The Tournament Begins

The early morning light crept over the horizon as Bianca burst out of her modest home, every sinew of her body alive with urgency. In one fluid motion, she grasped the hilt of her sword, its worn grip a familiar comfort in times of crisis. The air was cool but laced with anticipation—a promise of the day's challenges yet to come. As she flung open the door, she almost paused, remembering with a slight frown that Rider was still in the midst of getting dressed in the back room.

"Come on, Rider—we're going to be late if you don't hurry up!" Bianca called out, her voice carrying both command and exasperation. The sound of hurried footsteps mingled with the clatter of armor as she made her way toward the back.

Inside, Rider was in a battle of his own, struggling with a stubborn boot that refused to cooperate. With determined grunts, he shoved his foot forward, the leather creaking and protesting with each forceful push. Finally, with a pop that seemed to echo his relief, the boot snapped securely into place. "Be there in a sec—just trying to get my feet in!" he says, his tone a mix of amusement and exasperation as he finally stood up. In a familiar, practiced motion, he reached for his sword, its hilt glinting in the soft morning light as he slung it around his waist.

Rushing out into the fresh morning air, Rider found Bianca waiting at the doorway, her expression a blend of impatience and concern. "Jess, you'd be the reason we end up dead one day if you don't start taking things seriously!" she chided, half-laughing, half-warning. Rider only grinned, shrugging off her admonishment as he retorted, "I'm done here, right? Let's go before we get any more late." A quick glance at Bianca's Clock confirmed the dread that had been growing in his mind—7:10 AM. Time was not on their side today, and every second mattered.

Bianca nodded briskly, her eyes flashing with determination. Together, they dashed down the street toward the tournament arena—a vast, open coliseum whose location was printed in bold, unmissable letters on the back of their invitation card. The morning air was filled with the mixed scents of dew and distant smoke, hints of both promise and peril.

At the Arena

A few minutes later, the scene shifted to the sprawling tournament arena, where tension was already mounting. Aingo, a seasoned veteran, paced restlessly at the grand entrance. His eyes darted from one end of the sandy expanse to the other as he checked the big clock repeatedly. The numbers showcasing: 7:20 AM. A deep frown creased his brow as he muttered under his breath, "What the hell is that bastard doing? Does he want to get eliminated even before the tournament begins? What's wrong with him?" Sweat began to bead along Aingo's temples as his impatience grew.

Just then, a burst of movement shattered the tense silence. Bianca came barreling into the arena, her breaths heavy and ragged as she clutched her side for support. "We made it—yes!" she cried out triumphantly, her knee momentarily absorbing the shock of her hurried run. The sight was both relieving and maddening to Aingo. Spotting her, he dashed toward her, his tone sharp as he demanded, "Hey, you! Where is Rider? What have you done to him?"

Bianca raised her hands in a placating gesture, her voice soft yet insistent. "Calm down, Aingo. He's on his way—I'm sure he's just running a bit late." Her eyes darted anxiously around the arena, searching for any sign of her partner.

Before anyone could reply further, a sudden commotion near the sandy floor drew all eyes. Rider, clearly having battled with his own time and fatigue, staggered into view and collapsed onto the ground in a heap of exhaustion. Gasping for air, he managed to croak out, "Yes, I made it—finally," his voice strained as he tried to catch his breath. "See? He's alright," Bianca murmured, though her tone betrayed lingering doubt.

All eyes turned to Rider as he lay there for a long, heavy moment. The sandy floor, still warm from the morning sun, bore witness to his exhaustion. Bianca couldn't help but let out a resigned sigh. "I guess..." she murmured, her voice trailing off in a mix of relief and exasperation.

Aingo's eyes narrowed as he glared at Bianca. "I still don't trust you," he snapped. "No offense, but your childish antics are exactly why Rider is this weak. I don't think I can rely on you this time." With that, he stalked away, leaving Bianca's face falling into a brief moment of sadness before she composed herself, steeling her resolve.

