The days leading up to the match moved with the cold, mechanical precision of a countdown.

Three days.

Two days.

One day.

And through it all, Vaelith Crownhold moved like a shadow—present, observing, always there but never intrusive. His network spread through Outpost Vester like roots beneath stone, invisible but all-encompassing.

He didn't need to be everywhere.

His agents were.

-----

Bright wasn't the only one who'd received a letter.

In the fledgling barracks on the western side, a young recruit named Jorim found an unsigned note slipped into his gear bag. It read:

"Your squad leader doesn't trust you. He's planning to replace you after the next match. Prove your worth before it's too late."

Jorim burned the note as well.

But the words stayed.

And when his squad leader called him aside for a routine tactical review, Jorim's hands shook. His answers came slower. His focus wavered.

The squad leader noticed.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Fine," Jorim lied.

But he wasn't fine.

And that doubt—small, festering—would grow.

-----

In the mid-tier barracks, a veteran initiate named Carla received a different message, this one delivered verbally by a fellow soldier she'd known for years.

"Heard you're being considered for promotion," the soldier said casually over breakfast. "But word is, Kadesh is blocking it. Says you're not 'politically aligned or some shit.'"

Carla frowned. "Who told you that?"

The soldier shrugged. "Just what I heard. Probably nothing."

But it was something.

Because Carla had been passed over for promotion twice already, and now the doubt had a name: Kadesh.

And doubt with a name became resentment.

And resentment became division.

-----

Vaelith's network wasn't just extensive.

It was sophisticated.

Where Adam's informants were acquaintances nudged into cooperation—workers, clerks, low-ranking soldiers willing to share gossip for favors—Vaelith's network was something else entirely.

Sleeper agents.

People who'd been embedded in Vester long before the Trials began. Soldiers who reported directly to Crownhold representatives. Merchants who tracked supply shipments and resource allocation. Even healers who noted which squads were injured, which leaders were struggling, which factions were fracturing.

Adam's network was a web of whispers.

Vaelith's was an intelligence apparatus.

And it didn't stop at Vester.

Across the Republic, in outposts and settlements from the southern coast to the northern frontier, House Crownhold had eyes. Not through force or coercion—though those tools were available—but through investment.

Crownhold didn't buy loyalty.

It bought dependency.

A healer whose medical supplies came from Crownhold warehouses.

A blacksmith whose raw materials were sourced through Crownhold trade routes.

A commander whose promotion had been quietly facilitated by a Crownhold representative in the Senate.

None of them owed Vaelith their souls.

But they owed him their livelihoods.

And that was enough.

-----

In Vester, this network was especially dense.

Because Vester wasn't just another outpost.

It was a testing ground.

A place where the Republic's noble houses sent their representatives—vassals, scouts, agents—to identify talent, forge alliances, and consolidate power.

It was the nobles' backyard.

And in that backyard, spies were currency.

Traded. Borrowed. Sold.

Like whores on Clear Light's Eve.

-----

Clear Light's Eve.

The holiday commemorated the fall of the Great One—the moment the Shroud first bled into the world, and humanity's age of terror began.

Most people celebrated it with somber remembrance: candles lit for the dead, prayers whispered for the living.

But in certain circles—noble circles—it had become something else.

A night of indulgence. Excess. A reminder that humanity had survived the Great One's death, and survival deserved to be celebrated.

In the Republic's capital, Clear Light's Eve meant grand balls, lavish feasts, orchestras playing until dawn.

In Vester?

It meant soldiers drinking themselves numb, trying to forget that the Shroud was still out there, still growing, still claiming lives every single day.

This year, Clear Light's Eve was two weeks away.

But Vaelith had already begun preparing.

Not for celebration.

For consolidation.

Because after his match with Atheon—after he won—the holiday would be the perfect opportunity to remind everyone in Vester who truly held power.

-----

Atheon's squad drilled from dawn until dusk.

Every formation.

Every contingency.

Every possible counter to Vaelith's predicted tactics.

Atheon stood at the center of the training yard, barking orders, correcting stances, pushing his team harder than he'd ever pushed them before.

"AGAIN!" he roared as Valen's shield wall collapsed under a simulated assault. "You're too slow! The damn Crownhold won't give you time to reset!"

Valen gritted his teeth, reforming the wall. Sweat poured down his face.

