Everyone was waiting.
The entire arena seemed to be holding its breath—warriors, elders, villagers, even the children perched on shoulders or clinging to the boundary ropes. The firelight flickered against tense faces, shadows dancing as if the flames themselves were anxious to see how this would end.
Across from me, Sham lowered his sword. The simple motion sent a ripple through the crowd. He began walking toward me.
My instincts screamed danger.
I tightened my grip, muscles screaming in protest as I raised my sword again, forcing my exhausted body into readiness. My lungs burned, my arms trembled—but I steadied myself.
Sham stopped a few paces away—neither retreating nor pressing the attack, simply halting in place
He looked at me then—truly looked. Not at my stance, not at the blood smeared across my skin or the sweat and strain carved into my body, but at something deeper, something beyond the fight itself, as if he were measuring not my strength, but my resolve.
And then—to the disbelief of everyone watching—he smiled. Not wide or triumphant, but faint, almost restrained, as if it were meant for himself alone rather than the crowd.
He lifted his sword, the blade catching the arena lights as it rose.
"I yield."
The words were quiet, almost gentle but they struck like thunder.
Silence slammed down on the arena, heavy and suffocating, as if the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.
No cheers.
No gasps.
No whispers.
Rokar froze mid-motion. Vaela's eyes widened, shock written plainly across her face. Charlie stood perfectly still, his expression impossible to read.
The elders stared in stunned silence. The host blinked, once—twice—clearly unsure whether he had heard correctly. Even the leader's gaze sharpened.
And me?
My mind went utterly blank.
What…?
He had the advantage. Anyone could see it. His stance was stronger. His breathing was far steadier than mine, controlled and measured despite the fight. Mine was ragged, my limbs screaming in protest. Another minute—maybe less—and my body would have given out. I would have fallen.
So why?
Why stop now?
Why surrender victory when it was already within his grasp?
Why yield?
Before my thoughts could spiral any further, the host stepped forward, his voice cutting awkwardly through the stillness, amplified far too loudly in the hollow silence.
"Arthur… win."
The words hung in the air, unfinished and uncertain. A murmur rippled through the stands—not cheers, not outrage—but something quieter and more unsettled. Confusion spread from one face to another, lingering in the space.
It rolled like a low tide, unsettled and searching, as though the crowd was waiting for someone else to explain what had just happened.
Sham stepped closer, stopping just near enough that I could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing. He reached out and tapped my shoulder once—firm, respectful, and unmistakably final—an acknowledgment that needed no further words.
There was no bitterness in his voice. No regret.
Then he turned away.
He crossed the boundary line without hesitation and walked from the arena, never looking back, leaving behind a victory.
I stood there, stunned, watching Sham's back vanish into the crowd, swallowed by noise and shadow, as though the moment had never truly belonged to him.
Another figure entered the arena.
"Next—Vam!"
A slim silhouette stepped into the firelight, twin short blades catching the flames as he moved. Light on his feet. Balanced. The kind of fighter who didn't rely on brute force—but precision.
He was quick. Sharp.
Not overwhelming but dangerous in a different way.
He stopped a few steps in front of me, eyes flicking over my stance, my grip, the fatigue I hadn't managed to hide. A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Skra—lucky with Sham," he said. "Now you won't."
I exhaled slowly, tightening my hold on my weapon.
Whatever had just happened—whatever Sham's surrender had meant—it was over. Why Sham yielded didn't matter now.
I forced my focus back to the present.
I met Vam's gaze—and said nothing.
The host retreated to the edge of the arena and raised his hand. For a heartbeat, the world held still. Then the signal dropped.
Vam lunged and before he could even swing, I lifted my sword high, arm steady despite the tremor running through me.
"I yield."
The word rang out—clear, unmistakable.
It echoed.
Vam skidded to a halt mid-motion, boots scraping against the stone as he nearly tripped over his own momentum.
"Eh—!?"
The arena stirred, then erupted—not in cheers, but in shocked, fractured murmurs.
What is he doing?
Why now?
Is he afraid?
Or is he tired?
The questions rippled through the stands, clashing against one another, while I stood motionless beneath them all—my sword still raised, my choice already made.
The elders stared—most of them unreadable, their faces carved from stone, all except Thryssa.
A faint smile touched her lips, brief but unmistakable.
