Ch 18: Kneel and Bleed

Elric POV

I watched from the judges' gallery as Brandy Valemont dispatched his first opponent. I'd received a bye—so I saw every moment.

He didn't need mana.

Every strike, every feint was driven by pure technique and raw power. He baited Alric's flashy lunges, absorbed the speed‑boosted thrusts on his flat steel, then countered with bone‑shattering precision. The final thrust to the throat… surgical.

That was nothing like the Brandy I remember.

In our last timeline, he fought angry—wild, reckless. Here, he was cold, controlled.

He's reinvented himself between rounds.

My own match was next—and across the arena, Lucard Ashborne waited. He leaned casually against the barrier, arms crossed, smugness practically dripping.

As I stepped forward, the announcer's voice boomed:

"Lord Elric Ashborne, prepare for Round One!"

Lucard straightened, spat onto the sand—loud enough for the closest spectators to hear—and sneered:

"Bastard child."

His voice dripped with disdain.

"You don't belong here. Your mother was a whore who sold herself for scraps of favor—and you… you're just her stain given a name."

He drew his rapier with a flourish, the slender blade catching the sunlight as his lips curled into a cruel grin.

"Go on, cry."

His tone mocked pity.

"Let everyone see what the real Ashborne spawn looks like."

My jaw tightened.

I didn't speak.

I didn't need to.

Lucard lunged, rapier gleaming in the morning light, its tip aimed for my throat.

Steel rang out as I met the strike head-on, stance firm, gaze colder than steel.

I caught his wrist in one hand, twisted until he winced, then drove my elbow into the side of his head.

Crack.

Blood splattered the sand.

Lucard staggered, stumbling sideways—but I didn't stop.

My blade slashed across his thigh, cutting deep through cloth and flesh. He dropped to one knee with a grunt of pain, the rapier shaking in his grip.

I could've ended it there.

But he didn't deserve mercy.

He deserved to feel it.

He lunged again—sloppy, desperate.

I sidestepped, slammed my palm into his chest, and sent him tumbling into the dirt.

Another strike—across his shoulder. Then one across his stomach.

And finally—a mana-augmented kick to his chest.

He cried out, collapsing forward, clutching his bleeding torso.

His face twisted—panic, disbelief… fear.

The crowd's murmurs grew louder, gasps echoing through the colosseum.

Lucard tried to crawl away, dragging himself through the dust, but I stepped forward—relentless.

Then—

I stomped on his knee.

Crack.

Bone snapped.

His scream echoed, raw and broken.

Tears, blood, and snot smeared his face, the last remnants of his pride mixing with the dirt beneath him.

I raised my blade.

Not in triumph.

With cold, surgical intent.

But before I could strike again—he collapsed.

Unconscious.

The barrier shimmered, signaling the end. Healers rushed in from the sides, their robes already stained from earlier matches.

I didn't watch them work.

Let that burn in you forever, I thought, turning away.

Next time, you won't be lucky enough to faint.

And with that, I walked off the field—my back to the broken heir I left behind.

The gallery was silent, the air thick with something more than shock.

On the neighboring ring, Brandy's second adversary—a short, wiry youth with a curved sword—had barely recovered from their first exchange when Brandy moved in. With a single feint and half‑step pivot, he disarmed the boy, knocked him off balance, and pressed his blade at the youth's waist. The boy's knees hit the ground before the crowd could even register the outcome. Victory: Brandy Valemont.

⮞ Brandy POV – Round Three

The midday sun poured through the open roof of Arena 7 as Brandy took his place for the third and final match of the day. His opponent: Garry Windson, the ever‑eager twin of his earlier foe.

Garry bounded into the ring—blade in hand, too wide a grin plastered on his face.

"Boss!" Garry called, sweeping a theatrical bow. "I'd fight you fair and square, but I know I'll lose. So—I surrender now!"

He tossed his sword aside with exaggerated flair.

A hush fell. The announcer hesitated in mid‑recital. Even the barrier walls seemed to pause.

Brandy simply cocked an eyebrow.

"That's… efficient," he replied. His voice carried easily across the ring. "But you know the rules: surrendering before the match starts still counts as a loss."

"Hey, still better than a broken bone, right?" 

Garry said, raising both hands in mock defeat.

A ripple of laughter ran through the spectators. Garry gave a final, dramatic sigh and bowed deeply—face pointed at the sand.

The gates shimmered open.

Brandy sheathed his sword and stepped out, leaving Garry kneeling in good‑natured defeat.

Three matches. Three wins.

Tomorrow, the real tests begin.