Maren moved like water—fluid, precise,and deadly. Her blade danced through drills with mechanical perfection, but Atheon could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight hesitation before each strike.

She was worried.

Not about the fight.

About him.

Dreya fired arrow after arrow at moving targets, her perception core allowing her to track trajectories with inhuman accuracy. But even she was struggling—fatigue creeping into her movements, slowing her reactions by fractions of seconds.

Fractions that could mean death.

Kael fought like a berserker, wind-blades slicing through training dummies with brutal efficiency. But his aggression was too aggressive, leaving openings that a disciplined opponent would exploit.

And Margot?

Margot was steady. Reliable. Her barriers held. Her timing was perfect.

But Atheon knew—he knew—that Crownhold would target her first.

Because if the support caster fell, the formation collapsed.

"Margot!" Atheon called. "You're going to be the priority target as it stands. Crownhold will come for you the moment the match starts. Do you understand?"

Margot nodded, face pale but determined. "I understand, sir."

"Then drill some evasion maneuvers. Now."

She obeyed, and Atheon watched as Valen and Kael took turns launching mock attacks while Margot dodged, blocked, countered.

She was good.

But was she good enough?

Atheon clenched his fists.

He'd survived four years of Shroud campaigns, countless battles, impossible odds.

But this?

This was different.

To start with, it was the first time Atheon would go into battle with a tether to his chest. Maren. Their relationship, finally named, finally claimed—but that label was also a target on his back.

Revealing his feelings had smoothed his soul force, boosted his ability ever so slightly. Not a grand power-up, not enough to shield him from the petty tricks he knew he would sooner or later fall for. He couldn't be sure if his opponents knew about this hidden vulnerability—but that couldn't be the reason he'd fail. He would give it his all.

Because this wasn't about survival.

It was about proving something.

And he wasn't sure what scared him more—losing, or winning and realizing it didn't matter.

-----

Elsewhere in Vester, on the southern patrol route, Silas's squad was on parole duty.

Parole.

The word itself was misleading.

It wasn't punishment—not officially. It was "rotational perimeter security," designed to give squads downtime between matches while still keeping them active.

In practice?

It was boring as hell.

Silas walked along the outer wall, eyes scanning the treeline beyond. The Shroud or the bushes they stared at drifted lazily in the distance—gray, writhing, but still always there.

Tyven walked beside him, arms crossed, expression thoughtful.

"You're quiet young one," Tyven observed.

"I'm Just thinking," Silas replied.

"About?"

Silas hesitated. "About how quickly things change. A month ago, I was at Grim Hollow. Now I'm here. Fighting in arenas. Following orders. Pretending this is all… normal."

Tyven grunted. "Nothing about this is normal."

"Exactly," Silas said. "So why do we keep pretending it is?"

"Because the alternative is admitting we have no control," Tyven replied quietly. "And soldiers can't function without the illusion of control."

Silas glanced at him. "You really believe that?"

"I believe," Tyven said slowly, "that control is a story we tell ourselves to stay sane. But it's still just a story."

Behind them, Bessia and Kora walked in silence, bows ready, eyes alert.

Garren and Kael brought up the rear, muttering about the cold.

They'd been on patrol for three hours.

Nothing had happened.

Nothing ever happened on parole duty.

But that didn't mean they could relax.

Because the sick monstrosities of the shroud didn't care about schedules.

It didn't care about rotations or downtime or "parole duty."

It only cared about hunger.

And sooner or later, it would feed.

-----

That night, as Vester settled into uneasy quiet, Vaelith stood in his chambers once more, reviewing reports from his network.

Jorim—compromised. Doubt seeded successfully.

Carla—resentment toward Kadesh growing. Exploitable.

Valen—uncertain but not broken. Requires further pressure.

Morgan—isolated. No clear allegiances. Prime target for recruitment post-Atheon collapse.

He set down the reports, satisfied.

Everything was progressing exactly as planned.

The match was in one day.

Atheon would fight.

Atheon would lose.

And when he did, Vaelith would step into the vacuum left behind, offering guidance, support, control to those who had nowhere else to turn.

Not through force.

Through necessity.

Because that was how power worked.

Not by taking.

By making people give it to you.

Willingly.

Gratefully.

Desperately.

Vaelith smiled.

Tomorrow, the game would reach its next stage.

And he was ready.

It was truly a great day for house Crownhold.

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