The leader's mouth curved as well, just barely—an expression that might have gone unnoticed if I hadn't been looking.
Rokar broke first.
"Hahaha!"
His laughter burst out loud and unrestrained, echoing across the arena.
Vaela groaned and slapped her palm against her forehead, shaking her head as if she couldn't decide whether to be impressed or exasperated.
Charlie didn't react at all. No surprise. No amusement.
Vam, meanwhile, burned. His face flushed crimson with a mix of humiliation and fury, his grip tightening on his blades as he took a step forward.
"Skra—afraid me!?" he snapped.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
I turned my back on him and walked out of the arena, leaving him standing there—blades in hand, pride in tatters, rage with nowhere to go.
As I approached Rokar and Vaela, my shoulders tightened. I braced myself, half-expecting a sharp reprimand, a lecture about wasted opportunity or dishonored rules.
It never came.
Rokar's face split into a wide grin. He stepped forward and thumped his fist lightly against my chest, the impact solid and grounding.
"Skra—good fight." The words carried approval, not mockery.
Vaela reached out next, placing her hand atop my head and ruffling my hair just enough to be irritating. A small smile curved her lips—soft, proud.
Charlie's voice followed from behind me, calm and measured.
"You fought well, young master."
Something in my chest loosened. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, tension bleeding away all at once, and managed a smile of my own—awkward, unsteady, but undeniably relieved.
The cheering rose again as the next match began.
The tournament continued deep into the night, the arena lit by blazing torches and crackling wood fires. Blades clashed. Bodies fell. Victories were earned in sweat and blood.
The final match came down to a massive man facing a girl my age.
The difference in size was impossible to ignore. He was all bulk and reach, a living wall of muscle. She was lean and coiled, moving with the sharp efficiency of a drawn blade.
She was fast.
Fierce.
Unrelenting.
She darted in and out, striking where she could, forcing him to turn, to miss, to chase. For a moment—several, agonizing moments—it almost looked like she might wear him down.
But in the end, brute strength prevailed.
One crushing blow sent her skidding across the arena floor, and the match was called.
The victor threw back his head and roared, a sound of raw triumph, as the leader stepped forward. In his hands gleamed an Azure Core, its blue light pulsing softly even in the firelit dusk. When it was placed into the man's grasp, the crowd erupted—cheers crashing together as the leader raised his voice and announced a feast for the following day.
The noise lingered, then slowly began to thin as people drifted away, excitement bleeding into satisfied exhaustion.
As the leader turned to leave, his gaze flicked toward me one last time. Just for a heartbeat.
I swallowed.
Behind him, Elder Thryssa caught my eye. She inclined her head in a small, deliberate nod.
The leader and the elders had left, and most of the crowd had dispersed, the arena left to echoes and trampled dust. Only scattered voices remained, fading as people returned to their homes in anticipation of the promised feast.
Rokar clapped my shoulder once more, firm and reassuring, before turning away.
"Skra-Rest," he said. "Train tomorrow."
Vaela, Charlie, and I left together, walking along the dim paths of the village. The firelight thinned as we moved farther from the arena, shadows stretching long between the huts. The night had settled fully now, cool and quiet, and with each step, the weight of the day slowly began to sink in.
My thoughts wandered as we walked.
The noise of the arena still lingered in my head—the murmurs, the stares, the confusion on people's faces. Sham yielding. Then me yielding. The way the crowd had looked at me afterward, as if trying to decide what I was meant to be.
Was today enough?
Or was I still just an outsider standing where I didn't belong?
"Skra-what thinking?"
Vaela's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.
I blinked and looked at her. "Nothing."
She shot me a sideways glance, unimpressed. After a brief pause, she spoke again, her tone softer.
"Skra-fight good today."
I exhaled and gave a small smile, shaking my head. "Not enough. I still need to train harder."
She bumped her elbow lightly into my stomach—sharp, playful, grounding.
"Skra-rest today," she said firmly.
I let out a quiet laugh. "I was just saying. I'm not stupid enough to train now."
That finally pulled a short chuckle from her.
Behind us, Charlie walked in silence, his footsteps steady and unchanging, never too close and never too far. The path ahead was washed in fading firelight, shadows stretching long between the trees. And together, the three of us walked on—back toward our house, the noise of the arena finally slipping away into the night.