But the officials were building something. Layer by layer. Circumstantial evidence accumulating into something that felt heavier than its individual parts.
Finally, Malik moved to a different topic.
"The defendant's abilities. We need to establish what King is capable of. Understanding his powers might explain certain actions."
He looked at Lucius directly.
"King, what is your ability?"
Lucius stood, his expression serious but his eyes carrying subtle amusement.
"我能倒着说中文."
The crowd went silent, confused.
Lucius continued without pause. ".文中说着倒能我"
People looked at each other, completely lost. Several Mandarin speakers in the crowd looked particularly confused—they'd recognized the language but the words made no sense in that order.
"The reverse of that sentence," Lucius explained calmly in English, "says 'I can speak backwards in Chinese.' Which is exactly what I just demonstrated."
Several people in the crowd laughed despite themselves. Others looked annoyed at what seemed like mockery of the proceedings.
Malik's scowl deepened dramatically. "This is a serious proceeding. Answer the question properly."
"I did," Lucius replied, his tone pleasant. "You asked my ability. That's it. I can speak Mandarin Chinese in reverse word order. Very useful for... confusing people who speak Mandarin."
"That's not—" Malik's frustration was visible now. "Your combat abilities. The powers you use in fights."
"Oh, you mean my fighting technique?" Lucius's expression remained neutral. "That's skill, not supernatural ability. Training. Practice. Years of experience."
"You've won three matches without displaying clear powers," Caesar said. "That suggests either you're hiding something significant, or your ability is subtle enough to avoid detection during combat."
"Or," Lucius countered, sitting back down, "I'm just good at fighting and don't need to rely on powers to win matches."
The officials exchanged glances. This was going nowhere.
Mike Ross spoke up, his pleasant voice cutting through the tension. "Perhaps we need a more direct approach."
He gestured to one of his assistants, who consulted notes.
"We have medical staff who've examined the defendant. Perhaps their observations would be illuminating."
Malik nodded slowly. "Call Dr. Lois Sacah as witness."
---
The crowd stirred with interest.
Dr. Lois entered the platform area moments later, professional and composed in her white coat. She took a position near the officials' table, her expression neutral but her eyes briefly meeting Lucius's before looking away.
There was something uncomfortable in that glance—like she didn't want to be used as a weapon in this proceeding but had no choice.
Jennifer Chou addressed her first. "Dr. Sacah, you conducted medical examinations on King multiple times during the tournament. Correct?"
"Yes."
"During those examinations, did you notice anything unusual about his physical condition?"
Dr. Lois glanced at Lucius again, then back at Jennifer. "His left hand is bandaged. Always. Even during treatment, he kept it wrapped and refused to remove the bandaging for examination."
"Did you ask about this?"
"I did. Multiple times. He deflected the questions each time."
Malik leaned forward. "Defendant, why is your left hand constantly bandaged?"
Lucius remained seated, his posture relaxed. "Medical privacy. It's not relevant to this case."
"It's relevant if it relates to your abilities or could be used as a weapon," Malik countered. "Remove the bandages."
"No."
The word hung in the air, simple and final.
Malik's expression darkened considerably. "This is not optional. If you refuse, the tribunal will consider it evidence of deliberate concealment."
"You're asking me to reveal a physical condition that has nothing to do with Davis Brown's disappearance," Lucius replied calmly. "That's overreach. My medical privacy doesn't become forfeit just because someone went missing."
Marcus Webb interjected, his military bearing evident in his tone. "The tribunal has authority to compel evidence disclosure if deemed relevant to the investigation."
"Relevance hasn't been established," Lucius said. "My left hand being bandaged doesn't prove I did anything wrong. It doesn't connect me to Davis. It doesn't explain the fire. It's just... a bandaged hand."
Mike Ross stood, his voice pleasant as always. "Perhaps we can establish relevance. Dr. Sacah, based on your medical expertise, what might someone be concealing under constant bandaging of that nature?"
Dr. Lois hesitated—clearly uncomfortable being used as a weapon in this proceeding—then answered professionally. "Injury, prosthetic, scarring, severe skin condition, or deliberate concealment of identifying features like tattoos. Without direct examination, I cannot determine which."
"So it could be a prosthetic?" Mike asked.
"Possibly."
"And if someone had a prosthetic with special properties—perhaps one that could be weaponized or used in ways that explain otherwise unexplainable actions—that would be relevant to this investigation. Wouldn't it?"
