Steel found the narrow gap between armor plates at Marcus's side, sliding deep with a sound like wet cloth tearing.

Blood bloomed instantly, vibrant crimson against polished steel. Marcus's eyes widened in shock rather than pain, disbelief written across his handsome features as he staggered back. His sword arm dropped, the perfect form finally broken.

Silence fell over the arena, absolute and suffocating.

Marcus looked down at the wound, then back at Soren. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words emerged. Instead, he sank to one knee, sword point driving into the sand for support as blood soaked his green surcoat.

The herald stepped forward, face pale beneath his ceremonial makeup. "Victory," he announced, voice unsteady, "to Soren Thorne, Blade of House Velrane."

The arena erupted into chaos.

From the common folk pressed against the outer barriers came a roar of approval that shook the tournament grounds. They stamped their feet and pounded fists against the wooden barricades, faces alight with vicarious triumph.

"The gutter rat did it again!" someone shouted, voice carrying above the din.

"Showed them fancy knights what real fighting looks like!" another added.

But from the noble galleries came a very different response. Hisses and mutters rippled through the elevated seating, faces contorted with disgust barely concealed behind raised hands.

"Disgraceful display—"

"—no concept of honor—"

"—shouldn't be permitted in civilized combat—"

The Karvath section sat in rigid silence, their emerald banners hanging limp in the afternoon heat. Lord Karvath himself had gone pale beneath his carefully trimmed beard, fingers white-knuckled against the wooden railing as healers rushed to attend his fallen champion.

Soren's gaze moved to the Velrane gallery, where Lord Callen sat unmoved by the chaos erupting around him. Those pale, merciless eyes tracked every detail of the aftermath, missing nothing as he assessed the political implications unfolding below.

His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, neither approval nor disappointment, merely cold calculation.

Beside him, Ayren brought his hands together once in slow, deliberate applause. The mocking gesture drew sharp glances from nearby nobles, but Ayren merely smiled, perfect teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Healers swarmed the ring, their blue robes fluttering as they surrounded Marcus. The knight had gone alarmingly pale, blood pooling beneath him in the sand.

The wound was deeper than Soren had intended, not lethal, but serious enough to end more than just this match.

The herald gestured for Soren to exit the ring. He moved toward the gate on unsteady legs, the aftermath of combat leaving him light-headed and hollow. Every muscle trembled with spent adrenaline. The cut on his cheek from his earlier match stung afresh as sweat trickled into it.

As he passed through the competitor's gate, whispers followed him—louder now, more urgent than before.

"—not luck after all—"

"—uncivilized but effective—"

"—Velrane has loosed a wolf among us—"

Soren wiped blood from his blade with mechanical movements, his mind still caught in the ring. The decisive strike replayed itself behind his eyes, not the elegant killing techniques Kaelor had demonstrated, but something cruder, more direct. More honest.

Kaelor waited in the preparation area, his scarred face unreadable as Soren approached. The Swordmaster studied him with narrowed eye, taking in the fresh cut on his arm, the exhaustion evident in every line of his body.

"Better," Kaelor said gruffly. "Cleaner than last time." He stepped closer, voice dropping so only Soren could hear. "But you still show too much. Next time, hide your hand until you cut."

The criticism stung, though Soren knew it was deserved. He had telegraphed his intentions, had shown his approach too early. Against a more adaptable opponent, it might have proven fatal.

"The Trescan champion watches you," Kaelor added, nodding toward a tall figure observing from the shadows. "He's already adjusting his strategy based on what he's seen."

Soren followed his gaze to where a knight in crimson stood, arms crossed as he studied the aftermath in the ring. The man's dark eyes caught Soren's for a moment, assessing and calculating before he turned away.

The tournament would continue. More opponents would come. But something had shifted fundamentally in how they would approach him. No longer an anomaly, a street rat who had gotten lucky against a grief-maddened opponent. Now he represented something more dangerous, a disruption to the established order, a threat to generations of formalized combat.

The shard against his chest pulsed cold as Soren cleaned his blade. Valenna's presence sharpened, her voice like winter wind through dead branches.

"They hate you more with each victory," she whispered. "Good. Hatred sharpens the blade."

Soren sheathed his sword, feeling the weight of every eye in the preparation area upon him. Knights from noble houses who had dismissed him that morning now watched with wary calculation, reassessing their approach should they face him in later rounds.

He had become the storm rather than the lightning strike, not a momentary disruption but a gathering force that threatened everything they understood about their carefully ordered world.

The tournament horn sounded, announcing the next match. Life continued, relentless as the tide. But beneath it all, Soren felt something shifting, not just in how others saw him, but in how he saw himself.

No longer just surviving. Beginning, perhaps, to become something more. The preparation area felt like a tomb after the arena's chaos. Soren slumped onto a rough wooden bench, his sword laid across his knees as he stared at the steel that had twice now tasted noble blood.

The blade looked ordinary, plain crossguard, worn leather grip, no ornamentation to mark it as special. Yet it had carved through armor and reputation alike.

His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

'Two victories,' he thought, flexing fingers that felt disconnected from his body. 'Two enemies made.'

The cut on his arm stung where Marcus's blade had found its mark, a thin line that would scar to match the others he'd collected. Sweat cooled on his skin, leaving him chilled despite the afternoon warmth.

Every muscle ached with the peculiar exhaustion that came after life-or-death struggles disguised as sport.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.