His figure carried an effortless elegance, draped in a pristine white robe edged with intricate gold. The neckline was adorned with finely wrought golden necklaces that caught the morning light and shimmered with restrained brilliance, while a blue sash lay neatly across his chest, stretching from one shoulder to the opposite side of his waist.
His blonde hair, parted with deliberate care, stirred gently in the breeze, and beneath it, a pair of dark blue eyes moved across the field with quiet precision, absorbing every detail without haste or excess.
When he spoke, his voice emerged soft yet measured, carrying with surprising clarity across the breadth of the arena.
Gohon!
"My name is Leonidas Antonius. I am the second emperor of Mercedes. I trust Lord Nemesio has already tempered your resolve with his words. Today, none of you must falter, for you stand as the warriors of the next generation."
A practiced motion lifted his hand to adjust his glasses, the gesture punctuated by a restrained cough.
"Now, I will be explaining the arr—"
"That voice… it sounds oddly familiar." The words slipped from Jurgen in a low murmur, his fingers brushing along his jaw as he searched his memory. He felt certain he had heard it before, yet the recollection refused to surface, buried beneath a mind that, despite its usual sharpness, dismissed such details as trivial.
"…So none shall make mistakes or disrupt the tournament," Leonidas continued, his voice regaining its steady cadence. "The arrangement is a two-man duel. Two random prodigies will be paired against another two. The first team to incapacitate or render the other unable to continue will be declared the victor."
His tone remained composed, authority woven seamlessly into each measured word.
"This serves solely to evaluate your capabilities and determine your standing. Some may question how those from outside Mercedes might succeed, yet this tournament stands as the gateway to the Defense Corps. Those who prevail, regardless of origin, will be granted a written declaration, signed by the highest authority in Mercedes, and forwarded for official recognition."
The assembled prodigies listened in attentive silence, their focus fixed upon him, bodies held taut with anticipation as the calm breeze drifted across the wide expanse of the field.
"You must neither treat this lightly nor allow it to go too far. Intent to kill will not be tolerated and will result in immediate disqualification. Conduct yourselves with honor, as befitting gentlemen and women of your standing. Thank you."
The final word left him with a faint exhale, his shoulders easing as though released from an unseen weight. He turned and made his way toward his seat, a long breath escaping him — one that carried the quiet relief of someone who had endured more than he preferred.
"That was tougher than expected, Nemey."
The admission came with a softened exhale, the tension in him ebbing.
"Speaking before a crowd like that is… exhausting. And somewhat strange, given that we are not so far apart in age." A subdued groan followed as he settled into his chair, the leather giving a faint, restrained creak beneath him.
"Well, not everyone ascends to the throne so early," Nemesio returned, his calm smile steady, touched with a quiet reassurance. "And rest assured, they will take your words to heart. If anything, you have only strengthened their resolve."
Their exchange lingered lightly in the air before another voice cut through it with sharp authority, cleaving the atmosphere cleanly.
"Silence. My name is Commander Kimura Yamazaki, and I will oversee this match."
At the very first syllable, something within Jurgen shifted. His expression darkened, a cold and inexplicable anger coiling deep in his chest. The familiarity of that voice sent a faint chill along his spine, yet it was the surge of hostility that followed which unsettled him more.
His eyes narrowed, settling upon Kimura with a quiet, dangerous intensity, and for a fleeting moment, the thought of killing surfaced with a disturbing naturalness, alien, yet undeniably present.
"As you are all aware, your names and details have been submitted from your respective regions," Kimura continued, his tone firm, each word delivered with precision. "Certain techniques have already been evaluated and ranked alongside your records."
Jurgen's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as Kimura's gaze swept across the gathered prodigies, measuring, deliberate, and unyielding.
"I am, quite frankly, impressed," Kimura remarked, his measured pacing unhurried, the faint glint behind his spectacles sharpening his gaze, "by how many among you have come to grasp the principle of Reira Flow and, more importantly, to wield it with competence."
His steps slowed, each one deliberate, as his attention drifted across the assembled prodigies with a quiet, assessing weight.