The logic was sound, even if the premise was speculation.
Malik nodded slowly. "The tribunal rules the defendant must remove the bandages. This is now considered relevant to establishing capability and means."
Lucius remained still for a long moment.
The crowd leaned forward, anticipation building. Even those who'd been skeptical of the proceedings were curious now. What was he hiding?
Then Lucius stood, his movements deliberate and controlled.
"Fine."
He began unwrapping the bandages on his left hand and forearm. Layer after layer of white medical gauze coming away in a practiced motion. The process took nearly thirty seconds—testament to how thoroughly he kept it wrapped.
The crowd was completely silent now. Every eye focused on his hand as the final layers came away.
The last piece of gauze fell.
Underneath was crystalline structure. Clear, geometric, perfectly formed into the shape of a hand and forearm. Not glass—the internal structure was too complex, too organic in its arrangement despite being completely inorganic in composition. Light refracted through it at odd angles, creating subtle prismatic effects.
The fingers were fully articulated. The palm showed detailed structure. The wrist connected seamlessly to flesh where the bandages had ended just below the elbow.
The crowd erupted in murmurs and exclamations.
In the hidden observation room, Hannah's tapping stopped completely. She stared at the display showing close-up angles of the crystalline prosthetic.
"Is that real?" she said quietly.
Charlotte worked the controls, zooming in further, analyzing from multiple camera angles. "It appears to be genuine. The integration with biological tissue looks... impossible. But it's clearly functional."
"Is that glass?" someone called out from the fighter section in the main arena.
"No," Lucius said calmly, flexing the crystalline fingers with fluid precision. "It's not glass. It's crystalline structure. A prosthetic."
Malik stared. "That's... your prosthetic hand?"
"Yes. Lost my actual hand years ago. This is the replacement."
"How does it move?" Marcus asked, his analytical mind clearly fascinated despite the serious context. "What mechanism—"
"When I lost my original hand, my blood wouldn't stop crystallizing," Lucius interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact. "The wound kept forming these crystal structures—I couldn't control it, couldn't stop it. The crystallization was spreading."
He paused, his expression carefully neutral.
"It became a problem that required a solution. Then someone called The Architect found me. Fixed it somehow. Connected this prosthetic to my nervous system in a way that lets me control it. I don't really understand how it works. But it does."
The crowd murmured louder. Several officials exchanged skeptical glances.
"The Architect?" Malik said slowly, his scowl somehow deepening further. "That's—"
"A myth," Caesar Dan Chen interrupted, his voice carrying clear skepticism. "An urban legend. There's no verified evidence such a person exists. No confirmed sightings, no documented cases, nothing but stories and rumors."
"And yet here I am," Lucius said simply, flexing the crystalline fingers again. "Alive. With a functional prosthetic that responds to my thoughts and moves like a real hand. Call it whatever you want. The Architect, advanced medical technology, luck. Doesn't change the reality of it."
"That's remarkably convenient," Leon Hauser said, his tone professional but clearly doubtful. "An unverifiable explanation involving a legendary figure no one can confirm exists."
"It's what happened," Lucius replied. "Whether you believe it or not doesn't change the facts."
Dr. Lois cleared her throat. "I can verify it appears to be genuinely connected to his neurology. The movements are too precise and responsive to be simple mechanical manipulation."
Jennifer Chou leaned forward, her analytical mind processing the information. "So your ability is crystallization? Affecting liquids that contact your left arm?"
"Only my left arm," Lucius clarified. "That's part of why the hand was taken—the crystallization made it unstable. Dangerous."
He looked at the officials directly, his voice remaining level.
"My body rejects normal prosthetics. Any foreign material that contacts my left arm begins to crystallize. Standard prosthetics would just become useless crystal structures. The Architect somehow worked around that—created this prosthetic that integrates with the crystallization instead of being rejected by it."
Marcus Webb looked dubious. "Can you demonstrate this ability? Show us the crystallization process actually working?"
Lucius gestured toward a water bottle sitting on the officials' table—placed there earlier for the proceedings. "May I?"
Malik nodded curtly. "Proceed."
Lucius picked up the bottle with his right hand, unscrewed the cap, then poured a substantial amount of water directly onto his crystalline left hand.
The crowd leaned forward, watching intently.
The water made contact with the prosthetic's surface.
And immediately began changing.
