Rowan Mercer had already decided something was wrong long before he could explain why.
He stood near the back of the viewing area, arms loosely crossed, eyes following the ongoing matches. On the surface, everything looked ordinary. Fighters clashed, techniques collided, the crowd reacted when it was told to react. Yet Rowan's attention kept drifting back to a single name that refused to settle quietly in his thoughts.
Julian Bellamy.
Three separate details kept circling in Rowan's mind, each one unsettling on its own. Together, they formed a shape he didn't like.
The first came from Marcus Hale.
Marcus had mentioned it casually, almost carelessly, as if it were of no importance at all. He and Julian had sparred once before the tournament. Not a public match. No witnesses. No clear conclusion. Just a quiet exchange that ended without a winner.
Marcus didn't brag. He didn't exaggerate. If anything, he habitually downplayed his own abilities. For someone like him to admit a draw meant only one thing.
Julian Bellamy was not weak.
The second detail came from background information Evan Clarke had managed to dig up.
Julian was the sole heir of the Bellamy Group, one of the most powerful private conglomerates in the country. His mother, Vivian Bellamy, chaired an even larger corporate empire. Money was not a limitation in his life. It never had been.
Julian had spent most of his life abroad, primarily in London, before returning home. Private education. Private instructors. Carefully curated exposure to the underground world. Nothing about his upbringing suggested randomness or neglect.
That alone didn't guarantee strength. Wealth created opportunity, not results.
But the third detail bothered Rowan the most.
Julian's demeanor.
All afternoon, Julian had watched match after match with the same calm expression. No tension in his shoulders. No impatience. No subtle tells of anxiety or competitiveness. He observed the fights the way an adult watched children argue over rules in a playground.
Occasionally, something would catch his interest. His eyes would sharpen for a moment. Then the interest faded, replaced by mild indifference.
That wasn't confidence. It was certainty.
Even the strongest competitors showed cracks. Marcus did. Evan did. Fiona Barlow certainly did, though she disguised it in her own peculiar way. There was always the quiet urge to prove oneself, to stand out among peers.
Julian showed none of it.
Which meant one of two things.
Either he was catastrophically overestimating himself…
…or he already knew he didn't need to try yet.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
"I had someone check his file," Evan Clarke said beside him, lowering his voice. "There isn't much. He's Julian Bellamy. Only son. Ridiculously rich. Lived overseas most of his life. Judging from his match earlier, he's using European-style sorcery."
Rowan glanced at him. "So… spellcasting."
"Looks like it," Evan said. "Ritual-based magic. Sigils. Elemental effects."
"Annoying," Rowan muttered. "Those guys always are."
Evan shrugged. "Hard to deal with if you don't understand it. Once you do, they're manageable."
Rowan tilted his head slightly. "Because they're weak up close."
"Exactly," Evan said. "Low physical resilience. Casting takes time. If you close the distance fast enough, they're in trouble."
Rowan tapped a finger against his forearm, thoughtful. "If it comes to that, my lightning-based techniques should counter him cleanly."
"On paper," Evan said. "Just don't underestimate the weird effects. Their magic doesn't always hit hard, but it can bind, confuse, distort. You make one mistake, and things spiral fast."
Rowan nodded. "My warding technique should handle most of that."
He paused, then added, "That explosion he used earlier wouldn't break it."
Nearby, Fiona Barlow was crouched over a folded map spread across the concrete. She held a marker and calmly wrote Julian Bellamy's name into one of the remaining open spaces.
"That slot's taken," she said flatly.
Rowan leaned over to look. The map was already crowded with names. Fighters who had advanced. Fighters Fiona had quietly marked as "notable."
"You're turning this place into a cemetery," Rowan said. "How many people are you planning to bury on this mountain?"
"All of them," Fiona replied without hesitation.
Rowan rubbed his forehead. "You don't have to mentally kill everyone."
She glanced up at him. "It helps me remember."
Rowan decided not to ask any follow-up questions.
Marcus Hale's match ended shortly after. It was clean and decisive. His opponent never found an opening. When Marcus stepped out of the ring, Rowan was already waiting with Evan and Fiona.
"You're fast," Marcus said, clearly surprised. "I figured you'd still be fighting."
"No heavyweights on my side," Rowan replied easily. "Mostly independents. It didn't take long."
Evan nodded approvingly. "Good. Go draw for the second round."
The open area used for the draw buzzed with quiet tension. Thirty-two fighters remained. Rowan scanned the group once before stepping forward.
Julian Bellamy stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. Calm, as always.
"Second-round draw begins," the attendant announced.
Slips were drawn one by one.
Rowan unfolded his.
Ben Ward.
His expression tightened slightly.
"Of course," Rowan muttered.
The Ward family was infamous. One of the most powerful families in the underground world. Deep influence. Ruthless reputation. Ben Ward himself was talented enough to justify his arrogance and cruel enough to enjoy displaying it.
Rowan had watched Ben's first match.
No techniques. No finesse. Just overwhelming force reinforced by internal energy. The fight ended in seconds.
What followed lasted much longer.
Ben had taken his time humiliating his opponent.
Evan noticed Rowan's face and leaned closer. "You got Ben Ward?"
Rowan showed him the slip.
Evan grimaced. "That's bad luck."
"What's his family known for?" Rowan asked. "He didn't use anything special earlier."
"Their signature art is called Godpath," Evan said quietly. "One of the two major painted-reality systems. Constructs manifested through focused energy and will. Your father once said it was anything but weak."
Rowan narrowed his eyes. "Then why didn't he use it?"
"Because he didn't need to."
Evan hesitated, then lowered his voice further. "Rowan… if you're not dead set on winning, you might want to consider forfeiting."
Rowan looked at him.
"If you lose," Evan continued, "he humiliates you publicly. If you win… the Ward family won't let it go. Big organizations swallow losses. Independents don't get that luxury."
Rowan stared at the slip of paper for a long moment.
Then he folded it neatly and slipped it into his pocket.
"So I either get embarrassed on the stage," he said calmly, "or targeted afterward."
Evan nodded.
Rowan smiled faintly.
"Guess I'll take my chances."