Chapter 4: Day of the Tournament

The day of the Volgunder Tournament dawned cold and clear. The crisp air was filled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The courtyard of Volgunder Keep had been transformed into a grand arena, surrounded by tiered seating packed with spectators from across Drakonia. Banners representing the various noble houses fluttered in the breeze, a vibrant tapestry of colors and heraldry. The air buzzed with the chatter of the crowd, the clatter of weapons, and the occasional nervous whinny of a warhorse.

At the center of the arena, a raised platform had been erected, draped in the Volgunder colors of silver and blue. Lord Arthur Volgunder, his face stern and unyielding, stood at the edge of the platform, his 8-star emblem glowing brightly on the chest of his formal attire. He raised a hand, silencing the crowd.

"Welcome," Arthur's voice boomed across the courtyard, "to the Volgunder Tournament! For generations, this event has been a celebration of skill, courage, and the noble traditions of Drakonia. Let the competitors uphold the values of honor and chivalry, and may the best swordsman prevail!"

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled families. Liam, standing with the other competitors near the entrance to the arena, felt a shiver run down his spine. He knew his father's words were directed at everyone, but he couldn't help but feel the weight of expectation pressing down on him.

A herald stepped forward, holding a scroll. "The rules of the tournament are as follows: Each match will be a one-to-one duel, fought to the first decisive blow. Killing one's opponent is, of course, forbidden, and will result in immediate disqualification. All competitors will wear the standard tournament tunics provided by House Volgunder."

The Herald gestured to a group of attendants who were distributing tunics. They were made of sturdy, dark blue material, reinforced with subtle enchantments that offered a degree of protection against blows. More importantly, each tunic was designed to magically display the wearer's swordsmanship star ranking, the glowing emblem shimmering near the heart. It was a practical measure, preventing any attempts to misrepresent one's skill, and a visual spectacle, adding to the drama of the tournament.

Liam accepted his tunic, his hand trembling slightly. He pulled it on over his head, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the material. He glanced down and saw a single, faint star flickering near his heart. It was a small, almost insignificant glow, but it was there. He was no longer a zero.

The drawing of lots commenced. Each competitor's name was called out and paired with another. Liam waited anxiously, his heart pounding in his chest. He watched as names were matched, alliances and rivalries momentarily set aside as the randomness of fate took hold.

The early rounds of the tournament unfolded in a blur of steel and skill. Liam watched, mesmerized, as swordsmen from various houses clashed in the arena. The Vangoria, with their shields and short swords, fought with brutal efficiency, their movements precise and economical. The Pondoria, wielding their spears, danced around their opponents. Their long reach and fluid grace were a deadly combination. Other families, with their own unique styles, battled for supremacy, each victory and defeat adding to the mounting tension.

Gareth, Anya, and Freya, standing near the edge of the arena, watched the matches with critical eyes. They offered quiet commentary, dissecting the competitors' techniques, pointing out flaws, and predicting outcomes with unnerving accuracy. They were not competing, having already proven their worth in previous tournaments, but their presence was a constant reminder of the Volgunder legacy.

Kael Dergovia, of course, fought in the early rounds. His match was swift and brutal. His opponent, a young knight from a lesser house with a 1-star ranking, barely had time to raise his sword before Kael's blade flashed, disarming him with a contemptuous flick of the wrist. The crowd roared in approval, impressed by Kael's speed and power. Liam felt a chill run down his spine.

Finally, Liam's name was called.

"Liam Volgunder," the herald announced, his voice echoing across the courtyard, "versus Torin of House Eren!"

Liam took a deep breath and stepped into the arena. His opponent, Torin, was already there, waiting for him. Torin was a burly young man, taller and broader than Liam, with a confident smirk on his face. A single, clearly visible star, matching Liam's own 1-star ranking, glowed on his tunic. He looked strong, but Liam sensed a certain arrogance, a reliance on brute force rather than skill.

The crowd murmured as Liam entered the arena. He knew what they were thinking: the untalented Volgunder, the weakling, the disappointment. He could feel their eyes on him, judging him, expecting him to fail.

The signal was given, and the match began.

Torin charged forward, his sword raised high, bellowing a war cry. Liam, his heart pounding, instinctively fell back, relying on the footwork he had been practicing. He narrowly avoided Torin's initial blows, the force of them whistling past his ears. He was on the defensive, struggling to keep up with Torin's relentless attacks.

Then, he remembered Van's words: "Use their strength against them."

He saw Torin lunge forward, his sword aimed at Liam's chest. It was a powerful blow, but predictable. Liam waited, his muscles coiled, then, at the last moment, he executed the "frost-step" footwork, sidestepping Torin's attack and using his momentum to throw him off balance.

Torin stumbled, his sword missing its target. Liam seized on the opportunity. He didn't have the strength to overpower Torin, but he didn't need it. He delivered a swift, precise thrust, not at Torin's body, but at his sword's hand.

The blow connected, not with a killing force, but enough to make Torin cry out in pain and drop his sword. The crowd gasped. Liam had won.

It wasn't a spectacular victory, not a display of overwhelming power or dazzling skill. It was a quick, efficient, almost understated win, achieved through strategy and timing rather than brute force.

The crowd, initially silent, erupted in a mix of cheers and murmurs. They had expected Liam to lose, and his victory, however unimpressive, had surprised them.

Liam stood there, breathing heavily, his hand still trembling. He had won. He had actually won.

Gareth, Anya, and Freya exchanged glances. There was a flicker of something that might have been respect in their eyes, but it was quickly replaced by their usual skepticism. "Beginner's luck," Gareth muttered, loud enough for Liam to hear.

Kael Dergovia, watching from the sidelines, merely sneered.

Liam ignored them. He had won his first match. It was a small victory, but it was his victory. He had proven, at least to himself, that he was not completely useless.

As the initial excitement of his victory faded, Liam noticed a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the keep. While the younger generation continued to celebrate the day's matches, the older family heads and elders seemed preoccupied. He observed small groups gathering in quiet corners. Their conversations were hushed and serious. He caught snippets of phrases like "Rubak incursions," "eastern borders," "unified tribes," and "new leader." It became clear that the tournament, for these seasoned leaders, was serving a dual purpose: a display of strength and a convenient opportunity to discuss pressing political and military matters without drawing undue attention. The threat from the East, it seemed, was far more serious than the general populace realized.

Finally, as the sun began to set, the herald announced the pairings for the next day's matches. Liam listened intently, his heart pounding in his chest. His next opponent was not Kael Dergovia, but the uncertainty of who he would have to face in the following round only made his fear of a later match grow. That would come later. For now, he had survived. He had won. And he would fight again.