Chapter 32

The crowd's initial roar of excitement had dulled to restless murmurs. They had been ready, eager, expecting the tournament to begin—only for the fighters and Quincy to abruptly disappear back into the coliseum's inner chambers. The sudden retreat had killed the momentum, leaving an uneasy lull hanging in the air.

"I think something bad happened," X remarked, his arms crossed as he scanned the arena.

Sarandel, seated beside him, gave a slow nod. "I assume many fighters dropped out after what happened," she said, her tone calm but certain.

Meanwhile, in the VIP stands, Samwell Mathers sat tapping his foot impatiently, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his seat. His lips pressed into a thin line as he muttered, "Start already." He wanted this tournament over and done with—quickly.

"Father," Matthew spoke up, hesitating before continuing. His curiosity got the better of him. "Who is Even Mathers, and why do you—"

His words cut off abruptly when he caught sight of his father's glare. Samwell's eyes were ablaze with barely contained fury, drilling into him like a silent warning.

Matthew swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Father. I won't ask again," he said quickly, bowing his head in submission.

Samwell turned back toward the arena without another word.

Elsewhere, in another VIP stand, the Emperor of Aeruna reclined in his seat, one hand propped against his cheek as he sighed. "I wonder if it's like this every year." His voice was laced with boredom, his golden robes catching the light as he shifted slightly.

"I'm sure they'll begin soon, my Emperor. We should be a little patient," Tianteng said with a smooth smile, his tone polite.

The Emperor exhaled, clearly unimpressed but saying nothing further.

Across the coliseum, in another VIP stand, Prince Mark and Princess Zara of Veridiania had little interest in the arena itself. Their eyes remained locked on the Mathers family.

"Do you think there'll be any fallout from what Samwell Mathers did?" Zara asked her brother, her voice low but sharp.

Mark didn't even hesitate before answering. "I doubt it. He's never done anything quite this drastic before, but he routinely pulls stunts like this—and never once faced punishment for it."

Zara hummed in response, but neither sibling took their eyes off Samwell.

Just then, a loud grinding sound filled the coliseum as the arena wall from earlier rumbled open once more. Quincy shot out of the opening, soaring high into the air with a gust of wind at her back. She hovered effortlessly above the battlefield, her white hair fanning out around her like a banner.

"Sorry to keep everyone waiting!" she called out, her voice echoing through the stands. "There's been a change of plans—a significant number of fighters have left."

A wave of murmurs spread through the audience, surprised chatter breaking out across the stands. Some spectators leaned in to whisper to their neighbors, while others frowned, clearly disappointed.

"But don't worry!" Quincy snapped her fingers, and in an instant, several large boards of earth rose up from the ground, suspended for all to see. The murmurs turned into intrigued gasps as the boards solidified, revealing names carved into their surfaces. Embedded gemstones glowed against the letters, ensuring they were easy to read even from the farthest seats.

"This year's tournament may have fewer fighters, but that doesn't mean it'll be any less thrilling!" Quincy declared.

The boards displayed the match structure Xain had proposed:

Day 1 to Day 4 – Two matches per day.

Day 5 – Four matches for the quarterfinals.

Day 6 – Two matches for the semifinals.

Day 7 – The Grand Finals, where the last two standing would battle for victory.

The crowd absorbed the new format, scanning the names, whispering their predictions. Some looked relieved that the tournament still had structure, while others were clearly disappointed at the reduced number of fights.

"I know this is a disappointment to a lot of you, and I'm sorry for that," Quincy called out, her voice carrying across the arena. "But don't leave just yet—give it a chance. Just watch one match."

She snapped her fingers, and the towering stone boards sank seamlessly back into the earth, as if they had never been there at all. Then, with a sharp clap of her hands, the battlefield began to shift.

The ground rumbled. Deep tremors spread through the arena floor as the once-flat battlefield was consumed by shifting stone and reshaping minerals. Towering walls of smooth, slate-gray rock rose in uneven formations, enclosing the space into a twisting, labyrinthine ruin. Some walls stood tall like remnants of an ancient fortress, complete with fractured archways and shattered pillars, while others crumbled midway, providing jagged perches for fighters to leap across or use for cover. The floor itself split into varying levels, forming ledges, stair-like outcroppings, and sharp inclines that would force combatants to adapt. The ground was a mix of solid granite, veins of iron-rich stone, and patches of marble, creating a blend of textures—some areas slick and polished, others rough and unstable. Faint traces of quartz and other reflective minerals caught the light, creating an eerie glow within the deeper sections of the battlefield. It was not a natural landscape, but a constructed warzone—half ancient ruin, half battlefield—designed to test not just strength, but strategy.

Quincy spread her arms toward the towering stone walls on either side of the arena and motioned upward. In response, the walls groaned and lifted, revealing two darkened entrances. She turned toward the crowd with a sweeping gesture.

"Everyone, it's time for the first match of the day to start!"

With a flick of her wrist, she pointed toward the eastern entrance. "On one side, we have the enigmatic demi-human with no history to speak of—Gurion Wing!"

From the newly opened passage, the fox-eared and tailed man strode onto the battlefield. Gurion's keen brown eyes scanned the arena as he rolled his shoulders. His brown furred ears flicked slightly as he cracked his knuckles, stretched his arms and legs, methodically preparing his body for combat.

"Alright, this is it. You have to win this, Gurion. For your village. For Woodsmen Creek."

Though the recent shake-up in the tournament had dampened the crowd's spirits, the energy surged back at the sight of him. The anticipation, the thrill of battle—it was simply too much for them to resist. Cheers erupted, a mix of excitement and encouragement fueling the air.

Quincy then turned toward the western wall. "And on the other side, we have a man I wasn't able to introduce before. And while I'm sure many of you—especially those who uphold the law—will hate him…" Her voice took on an amused edge.

"The Bandit Lord of the Free Cities of Aetheria—Ulrich Claw!"

A ripple of gasps spread through the crowd.

From the western entrance, a man strode forward with an effortless confidence. Tall, standing at the same height as Gurion, Ulrich Claw carried the rugged, almost roguish charm of someone who had lived a life of defiance. His brown hair was unkempt but not unclean, and his sharp eyes gleamed with mischief. He wore an outfit reminiscent of a pirate's—loose, flowing sleeves, a wide sash around his waist, and high leather boots—but without the distinct naval influence. His look was that of a seasoned outlaw, a man who commanded respect not through nobility, but through sheer presence.

Two curved blades hung at his sides, their steel gleaming. The hilts were wrapped in dark leather, clearly worn from years of use, while the guards were subtly hooked, designed for catching and controlling an opponent's weapon. They weren't just for slashing; they were tools of finesse, made for a fighter who could toy with his enemies before cutting them down.

Unlike Gurion, Ulrich made no effort to prepare. No stretching, no stance adjustments. He merely grinned, resting his hands lazily on the hilts of his weapons.

"Now that's one fine introduction," he mused, his voice carrying a casual, almost entertained tone.

Quincy let the energy in the air simmer before raising her hand high. "Who will win?" she declared. "The enigmatic martial artist with no glory to his name? Or the so-called Bandit Lord who's been terrorizing Aetheria for a decade?"

She brought her arm down in a swift motion.

"Begin!"