"Arthur."
The moment my name echoed across the arena, my body stiffened.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't move. All around me, the noise shifted—murmurs rising, whispers colliding.
"Skra-outsider…" "Why he fight?" "Skra-not from village."
Dozens of eyes turned toward me at once.
Curious and doubtful. Some openly hostile. Others simply confused. I felt like I'd been dragged into the center of attention without warning, like prey stepping into open ground.
My throat tightened, the weight of countless eyes pressing down on me.
The murmurs, the doubt, the unspoken questions—they threatened to drag my thoughts into a spiral of fear and hesitation—
Thud.
Rokar's heavy palm struck my back.
The impact jolted me back into my body, into the present. I sucked in a sharp breath as his rough, steady voice cut through the noise.
"Skra-go," he said simply. "Skra-win."
From my side, Vaela stepped closer, her sharp eyes locking onto mine. There was no softness in her expression—only conviction.
"Skra-not listen other," she said. "Skra-go. Skra-win."
Their words settled into me, heavier than encouragement, lighter than pressure.
I swallowed hard and drew in a slow, steady breath.
The noise faded.
The stares blurred.
The doubt loosened its grip.
I can do this.
Behind me, Charlie's calm voice reached me, steady as ever.
"Young Master," he said quietly, "you've worked harder than anyone here knows. Don't let the noise distract you. Give it everything."
I nodded once.
Without hesitation, I stepped forward.
The moment my foot crossed the boundary line, the world shifted.
The roar of the crowd dulled, fading into a distant hum. I had trained across this same ground until my lungs burned and my legs screamed for nearly two years —but now it felt different. The earth beneath my feet was firmer, heavier, pressing back against me as if testing not just my balance, but my resolve. Every step carried weight, as though the ground itself was asking whether I truly belonged here.
The host's voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding.
"Skra-choose weapon!"
I turned my gaze toward the racks lining the edge of the arena. Spears stood tall and orderly. Clubs and axes lay stacked, worn from countless hands before mine. Each weapon told a story of strength, of brutality.
My eyes didn't linger but they settled on the sword.
I stepped forward and closed my fingers around the hilt. As I lifted it, the blade caught the light, reflecting it in a thin, cold line.
From the corner of my vision, I saw Rokar watching. Just for a moment, his lips curled upward.
Across from me, Sham let out a low, amused laugh, the sound rough and confident.
"Skra-outsider," he said, rolling his shoulders as if loosening up before something trivial. His gaze flicked to the sword in my hands, then back to my face. "Want fight me… with sword?"
He shook his head, lips curling into a mocking grin.
"Funny."
I said nothing.
There was no point.
The host stepped back, boots scraping against the packed earth, and raised his arm high above his head.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause.
Then his arm dropped.
The match had begun.
We didn't rush each other. Instead, we moved slowly, cautiously, circling within the boundary. Each step was deliberate, each shift of weight calculated. I watched his shoulders, his grip, the subtle way his stance adjusted—looking for intent, for weakness. He watched me just as closely, eyes sharp, predatory, amused.
My breath steadied. My grip tightened.
Then Sham spoke again, his voice low and taunting, confidence dripping from every word.
"Skra-teach you place."
He lunged. A brutal vertical slice came crashing down toward me, fast and heavy, aimed to end the exchange in a single blow.
My instincts screamed— but my body moved before fear could catch up.
Steel met steel.
Clang.
The impact shot through my arms like lightning, the force driving my knees down a fraction as the ground shuddered beneath my boots. My wrists screamed in protest, bones rattling from the shock—but I held.
My grip didn't slip.
My feet didn't slide.
For a split second, our blades were locked.
Sham's smirk widened, sharp and satisfied, as if this was exactly what he'd expected.
He leaned in just enough for only me to hear him.
"Skra-wish you not die."
I said nothing.
I broke contact and stepped back, breathing slow and controlled, my eyes never leaving him. I watched his shoulders, the tension in his forearms, the way his wrists adjusted after the strike—the tiny movements that revealed how he fought.
Strong.
That much was undeniable.
Every blow carried weight. Every motion was practiced. This wasn't brute force alone.
