"Who is she supposed to be?" Marcus Hale muttered. "That's a bold thing to say in front of this many serious contenders."
He wasn't wrong. Word had already spread that the opening round would be a four-way free-for-all. Declaring yourself someone's personal enforcer before that was a good way to guarantee being targeted by everyone else at once.
Marcus glanced again at Fiona Barlow's outfit. "That looks like Iron Front issue. They actually sent people to compete?"
Normally, Iron Front didn't do that. They were regulators, not participants. When independent groups held large-scale events, Iron Front monitored them, enforced boundaries, and stepped in only if things threatened to spiral into public disaster. They didn't usually step onto the stage themselves.
Then again, circumstances weren't normal.
Evan Clarke was one of the candidates tied to the event's political core, and he was Iron Front affiliated. From that angle, their presence made sense.
"Or she's just bad at thinking before speaking," Rowan Mercer said mildly.
His gaze drifted to the red glass beads Fiona still wore around her neck. He smiled faintly.
Rowan didn't need to dig into memories to judge someone. His heightened perception made certain things obvious at a glance. Marcus was straightforward, emotionally clean, with no hidden malice. Fiona, on the other hand, felt… misaligned. Not malicious. Not stupid, either. Just wired differently. Her thoughts didn't move the way most people's did.
Evan Clarke was the opposite. Calculating. Reactive. Constantly adjusting.
And Fiona's raw output was no joke. Even without training finesse, the physical reinforcement alone would make her a nightmare in close combat. She wasn't boasting. She really could back it up.
"That said," Rowan thought, "potential doesn't equal outcome."
Laughter rippled through the clearing as a familiar voice carried across the crowd.
"Young people really don't lack confidence these days."
The Old Master arrived with several figures in tow, their presence instantly shifting the atmosphere. Conversations stopped. Arguments faded. Attention snapped forward.
"It's the Old Master. And several of the council members."
For most of the people present, this was as close as they would ever get to the peak of the enhanced world. Not just in terms of ability, but influence.
Rowan listened as names were whispered nearby.
The Old Master, whom he'd already met earlier that day.
Beside him walked Julian Bellamy's contemporary, the one who had put the legendary prize on the table. His internal pressure was immense, though still clearly a step below the Old Master's.
Nearby was an older man in a wheelchair, missing limbs, said to be the Old Master's junior.
Behind them came two family heads, both powerful, both dangerous in their own way.
What surprised Rowan wasn't them.
It was the boy pushing the wheelchair.
He couldn't have been older than fourteen. Yet the density of energy inside him was exceptional. Not refined, but vast. Comparable to elite contenders already registered for the competition. Possibly greater.
"A hidden asset," Rowan noted. "Interesting."
Still, it didn't hold his attention for long. Compared to Rowan's current threshold, even the most celebrated figures here were operating on a lower ceiling. What truly intrigued him wasn't who ruled this layer of the world, but whether there were higher ones still unseen.
After a brief opening address, the Old Master gestured for the attendants to bring forward a sealed container.
The rules were announced.
Four arenas. Matches running simultaneously.
The first round would consist of four-person battles.
Those who advanced would proceed into single-elimination rounds over the following days.
Leadership succession and the legendary prize would be awarded based on final rankings.
Clear. Brutal. Efficient.
The drawing began.
Marcus leaned in as Rowan unfolded his slip. "What'd you get?"
"Final slot. Arena Three," Rowan replied.
Marcus checked his own and laughed in relief. "Different arena, same time window. Guess we'll both have a chance to watch first."
Rowan nodded. It made little difference to him. The structure of the competition wasn't a concern. Outcomes would depend on execution, not format.
A call went out instructing everyone to return to the main arenas. Lunch had been prepared.
The scene that followed was almost absurd.
Enhanced individuals from every background imaginable sat on rocks, steps, and low walls, eating boxed meals side by side. Robes, suits, casual jackets, and formal attire blurred together. Regional accents overlapped. Arguments about technique gave way to complaints about rice portions.
For all the power gathered here, it felt strangely ordinary.
And that, Rowan thought, said more about the state of this world than any hierarchy chart ever could.
At exactly one o'clock, the signal was given.
Before moving, Rowan paused.
Three identical silhouettes separated from him, soundless and invisible, slipping away toward the other arenas. Each carried a fraction of his awareness, enough to observe without interfering.
Marcus blinked. "You just—"
"Monitoring," Rowan said simply.
If he was here to learn, then watching one arena wasn't enough.
The main Rowan headed toward Arena One with Marcus at his side, while the others dispersed.
Four battlefields.
Four perspectives.
And more information than he could've hoped for.