible to ignore."
In the betting halls, odds were shifting dramatically. 400-to-1 had dropped to 150-to-1 after the third match. After the seventh, it hit 75-to-1 and was still falling.
Professional gamblers were scrambling. Some doubling down on their early bets, others cutting losses and switching sides. The smart ones—the ones who'd been doing this long enough to recognize genuine skill when they saw it—were going all in.
This wasn't a fluke. This wasn't lucky matchups. This was someone announcing their presence in the most definitive way possible.
Academy scouts had moved past recruitment interest into active bidding preparation. Guild representatives were drafting preliminary offers. Noble houses were quietly investigating Nexarion's background, trying to understand where this fighter had come from and whether any existing political entanglements might complicate acquisition.
And in Section 14, the nervous energy had crystallized into acceptance.
If you got matched against participant 847,392, you lost. Simple as that. The only question was whether you'd forfeit immediately to preserve your ranking points or fight and hope for mercy in the form of a controlled strike that wouldn't injure you permanently.
Most were leaning toward forfeiting.
Pride wasn't worth unconsciousness.
.....
...
Jade sat in his seat with his eyes closed, tuning it all out. The whispered conversations. The nervous glances. The speculation.
None of it mattered.
His watch remained silent. Hours would pass before the next call.
Jade settled deeper, letting time pass.
Around him, Stage 14 continued its relentless progression. Matches fought. Victories claimed. Defeats endured.
Whispers had started about the hooded fighter. Why the hood? What were they hiding?
"Maybe they're ugly?" someone suggested in Section 14.
"Or scarred. Battle damage from before the tournament."
"Could be an alien. I heard some outer rim planets have non-human awakeners."
"Don't be stupid. The tournament checks species classification."
"Then maybe they're just—I don't know—shy?"
"Nobody that powerful is 'shy'."
The speculation spread, building on itself, creating theories that ranged from reasonable to absurd.
And somewhere in the midst of it all, one hooded fighter had become the name everyone whispered.
The dark horse.
The one-hit warrior.
Participant 847,392.
----------------------------------------------------
On Nexarion, Selene had finally settled into her chair after hours of excitement, though she kept bouncing in her seat every time Jade appeared on screen.
"Seven!" she announced to the room at large, grinning so wide it had to hurt. "My little frost bunny! Seven matches! Seven wins!"
"We know, Selene," Kael said with infinite patience, one arm around her shoulders. "You've announced each one."
"Because he's MAGNIFICENT! Look at him!" She made explosive gestures.
The apprentices had settled into enthusiastic but sustainable energy. Mira was keeping detailed notes and tracking statistics. The younger ones had started a betting pool on how many matches Jade could win before someone actually managed to survive one hit.
Current consensus: nobody would survive.
Gorvoth had finally moved from his position against the wall, settling into a chair near the back with arms still crossed, expression still neutral except for that small, persistent smile.
---
On Herculio Prime, Aurelien hadn't moved from his chair in eight hours.
Rowan had brought food. Octavia had delivered status reports. Both had been ignored.
Because every few hours, that hooded figure would appear on Stage 14 again, and Aurelien's world would narrow down to watching them move.
Seven matches. He'd watched all seven. Multiple times. From every camera angle available. In slow motion. Frame by frame. Trying to understand this inexplicable pull that had taken up residence in his chest and refused to leave.
The way they moved—gods, the way they moved. Like violence was choreography and they'd perfected every step. That impossible speed. That devastating precision. That complete, utter control that made unconscious bodies look like art installations.
And after every match, that stillness. That perfect, controlled stillness that suggested awareness of everything while revealing nothing.
Aurelien's hands were clenched on the chair arms again. Had been for most of the eight hours, based on the aching in his fingers when he occasionally remembered to relax them.
His heart rate had remained elevated, higher than his baseline for eight hours straight.
The butterflies had evolved into something more persistent. More demanding. A low, constant hum of 'want' that permeated everything and refused to be ignored no matter how much he tried to analyze it away.