Not freezing—the transformation was distinctly different. The liquid solidified but not into ice. Instead, it formed geometric crystal formations that grew from the contact point, spreading in angular patterns across the prosthetic's surface. Sharp facets. Complex internal structures. Growing rapidly but with mathematical precision.
The volume was significant—the substantial amount he'd poured creating larger, more impressive crystal structures that extended several inches from the prosthetic's surface.
Within seconds, the water had become solid crystalline structures integrated with the hand itself. They looked sturdy, well-formed, with that same prismatic quality as the prosthetic.
The crowd watched with fascination and suspicion.
"Crystallization," Lucius said calmly, holding up his hand so everyone could see clearly. "Liquids that contact my left arm transform into this. It's why I keep it bandaged—prevents accidental contact with water or other substances that would create unwanted growth."
He gripped the crystalline formations and broke them off with a sharp crack—not shattering like glass, but breaking clean at the connection points. The fragments were solid, dense, requiring actual force to remove. He dropped them on the platform floor where they landed with substantial weight.
"And this is your combat ability?" Caesar asked skeptically.
"This is what I can do," Lucius said, rewrapping the bandages around his prosthetic with practiced efficiency. "It's not particularly useful for combat. The process takes several seconds even for significant amounts of liquid. Most opponents won't conveniently pour water on my hand during a fight. And while the crystals can withstand impact—" he gestured at the fragments on the floor, "—they're not ideal weapons. Limited range, requires liquid source, slow formation time."
He sat back down.
"That's why I trained myself to the extreme. Pushed my body beyond normal human limits through years of conditioning. When you can't rely on your ability for combat, you compensate with physical capability and technical skill."
The officials exchanged glances. The explanation was plausible—strange but internally consistent. The demonstration had shown something real. But whether it proved his complete ability set was questionable.
Malik and Marcus leaned together, conferring in low voices. Jennifer made notes on her tablet. Robert Zhang looked between his colleagues anxiously.
Finally, Marcus spoke. "The demonstration confirms crystallization capability. However, many NovaBreeds possess multiple abilities. Is there anything else you're not revealing?"
"If you have evidence of that," Lucius countered, "present it. Otherwise you're just speculating."
The implication hung in the air. They didn't fully believe him, but they couldn't disprove it either.
Mike Ross's smile remained perfectly fixed. "An interesting demonstration. Though the defendant's explanation conveniently limits his abilities to something relatively harmless. Many fighters here have secondary powers that manifest under specific conditions."
"Speculation," Lucius said flatly.
"Reasonable suspicion," Mike countered. "But we can explore that further tomorrow."
Caesar Dan Chen seized on a different angle. "Regardless of limitations, you could still use that prosthetic as a weapon. The crystals appeared quite solid."
"They can withstand impact," Lucius admitted. "That's how I can land blows with my left arm in fights. But there's a difference between structural integrity and offensive capability. Most fighters here have enhanced durability. The crystals work for blocking and striking, but they're not ideal for penetrating enhanced tissue. That's why I rely on technique and leverage instead of trying to use it as a specialized weapon."
The officials deliberated quietly among themselves for nearly a minute.
---
Finally, Malik moved to another topic.
"The morning of the scheduled Odd versus Davis Brown match, you were observed returning to the medical area. Why?"
"Visiting someone," Lucius replied.
"Who?"
"Iron Clad Wang. He was still recovering in medical after our match."
"Why visit him?"
"Checking on his condition. We'd fought the day before. I wanted to make sure he was recovering properly."
Jennifer consulted her tablet. "Medical logs confirm Wang was in recovery. No official visitor records, but staff reports someone did stop by his room briefly that morning."
"That was me," Lucius confirmed.
"What did you discuss?" Marcus asked, his tone suggesting this was more than casual curiosity.
"His recovery. His injuries from our match. General conversation."
Mike Ross's smile widened slightly—not with suspicion, but with something that looked almost like amusement mixed with dismissal.
"Just friendly concern?" Mike asked, his tone almost patronizing. There was a condescending edge to it, like he was talking to a child who didn't understand how the real world worked.
"Is that suspicious now?" Lucius asked. "Checking on someone's wellbeing after injuring them in combat?"
Mike's smile broadened. "Not suspicious. Just... soft. Sentimental. I wouldn't have expected it from someone in your position. This is a tournament where only one person wins. Showing concern for opponents suggests either strategic manipulation or genuine weakness."