Aingo arrived at Rider's side. He gave him a gentle kick—a not-unfriendly reminder—and grumbled, "Get your ass up, Rider. Your fight is first, before anything else about the tournament can commence. I hope you're ready." Rider managed a wry smile as he pushed himself off the ground, brushing away the grains of sand from his armor. "Don't worry, Aingo," he said confidently. "Bianca has trained me for this exact moment."

Rider scanned the arena, his eyes darting across the vast expanse, but Bianca was nowhere to be seen. "Hey, have you seen Bianca?" he asked, a note of concern lacing his voice. Aingo simply shrugged with an indifferent shake of his head. "Beats me," he replied curtly before turning his attention back to the proceedings.

No sooner had Rider regained his composure than a deep, resonant sound rolled over the arena—a rhythmic drumbeat that commanded attention and respect. The murmurs of the assembled crowd hushed as a procession began. A group of sturdy men, their expressions set in grim determination, hoisted King Neon's throne high above the arena. Atop the throne sat King Neon himself, his regal features and steely eyes surveying the field with a mixture of hope and resolve. The throne, intricately carved and adorned with symbols of the kingdom's storied past, provided him with an imposing vantage point.

Near the throne stood a dignified man, the unmistakable figure of Bianca's father—a man whose presence exuded authority. His voice, steady and resonant, cut through the anticipation like a clarion call:

"Settle down, everyone! Today is the day we hold the tournament to decide the new Sword Master—the one who will wield the legendary Red Katana!"

At his words, the arena erupted into a unified warrior's cry, a sound that filled the air with a potent mix of excitement and solemn duty. The roar was electrifying, stirring memories of past glories and igniting the hearts of all present.

The drumming resumed, now more insistent, commanding silence as Bianca's father continued. "And without further delay, here comes the Red Katana!" In perfect synchronization, ten soldiers—five on each side—stepped forward. They carried a casket, its surface encased in polished glass, and gently placed it near a massive wall directly opposite the throne. The casket was set in a position of honor, and as it swung into view, the Red Katana inside glimmered with an almost otherworldly sheen. The crowd gazed in awe, their collective breath held in reverence.

Bianca's father then turned to address the gathered warriors and hopeful contenders with crystal clarity. "Now, listen well: the rules of this tournament are clear. First, let it be known that no killing is allowed—only non-lethal combat. Victory is claimed when your opponent either quits or is knocked out. This is a contest of skill, honor, and determination, not of bloodshed." His voice echoed across the vast space, ensuring every word was heard.

He gestured broadly toward a massive, intricate bracket displayed on a raised platform. "Before you starts the tournament bracket, featuring eight vacant spots. Today, we have forty-eight contenders, all eager to prove themselves. To determine which eight warriors will enter the main competition, all of you will participate in a final, climactic battle royal—a last seven-man standing match. In this frenzied contest, you will all clash until only seven remain, filling seven of the eight spots on the bracket."

A murmur of understanding—and some discontent—rippled through the crowd. Bianca's father continued, his tone softening slightly as he added a crucial detail. "The eighth spot, however, has already been secured by a warrior of unmatched strength. Though he is not present here today, his reputation precedes him, and his absence is a loss to us all."

A ripple of confusion and curiosity ran through the audience. Whispers questioned the identity of this mysterious warrior, his legendary prowess a subject of both admiration and mystery.

"But there is more," Bianca's father declared, his eyes sweeping over the assembly with a mix of gravitas and compassion. "Before the last seven-man battle royal begins, our own Rider has been granted a unique opportunity. He will face an opponent in a preliminary match. Should Rider emerge victorious, he will be exempted from the initial rounds of the tournament and will proceed directly to face the eventual champion in the final duel."

At this announcement, the crowd's reaction was mixed. Some voices erupted in angry boos and dissent, their frustration echoing off the stone walls of the arena. Aingo's face tightened in anger, while Bianca's eyes flashed with a steely determination. In the midst of it all, Rider stood silently, his gaze fixed on the casket and the unfolding spectacle, his expression a mixture of awe and quiet resolve.