And I understood something then—
This fight wouldn't be decided quickly.
He didn't stop.
A second slash came immediately—faster, sharper, cutting through the air with a hiss. I reacted on instinct, stepping back just in time, the blade passing close enough that I felt the wind of it brush my chest.
No pause. A third attack followed—vertical, heavy, meant to crush through my guard.
I raised my sword and met it head-on.
Clang—!
The sound rang out across the arena, sharp and metallic, echoing off the wooden barriers. The vibration jolted up my arms again, but this time I was ready. I absorbed it, redirected it, stayed standing.
Around us, murmurs rippled through the crowd—low, surprised and uncertain.
Sham halted mid-step.
For the first time since the fight began, he didn't move.
His eyes narrowed, the smug confidence finally cracking—just enough for something else to surface. It wasn't fear. It wasn't doubt. It was recognition, sharp and unmistakable.
"Skra-underestimate you," he muttered.
My chest heaved as I drew in air, breath coming fast but controlled. Sweat ran down my back, soaking into the leather. My fingers tightened around the hilt until my knuckles burned.
I stayed silent.
I wasn't here to trade words.
I was here to fight.
Then he came again—this time without restraint. There was no testing in the next strike. No arrogance. Just intent.
His blade descended with real weight behind it, muscles coiling and releasing in a practiced motion meant to break through my guard. I braced instinctively, drew in a sharp breath, and met it head-on.
Clang—!
The impact exploded through my arms. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, vibrating all the way to my shoulders. For a heartbeat, my grip wavered— But I didn't let go.
Steel scraped against steel as I held, redirected, and stepped back into position.
He didn't stop.
Another strike—I blocked.
Another—I parried.
I tried to answer back, forcing my sword forward in a quick counter, but he deflected it with ease. I attacked again, sharper this time—only for his blade to slide in, knocking mine aside.
Again and again.
Steel rang endlessly, the rhythm relentless. Sometimes I defended. Sometimes I attacked. Every time, he met me—blocking, deflecting, refusing to give ground.
The exchange became a blur of motion and strain, neither of us willing to break, neither willing to yield.
The rhythm settled into something brutal and relentless—metal colliding, feet grinding into dirt, breath tearing from lungs. Around us, the crowd's noise faded, excitement giving way to a tense, uneasy silence as they realized this wasn't ending quickly.
I could feel it now—Sham's strength bearing down on me. His speed, experience—every movement carried confidence honed through countless fights. He pressed forward mercilessly, forcing me back one step at a time.
My arms burned like they were filled with fire. My wrists ached. My shoulders screamed.
Don't yield. The thought anchored me.
Time lost its meaning. Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes into something longer. Sweat blurred my vision, my breath coming ragged, uneven— But I stayed standing.
The sun sank lower in the sky, its light slanting across the arena as long shadows stretched beneath our feet.
I was exhausted.
So was he.
My breathing was loud now—ragged, uneven, tearing in and out of my chest. Every inhale burned. Every exhale trembled. When I looked at Sham, I could see it written on him too: the slight drop in his shoulders, the fraction of delay before each movement, the way his grip tightened as if forcing his hands to obey.
He was tiring.
Just like me.
Why doesn't he yield?
Why don't I?
The question echoed uselessly in my head as we faced each other, blades lowered but not dropped.
All around us, eyes were fixed on the arena.
Rokar, arms crossed, unblinking.
Vaela, tense and focused.
The elders, watching in silence.
And beyond them all—the leader himself, unmoving, unreadable.
The weight of their attention pressed down harder than any strike.
Sham took a half step back, chest heaving, sweat running freely down his neck. He let out a rough breath, then gave a short, humorless huff.
"Skra-strong," he said.
Not mocking but impressed.
I met his gaze, my vision swimming at the edges, too drained to answer even if I wanted to. My sword felt impossibly heavy in my hands, my arms shaking despite my grip.
At the edge of the arena, the host shifted uneasily. His eyes flicked toward the leader, a silent question hanging in the air.
Should this be stopped?
The leader did not raise his hand. He did not speak or move. He only watched.
And the fight—unfinished, unresolved—hung suspended between us as the sun continued its slow descent.