The implication was clear: Mike thought Lucius was showing exploitable weakness. Compassion in a place where compassion was a liability. The kind of mistake that got people killed.
He had no idea it was strategy.
Lucius didn't respond to that, just held Mike's gaze for a moment before looking back at the officials.
The tribunal continued. Questions about Odd's whereabouts during crucial times—answers that were vague but plausible. Timeline reconstructions that placed both defendants near relevant locations without definitively proving they'd done anything wrong.
Odd sat quietly through most of it, hands clasped under the table, occasionally glancing at Lucius with an expression that mixed trust with growing uncertainty.
By 2:15 PM, the pattern had become clear.
Every piece of evidence was circumstantial. Every connection was suggestive but not definitive. But cumulatively, it was building something substantial.
The bathroom. The fire. The training relationship that had started recently—right after Round 1, The timeline gaps. The suspicious visit to Wang. The concealed prosthetic that could theoretically be weaponized despite Lucius's claims.
Individual pieces were weak. Together, they created a narrative that felt convincing.
And the crowd's energy had shifted noticeably.
Where at the start of Day Two there'd been curiosity and divided opinions, now there was a growing sense of belief. The murmurs during breaks were less "maybe" and more "probably."
Mike Ross's manipulation was working exactly as intended.
Malik stood at 2:30 PM.
"The tribunal will take a fifteen-minute recess before final Day Two statements. All parties remain in the arena."
The crowd's conversation immediately grew louder. Fighters discussing what they'd heard. Executives making notes.
In the hidden observation room, Hannah studied the display showing Lucius's expression during the recess. He looked calm. Controlled. But there was something in his eyes—calculation. Planning.
"He's not panicking," Hannah observed.
"Should he be?" Charlotte asked.
"Most people would be. The evidence looks bad." Hannah's fingers resumed their tapping. "But he seems to be treating this like... like a puzzle. Something to solve rather than something to survive."
Charlotte made notes. "Is that good or bad for your evaluation?"
"Good," Hannah said quietly. "Very good."
---
The fifteen minutes passed quickly.
When Malik called the tribunal back to order, Mike Ross stood for the first time since the session began.
"Day Two has presented substantial physical evidence," he said, his pleasant voice carrying across the arena. "Timeline analysis. Location data. Capability assessment. We've demonstrated that the defendants had motive, means, and opportunity."
He gestured toward Lucius and Odd.
"Tomorrow, Day Three, we'll present our final evidence and witness testimony that ties everything together. The jury will then decide whether these connections constitute proof beyond reasonable doubt."
His smile widened.
"I believe they will find the pattern unmistakable."
Malik nodded. "The tribunal is adjourned until tomorrow at 12 PM for Day Three proceedings."
He looked at the guards.
"Return the defendants to holding."
---
But as the guards approached, Malik added something unexpected.
"Separately. Different routes. Different holding areas for the evening."
Lucius and Odd exchanged a brief glance. That hadn't been the arrangement yesterday. They'd been kept in separate cells but in the same general area.
This was deliberate separation. Isolation.
The guards split them up immediately. Two guards for Lucius, heading toward the east corridor. Two guards for Odd, heading west.
The crowd began filtering out, discussing animatedly. The entertainment had been good today. Better than most fights. And tomorrow promised to be even more dramatic.
In the hidden observation room, Hannah stood from her private booth.
"What did you think, young miss?" Charlotte asked quietly.
Hannah was silent for a moment, reviewing the recorded footage on Charlotte's tablet. That moment of genuine surprise at the bathroom evidence. The rapid calculation and recovery. The way he'd handled the forced reveal with controlled defiance. The demonstration that proved something while revealing nothing definitive.
"He's either telling the truth about the bathroom," Hannah said quietly, "or he's genuinely skilled at maintaining composure under extreme pressure. Either way, he's more capable than most people in his position would be."
"And the ability demonstration?"
"Clever misdirection if it's fake. Genuine limitation if it's real." Hannah adjusted her glasses. "But I noticed the officials' skepticism. They think he might have more capabilities than he's showing. That could become a problem for him in Day Three."
Charlotte made notes on her tablet. "Do you still want to proceed with the bodyguard offer? If he's found guilty—"
"I'll wait for Day Three," Hannah said. "See how he handles the final pressure. If he survives the verdict, we'll talk."
