The leader passed me without slowing, his presence heavy enough that the air itself seemed to bend around him. I turned slightly, watching as he ascended the wooden dais at the far end of the arena. It was raised just enough to command the entire clearing. The elders followed behind him—silent and composed.
Then the leader raised one hand.
The effect was immediate.
The cheers, the chatter, the restless movement—everything died at once, as if the village itself had been muted.
He spoke.
"Start."
The words were simple. The reaction was not.
The entire arena exploded with noise.
Cheers erupted from every side. Fists slammed against chests. Weapons were raised. Laughter and shouting blended into a single roar that vibrated through the ground beneath my feet.
My chest tightened.
Even his voice carried weight. Not loud. Not forced. But powerful—like something that didn't need to prove itself.
The leader seated himself on a thick wooden chair carved directly from a tree trunk, broad and solid. The elders took their places behind him, forming a quiet wall of authority.
From the corner of my vision, I caught Elder Thryssa looking my way.
Our eyes met across the arena.
She didn't speak. Didn't gesture.
She simply nodded once—slow and deliberate—and a faint smile curved her lips.
I stiffened, then returned an awkward smile before quickly looking away, my heartbeat refusing to slow.
A man strode into the center of the arena, his presence cutting cleanly through the lingering noise. He was lean and wiry, sharp-eyed, with the confident swagger of someone who knew exactly how to command a crowd. His voice had been worn rough by years of shouting over clashes of steel and roaring spectators.
"Skra-welcome!" he bellowed, throwing his arms wide.
The response was instant. Cheers surged up from every side, rolling through the clearing like a living thing. The man grinned and began pacing along the boundary lines, boots thudding heavily as he stamped the ground, making sure everyone's attention stayed locked on him.
"Skra-rule simple!" he shouted, spinning back toward the center. "Skra-call two name—enter arena!"
He raised one thick finger.
"Skra-fight with weapon choose!"
A second finger snapped up.
"Skra-give up say 'I yield'!"
A third followed.
"Skra-leg touch outside—skra-lose!"
Then he clenched his hand into a fist and thrust it high above his head, his voice rising with the motion.
"Skra-winner continue till one stand!"
The arena exploded once more. Cheers thundered, weapons were raised, and the ground seemed to shake beneath our feet as the tournament was officially set in motion.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, and forced myself to focus as I replayed his words in my mind, fitting each rule together until the picture became clear.
Two fighters enter the arena.
Each chooses their own weapon.
If you can't go on, you yield—and the fight ends.
If even one foot crosses the boundary line, you lose.
The winner stays.
The host barked out two names, his voice sharp and commanding.
At once, two men stepped forward and into the arena.
One of them carried a spear—long and well-maintained, its shaft smooth from constant use. He held it with practiced confidence, fingers relaxed but ready, the weapon already an extension of his body.
The other man entered empty-handed. No armor. No blade. His shoulders were loose, his stance light, eyes sharp and constantly shifting, like he was measuring every breath of the opponent in front of him.
A hush rippled through the crowd.
The signal was given.
The spear moved instantly—thrusting forward in a clean, aggressive strike, cutting through the air with a sharp whistle as the fight exploded into motion.
The man lunged forward, the spear tip slicing through the air with frightening speed. The unarmed fighter twisted aside just in time, the weapon grazing past his ribs. Dust kicked up as he rolled, sprang back, and tried to close the distance.
Too slow.
The spear struck again—low this time.
The unarmed man barely jumped back, his heel skidding across the boundary line.
A collective gasp.
Then the spear slammed into his chest, knocking him flat.
"I yield!" the man shouted, anger twisting his face as he rolled away.
The arena exploded with noise.
Cheers crashed together, boots stomped against the ground, and voices rose in wild approval as the fight ended. The spear wielder lifted his weapon high and threw his head back, laughing loudly, savoring the moment.
Across from him, the defeated fighter stalked away from the boundary, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, pride wounded more than his body.
The host strode in, clapping the victor hard on the shoulder and shouting praise that only fueled the man's grin. Then, without letting the excitement fade, he called out another name.