Bianca's father then raised his voice once more, commanding immediate attention. "Enough! As you all know, there is a sacred honor tied to this tournament—a tribute that we must never forget. I speak, of course, of Dran…" The mere mention of the name sent a collective shiver of reverence through the crowd. Cheers and shouts erupted, a tidal wave of emotion and respect that washed over the arena.

"Dran, the protector of Xiphosia—the man who sacrificed his life to save us all—is none other than Rider's father. Though he is no longer with us, his legacy lives on in every breath we take and every battle we fight. This tournament is our tribute to Warrior Rider, to honor his lineage and to celebrate the spirit of sacrifice that binds us as a people."

A thoughtful silence fell over the crowd as the gravity of his words sank in. Slowly, a small, hopeful smile began to play upon Rider's lips—a smile that mixed pride, pain, and the burden of destiny.

"And now," Bianca's father continued, his voice rising with fervor, "all contenders are to head immediately to the Contenders' Room to the left. I ask clear the field for Rider's match. With that, let the fate of the tournament be decided!" His final words hung in the air like a challenge, and the arena erupted once again into cheers and claps as the sound of pounding drums signaled the start of the next phase. But then, suddenly, the atmosphere shifted.

The deep, rhythmic beat of the war drums slowed. Each strike sent a ripple through the air, silencing the crowd bit by bit. A tense hush spread like a wave. And then—he stepped in.

From the grand entrance, a figure emerged, flanked by another man of towering presence. Zack walked with an effortless calm, his every step measured, his presence undeniable. Beside him, his father, a man strode with quiet authority. And just behind them, moving like a shadow, was Leo, his ever-watchful guardian.

The tension in the air thickened. The audience, initially caught off guard, now felt the weight of Zack's presence. Whispers spread like wildfire—his reputation preceded him.

Then, as if acknowledging the silent awe of the crowd, Zack stopped. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to his father and bowed—not out of respect, but out of obligation. His father gave a slight nod in return, his expression unreadable.

Without another word, Zack continued forward, his movements as smooth as a blade unsheathing. He entered the contenders' room without hesitation, disappearing into the shadows of the waiting warriors.

For a moment, the arena remained still, as if the world itself had paused to process what had just happened. Then, like a floodgate bursting open, the noise returned—cheers, gasps, and murmurs of anticipation.

Amid this flurry of activity, Aingo turned to Rider one last time. "You got this," he said, his tone surprisingly encouraging despite the earlier tension. With that, he headed off to the pavilion, eager to observe the tournament from a strategic vantage point.

Moments later, Bianca reappeared, weaving her way through the crowd with a determined stride. Approaching Rider, she delivered a firm fist bump and whispered, "You got this." Her words, brief but laden with unwavering support, bolstered Rider's resolve. With a final, lingering glance at her, he watched as she disappeared into the mass of competitors, leaving him alone on the vast battlefield as he awaited his next opponent.

The tension in the arena was palpable as silence briefly descended, punctuated only by the steady thump of drums. The entire field, the freshly cleared sandy floor, became a stage where destiny would soon be written in the heat of battle.

Then, with the authority of a master conductor summoning the final note, Bianca's father stepped forward once more. "And now, the lucky slot winner who will face Rider is…" His voice paused for dramatic effect, drawing the eyes and ears of everyone present. "Warrior Dargal!"

At the mere utterance of the name, a flicker of memory and emotion surged through Rider. His heart pounded with a mixture of fear and simmering anger as he turned toward the entrance of the battlefield. There, emerging from the shadowed fringes of the arena, stood Dargal—a towering figure with a wild, bloodthirsty grin that seemed to promise nothing but merciless combat. His eyes burned with a predatory glint, and his posture exuded raw, dangerous confidence. In that moment, Dargal's presence proclaimed without a word that Rider was, in his eyes, as good as dead.