They left the observation room, heading back toward Hannah's residential quarters through the secure executive corridors.
---
Odd was brought to a small room—different from yesterday's holding cell. This one felt more like an interrogation space. Table. Two chairs facing each other. One-way mirror on the far wall.
The guards left him there, closing the door with a heavy mechanical sound.
Odd sat down, hands on the table, trying to control his breathing. Trying to process everything he'd heard today.
The evidence. The timeline. The way they'd connected King to everything.
And that moment with the prosthetic. The crystalline hand. The demonstration.
Was that real? Or had King somehow faked it?
And if King had faked it... what else was he hiding?
The door opened.
Leon Hauser entered, carrying a tablet and a folder. Professional. Composed. His forgettable face showing appropriate sympathy as he sat down across from Odd.
"Odd," he said, his voice carrying understanding rather than accusation. "I want to be very clear about something. You're in a difficult position."
Odd said nothing, hands clenched together on the table.
"The evidence against King is substantial," Hauser continued, placing the tablet on the table between them. "Timeline gaps, bathroom footage, fire timing, concealed abilities, suspicious behavior. He's looking guilty. And because you're connected to him through the training relationship, that guilt extends to you by association."
He pulled out a document from the folder.
"But here's what we know about you." Hauser's tone softened. "Former criminal who reformed his life. Turned yourself around. Widowed—lost your wife two years ago. Two young daughters currently in foster care because the city deemed your income unstable and your criminal record made you an unsuitable guardian."
Odd's jaw tightened. They'd done their research.
"You entered this tournament for legitimate reasons," Hauser said. "To win money so you could prove stability. Prove you could provide. Get your family back. That's not the profile of a murderer or a conspirator. That's the profile of a desperate father trying to do right by his children."
He slid the document across the table.
"You're not a bad person, Odd. You got caught up in something beyond your control. King offered to train you after your first match—after you nearly died, after you told him your story—and you accepted because you needed help. You didn't know what his plans were. You didn't know he was capable of making a fighter disappear."
The document was official letterhead. Legal terminology. Complex but the core message was clear:
FULL PARDON IN EXCHANGE FOR TESTIMONY.
"We can protect you," Hauser said quietly. "If you cooperate. Tell us what King told you about Davis. About his plans. What he did during those timeline gaps when you weren't together. What he's really capable of beyond that crystallization demonstration."
He tapped the document.
"In exchange, we drop all charges against you. Full pardon. You walk away clean, return to your life, continue pursuing custody of your children. No consequences. No record of this tribunal. You get to go home and be a father again."
Odd stared at the document. His hands were shaking slightly.
"All you have to do is tell the truth," Hauser continued. "Tell us what you know. What you've observed. What King revealed during your training sessions. Any conversations about Davis. Any mention of plans or capabilities he hasn't disclosed publicly."
The offer sat there between them. Simple. Clear. A way out of this nightmare.
All Odd had to do was testify against King. Tell them what they wanted to hear. Sign the document.
Hauser stood, moving toward the door. "I'll give you time to think about it. But understand—this offer won't last forever. Tomorrow is Day Three. Final evidence. Jury verdict. Once that process starts, this opportunity disappears."
He paused at the door, looking back.
"Think about your daughters, Odd. Think about what matters most. Is protecting King—someone you've known for a few weeks—worth losing your chance to be a father again?"
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Odd sat alone in the small room.
The document sat on the table in front of him. Official. Legal. Real.
His hands shook.
He thought about King. The training sessions. The way King had genuinely seemed to want to help. The tactical advice that had kept Odd alive against Son Tec. The respect King had shown him.
But he also thought about the evidence. The bathroom footage. The fire. The concealed prosthetic. The way King always seemed to have explanations for everything—plausible but convenient.
What if King really had done something? What if Odd was protecting someone who'd actually killed Davis Brown?
And what did he really know about King anyway? A few weeks of training. Some conversations. Tactical instruction. That was it. He didn't know King's history. Didn't know what he was truly capable of.
But he knew his daughters. Knew what they needed. Knew what losing them permanently would mean.
The choice sat in front of him in black and white.
His daughters. His family. His chance at redemption.
Or loyalty to someone he barely knew.
Odd stared at the document, his breathing uneven, his mind racing through possibilities and consequences and impossibilities.
The room was silent except for the quiet hum of the ventilation system and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Tonight, Odd had to make a choice.
---
TO BE CONTINUED