"My lord," Rowan said carefully from somewhere behind him. "You've been watching for eight hours. Perhaps you should rest—"
"No."
The word came sharp, Immediate and non-negotiable.
Because participant 847,392's next match could be called any moment, and Aurelien was absolutely not going to miss it.
Rowan exchanged a glance with Octavia that Aurelien caught in his peripheral vision and chose not to acknowledge.
They thought this was concerning. This obsessive focus on a single tournament participant.
They were probably right.
But Aurelien didn't care. He had no reason to give them any form of explanation.
Aurelien's eyes tracked to the contestant seating section of stage 14, finding that hooded figure by instinct now. Sitting perfectly still. Apparently resting.
But something about that stillness made Aurelien think they were absolutely aware.
'Who are you?'
The question had been running through his mind for eight hours straight. But with noo answers, just more questions.
But he could be patient.
(The butterflies disagreed, but he'd learned to ignore them.)
(Mostly.)
(Not at all, actually, but he was trying.)
...
In the gambling halls, a professional gambler named Taren sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile, datapad showing his revised betting portfolio.
He'd caught on after the second match. Recognized the pattern everyone else was still processing. Placed aggressive bets at 350-to-1 odds before they could shift.
Now those odds were at 75-to-1 and dropping every hour.
"Beautiful," he murmured, pulling up projection models. If participant 847,392 maintained this performance—and every indication suggested they would—those early bets were going to make him wealthy.
Very wealthy.
Around him, other gamblers were having similar realizations. Some celebrating early bets. Others cursing missed opportunities. All of them watching Stage 14 with intense focus now, waiting for the next appearance of the hooded fighter who'd become this tournament's most profitable investment.
"Dark horse doesn't even cover it," Taren's colleague muttered, pulling up her own betting history. "This is—what do we even call this?"
"A massacre," Taren supplied cheerfully. "Seven matches, seven knockouts, zero damage taken. If they keep this up, we're looking at top hundred minimum. Maybe top fifty."
"You think they can actually go that far?"
Taren pulled up the replay of match seven—the enhanced durability specialist who'd been so confident in his defensive technique getting knocked unconscious in one hit anyway.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think they can go all the way."
His colleague stared at him. "All the way? You mean—"
"I mean what I said." Taren's smile widened. "I think we just watched the first day of this tournament's champion announcing themselves. And everyone's so busy analyzing individual matches that they're missing the bigger picture."
"Which is?"
"That participant 847,392 hasn't even tried yet." Taren zoomed in on one of the replays, showing that hooded figure's unchanged breathing after the strike. "Look at them. Seven matches across eight hours. Not winded. Not tired. Not injured. Not even 'trying'. This is them being gentle."
The implication hung in the air.
"How much did you bet?" his colleague asked finally.
Taren showed her his portfolio.
She whistled, low and impressed. "You're either going to be incredibly rich or catastrophically bankrupt."
"I'll take those odds." Taren saved the projection models and leaned back. "Because I've been doing this for twenty years, and I've never seen anyone move like that. This isn't luck. This isn't good matchups. This is someone who's been holding back finally deciding to stop."
On the screens above them, Stage 14 prepared for another match.
And when that hooded figure appeared again, every gambling hall in the empire would be watching.
The dark horse had emerged.
Now everyone wanted to see how far they could run.
....
The evening cycle deepened into night. The arena's lighting shifted to accommodate, softer glows replacing the sunlight. The crowds thinned slightly as non-awakened viewers rotated out for sleep. But the awakeners remained and the die-hard fans refused to leave.
Nobody wanted to miss the moment participant their favourite participants were called on stage .
And when Jade's watch finally vibrated again, the people paying attention seemed to hold their breath.
His eighth opponent lasted eight seconds.
One hit.
Unconscious.
Done.
The crowd roared.
The odds dropped to 60-to-1.
And participant 847,392 returned to their seat without even acknowledging the noise.
...