Aranji sat alone in the corner of the inn, hands trembling slightly as he sipped from a chipped clay cup. The warmth of the broth did little to settle the storm inside him. He wasn't afraid no, not exactly. But the encounter with Vhagar had shaken something loose in him.
"I'm no God of Shinobi," he muttered to himself. "Not against that."
He had faced monsters before. Summons. Tailed beasts. But dragons… dragons were something else. They weren't just chakra. They were history. Memory. Fire given form.
He needed time. And coin.
The tournament.
He remembered the words spoken in the Dragonpit something about a tourney for the Crown Princess's name day. A celebration. A gathering of knights, lords, and warriors. That meant opportunity. That meant money.
He finished his meal in silence, listening to the tavern's hum. Gossip flowed like wine talk of arriving nobles, of ships docking in Blackwater Bay, of dragons circling the skies. He heard the name "Red Queen" whispered with awe, and the name "Rhaenys" spoken with reverence.
"She's twenty now," someone said. "Still not wed. But gods, she rides like a warrior."
Aranji stood and made his way upstairs. The bed in his room was no better than the last stiff, uneven, and stuffed with straw but he didn't complain. He changed into a fresh set of clothes, then knelt on the floor and began unpacking.
Scrolls. Chakra pills. Dried meat. A few stolen pouches of coin. His sword.
He laid everything out with precision, inspecting each item. The blade came first his long Aikuchi, forged from chakra metal. He ran a cloth along its edge, checking for nicks. None. Still perfect.
He counted his money. One gold dragon. A handful of silver stags. A few copper stars. Not much.
"Barely enough for another week," he muttered. "I need to win something."
He repacked his gear, sealing some of it back into his arm tattoo. Then he sat back, exhaling slowly.
"It's going to be a long few days."
And it was.
Nearly half a week passed. He kept to himself, speaking only when necessary. The only person he truly spoke with was a boy no older than ten who dreamed of becoming a knight. The boy followed him around like a shadow, asking questions, watching him train in the early mornings.
"You fight like a ghost," the boy said once. "Like you're not even touching the ground."
Aranji had smiled faintly. "That's the idea."
He noticed the city changing. More knights arrived each day some in shining armor, others in battered mail. Mercenaries swaggered through the streets. Merchants set up stalls with silks, spices, and steel. Dragons flew overhead, their shadows casting awe and fear in equal measure.
One ship caught his eye a sleek vessel with crimson sails and a carved dragon prow.
"The Red Queen," someone whispered. "She's here."
He learned more each day. The tourney would be held outside the city walls, near the Dragonpit. There would be a melee, an archery contest, and of course, the joust. He couldn't enter the joust he wasn't a knight but the melee and archery were open to all.
He signed up for both.
The line was long. Warriors from across the realm stood shoulder to shoulder some noble-born, others lowborn brutes with more scars than teeth. Aranji stood quietly, arms folded, his yukata fluttering in the breeze.
People stared.
Some whispered.
"Is that a woman?"
"She's blind, look at those eyes."
"What's she doing here? This isn't a place for ladies."
He ignored them. Until one man stepped too close.
"Sweetheart," the man said, leering. "You're in the wrong line. Why don't you let me show you where the seamstresses are?"
Aranji turned his head slowly. "Touch me again," he said, voice low, "and I'll break your wrist."
The man laughed and reached out.
A blur of motion. A sharp crack.
The man stumbled back, clutching his hand, howling in pain.
Aranji didn't even blink.
"I said don't touch me."
The line went quiet. Then slowly, it moved again.
He exhaled, adjusting his collar.
"Idiots," he muttered. "I'm not here to impress anyone. I'm here to win."
And with that, he stepped forward, one place closer to the arena.