A second challenger stepped into the arena—this one also armed with a spear.
The difference was clear almost immediately.
The fight was shorter, cleaner and brutal.
The first spear fighter pressed forward relentlessly, his movements confident and sharp, driving his opponent back step by step. Each exchange ended the same way—with the challenger retreating, struggling to keep control. One final, precise strike slammed into the shaft of the second spear, twisting it violently from the man's grip.
The weapon hit the ground.
"I yield!"
The shout rang out, and the crowd erupted again—cheers, whistles, and pounding applause. The victor roared in triumph, chest heaving, basking in the noise as if it were fuel itself.
Then the host called another name.
This time, the challenger stepped in with a sword.
He was different from the others—there was no excess movement, no restless energy. His posture was solid, grounded, as if his feet were rooted to the earth itself. His grip on the sword was relaxed but assured, and his eyes stayed locked on the spear wielder without a flicker of doubt or excitement.
Calm. Heavy. Dangerous.
The signal was given.
As expected, the spear struck first. The wielder lunged forward in a clean, practiced thrust—fast, precise, meant to end the fight before it truly began. But instead of dodging back like the others, the swordsman met it head-on.
Clang!
Steel rang sharply through the arena as blade intercepted spear. The impact vibrated through the air, sharp and loud enough to draw a collective breath from the crowd.
The spear came again and again.
Each thrust was met with the same result—not retreat, not panic, but redirection. The sword slid along the shaft, deflecting the point aside while the swordsman stepped forward. One step. Then another. Slowly eating away the distance that made the spear dangerous.
I leaned forward without realizing it, my pulse quickening.
The spear wielder's advantage was disappearing.
He tried to create space, shifting his footing, pulling the spear back to reset—but the swordsman was already there.
Too close.
In a sudden burst of movement, the swordsman released his sword with one hand and grabbed the spear shaft, locking it in place. Before the spear wielder could react, a knee slammed hard into his stomach.
A sharp, pained grunt echoed across the arena.
The spear slipped from numb fingers and hit the ground with a dull clatter.
The swordsman kicked it aside without even looking and advanced, blade angled low, expression unchanged.
The spear fighter staggered back, empty-handed and wide-eyed, the reality of the situation crashing down on him.
"I yield!" he shouted.
The arena exploded. Cheers, shouts, and pounding feet filled the air as voices rose over one another.
"Skra-win Sham!" someone near me yelled.
I swallowed, eyes fixed on the swordsman—on Sham.
He hadn't won through strength alone. It was control that carried him—measured, deliberate, and precise. Every move had been calculated, every decision made with intent, proving that intelligence on the battlefield could be just as decisive as raw power.
Sham hadn't tried to overpower the spear. He hadn't rushed or panicked. He had done something far more dangerous—he had understood it. He turned the spear's greatest strength, its reach, into a liability. By closing the distance inch by inch, he stripped it of purpose, forcing the fight into a range where the spear no longer belonged.
It was efficient. It was ruthless.
Beside me, Rokar's low voice cut through my thoughts.
"Arthur. Skra-see that."
I nodded slowly, eyes never leaving the arena.
"Skra-how you fight," he added.
Not how you win but how you fight.
I understood what he meant.
Sham didn't waste movement. Didn't show off. Every step, every block, every strike served a purpose. He fought like someone who knew exactly where the battle would end—and was simply walking both of them there.
The host barely had time to catch his breath before calling the next name.
Another challenger entered. Then another.
Different weapons. Different styles. It didn't matter.
Some were overwhelmed almost immediately, disarmed or driven back within moments. Others held out longer, testing Sham with stubborn resistance—but none could stop the inevitable.
Each fight ended the same way: a mistake, a brief opening, and Sham closing in without mercy.
One loss. Then another. And another.
Ten fights.
Ten victories.
The crowd that had once roared now watched in near silence, awe replacing excitement. Sham stood at the center of the arena, breathing steady, blade stained but his posture unchanged—as if this was nothing more than routine.
Then the host raised his voice again.
"Arthur."
The name echoed.
The arena went silent—so abruptly it felt as though someone had drawn a blade through the noise itself.