The shadow before the Storm

The warm glow of the tavern spilled out onto the cobblestone streets as Alex, Kenji, and Mia entered the bustling establishment. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and the sound of clinking tankards. It was the last evening before the tournament began, and the trio decided to celebrate their progress with a feast.

Kenji led the way, calling for a round of drinks as they found a table near the hearth. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across their faces.

"This is it," Kenji said, grinning as he raised his mug. "Tomorrow, the tournament begins, and we prove we're not just some no-name mercenaries."

Mia chuckled, leaning back in her chair. "You sound way too confident for someone who hasn't even seen the competition yet."

Alex smirked but stayed quiet, his thoughts already drifting to the battles ahead.

As the trio dug into their meal—a hearty spread of roasted chicken, spiced potatoes, and freshly baked bread—they couldn't help but overhear snippets of conversation from the neighboring tables. The tavern was filled with mercenaries, each boasting about their skills or discussing the tournament's format.

"Sixteen fighters for the singles, eight teams for the duos," one man said, his voice rough and gravelly. "If you make it past the first round, you're already halfway to glory."

"But have you heard about the black market auction?" another voice chimed in. "Slaves being sold right here in Drakemouth. Word is it's happening the day after the tournament."

Alex froze mid-bite. His jaw tightened as the conversation continued.

"Big money in those auctions. They're bringing in some rare merchandise this time."

Kenji noticed Alex's expression and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "We'll deal with that when the time comes," he said quietly. "Right now, focus on the tournament."

Alex nodded reluctantly, but the unease lingered. He couldn't shake the thought of Emily being sold off like property.

After finishing their meal, the group decided to visit the training grounds at the mercenary guild one last time before the tournament. The atmosphere outside the guild was tense, with competitors honing their skills and spectators murmuring about their favorites.

As they approached the sparring area, they were met with a disturbing sight: a bloodied man being carried out on a stretcher. His armor was dented, and his face was pale, the blood dripping onto the cobblestones in thick streaks.

"That's the guy you sparred with, Alex," Mia whispered, her voice tinged with concern.

"What happened?" Alex asked, his fists clenching.

They didn't have to wonder long. A sharp voice echoed from the sparring grounds.

"You're disqualified! This isn't a death match!" a referee shouted, pointing at a cloaked figure standing in the center of the arena. The figure's black robes, adorned with intricate yellow symbols, seemed to absorb the light around them.

The cloaked person tilted their head, an air of menace radiating from their stillness. "Disqualify me?" Their voice was calm but laced with a chilling edge. "I don't think you understand the consequences of such a decision."

The referee hesitated, visibly shaken. "Rules are rules—"

Before he could finish, the cloaked figure took a step closer, and the referee's words faltered. The figure's presence alone seemed to drain the courage from the man.

From their vantage point near the doorway, Alex felt a surge of anger. "I'm not just going to stand here and watch this—"

He moved to step forward, but Kenji grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. "Don't," Kenji hissed. "You don't know who they are, and you're in no condition to take them on."

"But the referee—" Alex protested, his voice rising.

Kenji tightened his grip, forcing Alex to meet his gaze. "Listen to me," he said firmly. "This isn't our fight. Not yet. If you rush in now, you'll only get yourself hurt—or worse."

Alex gritted his teeth, his fists trembling with frustration. Mia placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression solemn. "Kenji's right. We can't afford to get involved in this."

The cloaked figure turned their head slightly, as if sensing their presence. For a brief moment, Alex thought he saw the faintest glimmer of light beneath the hood—an eye, perhaps, or something else entirely. Kenji quickly pulled both Alex and Mia back behind the wall, keeping them out of sight.

When they dared to peek again, the cloaked figure was gone. The referee stood frozen in the center of the arena, his face pale and his hands trembling.

The walk back to the inn was quiet, the weight of what they had witnessed hanging heavy in the air. Alex's thoughts churned, replaying the scene over and over.

"That person," he finally said, breaking the silence. "They're dangerous."

Kenji nodded. "No doubt about it. But so are we. Focus on tomorrow, Alex. That's how you'll protect Emily and stop people like them."

When they reached the inn, Alex hesitated outside his room. "Kenji," he said, turning to face him. "Thanks. For stopping me earlier."

Kenji smirked, crossing his arms. "Don't mention it. But if you're thanking me, it means you owe me one. So win your fights tomorrow."

Alex chuckled despite himself. "Deal."

That night, as Alex drifted off to sleep, he found himself once again in the dream training room. The ethereal blue glow of the space surrounded him, and the endless horizon stretched out in all directions.

He summoned his daggers, their familiar weight comforting in his hands. The memory of the cloaked figure's menacing presence fueled his determination. He began practicing Phantom Step, his movements clumsy at first.

The technique required him to focus not just on his footwork but also on controlling his breathing and anticipating his opponent's reactions. Time and time again, he stumbled or lost his rhythm, frustration bubbling to the surface.

But here, in this dream realm, fatigue wasn't a barrier. Alex pressed on, each attempt bringing him closer to mastering the move. He remembered Kenji's guidance, the way his older friend had demonstrated the fluid transitions between steps.

Hours—or perhaps days—seemed to pass in the timeless space. Finally, after countless tries, Alex executed the technique flawlessly. His body moved with a precision he hadn't thought possible, his daggers slicing through the air as he shifted positions in a blur.

When he woke the next morning, the memory of his success lingered. Alex clenched his fists, determination burning in his chest. The tournament was about to begin, and he was ready.