"Carlos!" Aron shouted, his voice echoing through the crowd.
Carlos turned, his mouth half-filled with noodles, and waved casually as he walked toward Aron.
"How did you even get here?" Aron asked in surprise.
Carlos smirked. "Well, you can come here to meet your people, right? So I came. And what a fight! How on earth did you beat that guy up like that?"
Aron rubbed the back of his neck, still catching his breath. "I don't know. Honestly, it felt… too easy."
Carlos raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "Easy? Aron, how did you even manage to fight when you don't train? And how did they even let you step into the arena?"
Aron sighed. "That's a long story, my friend. I'll tell you all about it once we get back to the village."
Carlos grinned, not pressing further. "Fine, I'll wait. But only after your next fight."
"I'm not fighting anymore," Aron said firmly, exhaustion weighing on his tone. "It drained me."
"You have to," Carlos countered immediately. His eyes gleamed with excitement. "Look, we didn't come here to watch you quit halfway. We came here to see the full tournament! You're only in the qualifiers right now. I need you to reach the final."
Aron hesitated. "Bu…but I—"
"No, Aron!" Carlos cut him off, his voice loud and proud. "Show them who you are. A Norm. A beast."
Aron looked stunned. Carlos's words hit something inside him, a deep chord he hadn't felt in years. Slowly, a smile formed on his lips. "I guess you leave me no choice," he said at last. "Fine. I'll try to win the tournament."
Carlos clapped his shoulder proudly, his grin as wide as the sun.
Elsewhere, far from the roaring crowds, inside a strange chamber with gilded walls and a tall arched door, a man sat in a grand chair. He was draped in luxury, his fingers heavy with rings, his eyes buried in a newspaper. Suddenly, his hand froze. He sensed something—a power unimaginable, destructive, and raw. He lowered the paper slowly, his lips whispering a single question to himself:
"Is he here…?"
"The forty-ninth round is over. Contestants, take the exit," the referee's voice thundered through the grounds.
The tournament was massive—seventy-one matches in total. Aron sat on a wooden bench, slurping the last of the noodles Carlos had given him earlier. He looked bored, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited. Then the call rang out across the arena:
"Kron, you are up!"
Aron rose immediately, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He walked calmly, menacingly, yet his chest was steady this time. There was no dread in his steps. He joined the line of contestants, and as the heavy iron gates rumbled open with chains clanking, the battlefield once again bathed in sunlight.
The crowd's silence fell thick as Aron's next opponent appeared. Then, almost instantly, the silence broke into deafening cheers. People roared, clapped, and even the nobles in their high balconies leaned forward. Among them was the same king who had been studying Aron with great interest, his sharp gaze fixed like an arrow on the boy's every movement.
Aron's opponent stepped out—a boy roughly his age, but broader, heavier, and built like a tank. His chest bulged with muscle, and his hair was a thick, messy brown. He carried a massive iron axe, the kind that could split trees in a single strike. The ground seemed to shiver under his steps.
The referee raised his hand. "Rules are simple: do not kill. Only knock out your opponent. Now—fight!"
The cheers erupted again, a thunderous roar filling the arena. From the stands, Carlos cupped his hands and shouted Aron's name, his voice breaking through the noise.
Aron and the bulky boy stared at each other, locked in silence. Then the boy made the first move. With surprising speed, he charged and leapt into the air, swinging the axe down with crushing force.
But Aron didn't flinch. He had already seen the opening. As the axe descended, Aron twisted his body sharply, his leg snapping upward. His foot slammed into the boy's gut like a hammer.
The sound of impact echoed. The boy's eyes bulged wide as his breath was ripped from his lungs. His body lifted clean off the ground, flying back several feet before crashing onto the dirt with a heavy thud. He didn't move.
Knocked out instantly.
Aron stood calmly, lowering his leg. "Never thought it'd be this easy," he muttered.
The crowd went wild, their cheers shaking the very stands. "What was that?!" people shouted. "He knocked him out in seconds!"
The referee himself looked stunned, his eyes wide as he saw the bulky warrior lying unconscious outside the ring. Raising his hand reluctantly, he declared, "Kron wins!"
Aron wasted no time. He turned and walked off, leaving the roaring crowd behind. The gates shut behind him, and he made his way toward the stands to catch Lilith's fight.
From his hidden vantage point, he watched. Lilith stepped into the arena with calm elegance. Her opponent had barely raised his weapon before she struck like lightning. In one swift move, her enemy collapsed, unconscious before the battle even began. The match was over in seconds. Lilith won without breaking a sweat.
Aron smirked. "Looks like I'm not the only one making it quick."
Just as he was about to leave, a shadow loomed ahead. A giant man stood waiting, blocking his path.
Aron narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The man's voice was deep but strangely gentle. "I cannot tell you my name. Not here. But someone wishes to meet you."
"Who?" Aron asked, his tone sharp, his guard rising.
"The king of Galaguard," the man replied softly. "He requests your presence."
Aron's brow furrowed. "The king? And why would he want to meet me?"
The man lowered his head slightly, speaking with careful words. "Because he wants to acknowledge you. And he has something to ask of you."
Aron's mind raced. The king of Galaguard himself? Why him, of all people? Could it be a trap? Yet he was the king, a ruler. Something about it didn't sit right with Aron.
Still, he nodded. "Fine. I'll go."
They walked together through the stone corridors. The giant man's silence only made Aron more restless. Finally, he asked, "Why can't you tell me your name?"
The man replied without turning his head. "I can only reveal it in the presence of my king."
Aron fell silent, but his thoughts churned. His father's voice came back to him, clear as if spoken yesterday: Kings are frauds, Aron. They live for power and corruption, pretending to serve their people. Never trust them. That's why in the Kingdom of Norm, Agarth was never a king—only a commander, a master, and a protector.
The memory burned into his heart as he walked. He clenched his fist. Could this king be the same?
Finally, the man stopped before a towering door of gold and marble. "Here," he said. "Only you may pass."
Aron frowned but nodded. He knew enough of royal rituals to expect such games. Taking a steady breath, he pushed the door open.
The chamber inside was dim, lit only by torches. Shadows stretched long across the stone floor. At the far end, seated on a throne, was a figure cloaked in darkness.
The king.
As Aron's eyes adjusted, he saw the outline of a smile curling across the shadowed face.
"Welcome," the king said, his voice smooth and commanding. "I've been waiting for you."