The curtains parted.
Sunlight spilt into the corridor, and the noise hit like a wave — chants, cheers, stomping feet shaking the stone underfoot. The air was thick with dust and anticipation, the smell of sweat and steel riding on it.
Lucian Draeve stepped out first, shoulders squared, waving to the crowd like he was already the victor. His dark jacket fluttered in the breeze, and the gold trim along its edges caught the light just enough to draw attention. The man knew how to make an entrance.
Roy followed a few steps behind, hands in his pockets, expression flat. He scanned the arena with the slow disinterest of someone checking the weather.
Above them, the announcer's voice boomed.
"Ladies and gentlemen, make some noise for the next match in the Tournament of Richt! On one side — heir to the prestigious Draeve Foundation, undefeated in his last twelve official duels — Lucian Draeve!"
The crowd roared. Lucian gave a smooth, practised nod.
"And on the other side…" A pause. Papers rustled audibly over the loudspeaker. "We have… Roy. "Another pause. "…and his Soul Art is… N/A?"
A ripple of confusion spread through the stands.
"That's unusual," the announcer went on, clearly leaning into it. "Normally, we either have a hint at a contender's Soul Art or we keep it under wraps for suspense. But in Roy's case… it seems it hasn't even awakened yet. A rare — and, frankly, unfortunate — circumstance."
A few chuckles scattered through the audience. Lucian smirked, rolling his neck. Roy just kept his gaze steady, unbothered.
The bell rang.
Lucian wasted no time, dashing forward with a burst of speed that sent a swirl of dust in his wake. His Soul Art — Gravity Veil — flared into existence, distorting the air around his fists with a shimmer, like heat haze. Each movement bent the pull of the world in subtle, dangerous ways.
The first strike came in low — a hook that pulled at Roy's footing, as if the ground itself wanted to swallow his legs. Roy stepped aside, his body barely shifting. The punch skimmed past.
Lucian didn't hesitate, chaining into an overhead swing. The gravity around his arm spiked, turning the motion into a hammer blow. Roy leaned back, the fist whistling past his nose.
A third attack followed — a sweeping kick. Roy hopped back, landing just outside the warped gravity zone, dust kicking from his boots.
Lucian was fast. Controlled. His rhythm was sharp, his movements clean. Every step shifted weight in unnatural ways — some blows heavier than they should be, others feather-light until the last instant. A competent fighter. Probably trained for years.
But to the crowd? It looked like Lucian was swinging at shadows.
Roy's dodges were minimal, almost lazy — a tilt of the head, a shift of the shoulder, a single step back. Each time, Lucian's attacks cut empty air. The cheers in the stands began to soften into murmurs, then into snickers.
"He's just dancing around him."
"Is that really all Lucian's got?"
Roy heard it. Lucian heard it too.
The Draeve heir's smile tightened. He switched tactics, flooding the space between them with bursts of gravity that bent dust motes midair. The arena floor groaned under sudden weight shifts, his strikes coming from unpredictable angles.
Roy ducked under one, pivoted past another, and side-stepped a third.
His timing's good… But he telegraphs just enough in his stance. Needs to shorten his wind-up.
Lucian lunged again, palm open this time. The gravity pulled at Roy's chest like a magnet trying to rip him forward. He twisted out of range, letting the pull slide past.
It kept going like that. One minute. Two. Five. Lucian attacked; Roy evaded. The audience's interest shifted from impressed to confused to impatient.
Roy sighed inwardly. If I keep this up, he's going to look like a fool. And he's paying me.
Lucian came in with a heavy, gravity-infused shoulder charge — this time, Roy didn't move.
The impact hit like a boulder, lifting him clean off his feet. The warped gravity hurled him across the boundary line in a single arc. He hit the dust outside with a roll and came to a casual stop on his back, staring at the sky.
The bell rang.
"Lucian Draeve wins by ring-out!" The announcer boomed.
Lucian threw his arms up, the crowd roaring again — though the cheer had a few threads of doubt woven into it.
Roy stood, brushed the dust from his jacket, and walked back into the tunnels without a word. Easy money.