"The very act of standing here speaks for itself. None of you are to be taken lightly. I will repeat this once, no one. To underestimate your opponent is to corner yourself before the battle has even begun."
From within the folds of his long, dark coat, he produced a massive leather-bound book, its worn exterior bearing the marks of age and repeated use. His fingers moved across the pages with practiced precision, turning them until he halted at the fourth, the motion carrying a subtle finality.
When his gaze lifted once more, it settled upon them with a pressure that felt almost tangible, as though each of them were being weighed, measured, and silently challenged.
"Now then, I will call your names, and your opponents."
A restrained cough followed, low and fleeting, before the list began.
Anton Fidelis and Balbin Custod versus Viktor Bullswine and Akasora Moshi.
Sasaki Chōbei and Ashikaga Takauji versus Billy the Kid and Locusta.
Jiro Kusunoki and Buckler Blackwood versus Bubbles Wilkes Booth and Jurgen Einzelberht.
The moment his own name rang out, something within Jurgen shifted. A sharp jolt ran through him, his heartbeat quickening as his hands curled instinctively into fists.
This would be his first true battle, and every nerve in his body seemed to awaken at once, alert to the slightest change in the air around him. His pulse pounded, heavy and insistent, momentarily drowning out even the lingering hostility he bore toward Kimura, eclipsed now by the reality that stood before him.
The names continued, one after another, until the final pair was called. With a decisive motion, Kimura shut the book, the sound echoing faintly across the field before he returned it to the folds of his coat. A quiet breath escaped him, his gaze lingering over them one last time before he spoke again.
"The first participants, step forward to the arena."
His gesture directed them toward the far end of the vast field, where a wide concrete platform stretched out under the open sky. Though it had been visible upon their arrival, few had truly expected it to serve as the stage for combat, given the significance of the tournament.
Even so, the first four fighters advanced without hesitation. Their movements were controlled, deliberate, as they stepped onto the arena and positioned themselves evenly — two against two, across the open space. Their stances remained taut, their focus unwavering, eyes locked onto one another with an intensity that allowed no distraction. Sunlight carved their shadows sharply against the ground, long and unyielding, as if etching the beginning of something irreversible.
"I won't lose to anyone. Not here." Jurgen's voice was little more than a murmur, carried beneath his breath as he watched from beyond the arena's edge. His fingers tightened into a fist, damp with sweat, while his breathing settled into a controlled rhythm that barely concealed the tension coiled within him.
Among the four figures before him, one presence stood apart almost immediately. There was no overt display, no flamboyant release of power, yet the space around that individual seemed to hum with a quiet certainty, a subtle gravity that drew attention without effort.
Jurgen's senses sharpened in response, an instinctive awareness flaring despite the fact that he would not be facing this person, at least not yet. Even so, a faint, unwelcome trace of fear stirred for whoever would.
Viktor Bullswwine.
His arm, blackened from elbow to wrist, appeared scorched beyond recognition, the surface ambiguous, whether charred flesh or ruined fabric, it was impossible to discern. With each minimal movement, shadows seemed to crawl along its surface, shifting in a way that suggested something far more unsettling than simple injury.
Unkempt strands of hair fell loosely over sharp, calculating eyes that gleamed with a restrained, dangerous clarity. There was something in that gaze, an unspoken promise of chaos that lingered in the air like a silent threat.
His attire did little to soften the impression. A tattered black shirt hung loosely from his frame, its frayed sleeves ending at the elbows, the edges scorched as though fire had once sought to consume him and failed. A faint glimmer from a small earring caught the light, a subtle contrast against the otherwise dark silhouette.
Loose trousers shifted with the passing breeze, their movement the only element that might have seemed ordinary, yet even that carried a tension beneath it, as though the stillness before a strike had already begun to settle into place.
Then, almost without warning, Kimura stood upon the arena.
No sound marked his arrival. One moment the space stood empty, the next he was there, his presence absolute. His arm moved in a single, sharp downward motion, a silent command that required no explanation.
In the following instant, he vanished just as abruptly, reappearing at the far edge of the arena, leaving the four combatants alone within its bounds.
The stage had been set, and whatever followed would unfold without interference.