The arena floor trembled beneath the weight of a hundred warriors. Dust curled in the morning heat, and the roar of the crowd echoed like thunder across the stone walls. This was the first wave of the melee one hundred men, no alliances, no mercy.
Aranji stood among them, calm as still water. He wore a sleeveless gray gi, the white flame-like crest of the Hyūga Clan stitched across his back. His dark hair was tied into a high ponytail, and his sword sheathed in a lacquered scabbard with a faint wave pattern hung at his side.
He stepped forward.
Without a word, he unslung the sword and walked to the center of the arena. Then, in full view of the crowd, he drove the sheathed blade into the earth. The lacquered scabbard sank into the dirt with a dull crack, standing upright like a silent sentinel.
He turned and walked back to his place beside Dagon Wythers.
"What the fuck are you doing, you crazy man?" Dagon hissed, eyes wide.
Aranji smiled, his voice light. "I don't need a sword to beat all of you."
Several knights nearby turned to glare. One, a Crakehall brute with a warhammer, spat into the dirt. Another, a Lannister cousin with a gilded helm sneered. "You'll regret that, foreigner."
Aranji didn't respond. He simply rolled his shoulders and waited.
In the royal box, the Targaryens watched with narrowed eyes.
Prince Baelon leaned forward. "He's leaving his weapon behind. Is he mad?"
Daemon scoffed. "He's either a fool or a showman."
Queen Alysanne's lips tightened. "Or something else entirely."
King Jaehaerys said nothing, but his gaze was fixed on the man in gray.
Princess Rhaenys tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "He's not afraid," she murmured. "He's daring them."
The announcer's voice rang out. "Begin!"
The arena exploded.
Steel clashed. Men roared. Dust flew.
Aranji didn't move at first. He stood still, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. Then, with a flicker of chakra, his eyes snapped open veins bulging at his temples as the Byakugan activated.
The world shifted.
He saw everything.
Chakra networks flared to life around him some sluggish and dim, others brighter, more refined. He could see the flow of energy through their bodies, the weak points, the gaps in their armor, the sluggish pulses of untrained chakra.
Two men charged him immediately. One from House Cuy, swinging a flanged mace. The other, a knight from House Beesbury, lunging with a spear.
Aranji stepped forward, calm and fluid.
He raised his hands open palms, fingers curved like talons.
Gentle Fist he struck the first man in the chest once, twice, three times. Each blow sent a pulse of chakra into the man's body, disrupting the flow of energy in his heart and lungs. The armor dented inward with each hit, and the knight collapsed, gasping, his limbs twitching violently as if struck by lightning.
The second man thrust his spear. Aranji twisted, caught the shaft mid-air, and drove his palm into the man's ribs. A burst of chakra surged through the knight's body, severing the flow to his legs. He crumpled, paralyzed, eyes wide with confusion and fear.
A third man came from behind a Redwyne heir with a longsword. Aranji turned, ducked the swing, and struck the man's wrist. The sword dropped. A second strike to the shoulder, and the man's arm went limp. A final blow to the chest sent him flying backward, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The crowd gasped.
In the royal box, Baelon stood. "He's breaking through plate."
"With his bare hands," Aemon said, stunned.
Daemon stared. "That's not possible."
Jaehaerys leaned forward. "It's not brute strength. It's something else. Precision. Energy."
Queen Alysanne's eyes were wide. "He's using their own bodies against them."
Below, Aranji moved like a phantom. He weaved through the chaos, striking with surgical precision. Every blow was a burst of chakra visible now to the sharpest eyes as faint pulses of blue-white light. He struck pressure points, joints, and organs through armor, disabling men in seconds.
A knight from House Deddings charged him with a greatsword. Aranji sidestepped, struck the man's elbow, then his neck. The sword dropped. The knight fell, convulsing.
A Lannister cousin Ser Tywald came at him with a shield and axe. Aranji let the first swing pass, then drove his palm into the man's stomach. The armor buckled. A second strike to the chest, and Tywald collapsed, coughing blood, his breastplate caved in.
Dagon, nearby, was laughing like a madman, his axe cleaving through a pair of sellswords. "You're insane!" he shouted. "But I love it!"
Aranji grinned, his eyes glowing. He wasn't just fighting. He was thriving.
In the royal box, silence reigned.
Baelon finally spoke. "He's not just skilled. He's something else."
"He's dismantling them," Aemon said. "Like he's done this a thousand times."
Queen Alysanne's voice was quiet. "He's not from here. But he's not out of place."
Jaehaerys's fingers tapped the arm of his chair. "We need to know more about him."
Rhaenys leaned farther forward, black and silver hair catching the sunlight. Her violet eyes were locked on Aranji, unblinking, drinking in every fluid motion, every impossible strike. He moved like a dragon in human form graceful, merciless, utterly assured. No rage. No fear. Only perfect, terrifying control.
"Who is this man?" she whispered.
Her pulse raced. For the first time in years, the Princess of Dragonstone felt something.
Below, the sword still stood in the center of the arena, untouched, sheathed in its scabbard.
And Aranji hadn't even looked back at it once.
______
Author update
Here's the Young 20-year-old Princess Rhaenys Targaryen
I'm making a decision to replace his one of his jutsus with a version of black flash because I just realized the lightning blade has not been created yet