The roar of the crowd was a physical force, pressing in from all sides. Sunlight baked the white sand of the Grand Arena, and the air shimmered with heat, sweat, and anticipation.
Alexander stood in the competitors' pen, a gated stone area just off the main floor. He ignored the stares, the whispers that followed him like a persistent hum.
The rumor of the "midnight prince" and his bloody training had spread.
He didn't feel like a hollow prince today. He felt like a honed blade, finally being drawn from a neglected scabbard.
"Remember the plan," Crimson's voice was a cool stream in his mind, a stark contrast to the external heat. "Display the new foundation. Nothing more. We are not here to win their cheers. We are here to bait a wolf."
As the first tournament concluded, a herald's voice boomed, echoing through the vast space. "For the first match of the second bracket! Prince Alexander of the Royal House versus Sir Alistair of the Western Marches!"
A wave of muted laughter and pitying murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Sir Alistair was a bear of a man, a knight known for his Awakened strength, rumored to be near 250.
He strode onto the sand, hefting a massive two-handed greatsword as if it were a willow branch.
Alexander walked out to meet him. He wore simple, functional leathers and carried the same unadorned broadsword from the instance, still sheathed at his hip.
The contrast was deliberate. The audience saw a giant with a slab of steel, and a disgraced prince who hadn't even bothered to draw his weapon.
"Planning to yield, Your Highness?" Alistair boomed, his voice full of condescending cheer. "A wise choice. Save us both the trouble."
Alexander said nothing. He simply settled into a ready stance, his hands loose at his sides.
The referee gave the signal.
Alistair charged with a roar, his greatsword whistling in a devastating horizontal arc meant to cut Alexander in half.
The old Alexander would have frozen. The new one saw the world with crystalline clarity. He saw the shift in Alistair's hips, the over-commitment in the swing, the blind spot it created.
He didn't retreat. He stepped inside the arc.
The crowd gasped as he moved, a blur of controlled motion. The tip of the greatsword passed inches from his chest.
As Alistair's momentum carried him forward, Alexander pivoted.
He drove his elbow into the nerve cluster on the inside of Alistair's sword arm. The knight grunted in shock and pain, his grip faltering. In the same fluid motion, Alexander swept his leg, hooking Alistair's ankle.
It was over in ten seconds.
The giant knight crashed face-first into the sand, his greatsword skittering away. Alexander stood over him, one foot gently but firmly planted on the back of Alistair's sword hand, pinning it to the ground.
He still hadn't drawn his weapon.
The silence was absolute, then shattered into an uproar of disbelief and excitement.
Alexander stepped back, offering a hand he knew the humiliated knight would refuse. He turned and walked back to the pen without a backward glance, the sheathed sword a silent testament to his utter dominance.
He turned and walked back to the pen without a backward glance. The silence he left behind was no longer one of pity, but of stunned, reverberating shock.
In the royal box, King Theron's face was unreadable, but his knuckles were white on the armrest of his throne.
Nikolai, seated beside him, wore a smile that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes.
Down in the competitors' area, a man cleared his throat. Alexander paused.
Duke Lance stood there, his slight frame looking almost comical next to the other warriors. He held a small ledger, but his eyes were sharp.
"A most... economical victory, Your Highness," Lance said, his tone neutral. "To defeat a man of Sir Alistair's caliber without unsheathing steel... the court will be talking of little else."
"It seemed efficient," Alexander replied, matching his neutral tone.
"Efficiency is the soul of strategy," Lance nodded. "But a word of caution. The opponents will only get sharper from here. And the eyes upon you... well, some belong to men who do not enjoy surprises."
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible bow and melted back into the crowd.
"He seeks to measure you," Crimsonmused. "The clever mouse is wary of the new cat."
The tournament progressed. Alexander watched as other contenders fought.
He saw Elvin, Master Eldrin's son. The young physician-in-training fought not with brutality, but with a precise, almost surgical style. He used a slender blade to target joints and tendons, disabling his heavily armored opponent with calm, methodical grace. He won his matches, earning a proud, relieved smile from his father in the stands.
Then came Fionna, a general's daughter with a storm in her eyes. She was a whirlwind of aggressive swordplay, her movements a blend of royal technique and raw, frontline ferocity. She didn't just defeat her opponent; she overwhelmed him, ending the match with her sword at his throat and a fierce, triumphant shout. She was clearly aiming for the title of Executioner, a role that suited her temperament perfectly.
Finally, it was Alexander's turn again. His second opponent was a lithe woman named Lyra, who used a pair of enchanted daggers that could throw arcs of disruptive, sizzling energy.
This was a different kind of fight. He couldn't simply step inside her reach; the crackling mana arcs created a deadly perimeter around her.
"Let it flow," Crimsoninstructed. "A trickle, not a flood."
Alexander let his soul-sight flicker to life. The world gained a new, shimmering layer of information.
A sharp, localized pain throbbed behind his eyes, the price for his glimpse into the world's divine skeleton.
He saw the buildup of raw mana in her blades, a bright, turbulent blue gathering a split-second before each violet arc was released.
He didn't overpower her. He out-thought her. He used fluid footwork to control the distance, a deadly dance at the edge of her effective range.
He baited an attack, feinting a lunge that made her commit. A sizzling arc of energy shot past, close enough for him to feel the static lift the hair on his arm.
He was learning her rhythm. Lunge, feint, arc. Lunge, feint, arc.
But she was clever, too. On her next attack, she anticipated his dodge, leading him slightly. The energy arc, faster than the others, grazed his shoulder as he twisted away.
A searing, numbing pain shot down his arm. It wasn't a deep cut, but it was a message: he wasn't untouchable. A gasp went through the crowd that had begun to believe he was invincible.
The pain, however, sharpened his focus. He saw the momentary triumph in her eyes, the slight drop in her guard as she prepared her next strike, believing she had him on the defensive.
Now.
As she lunged again, he didn't dodge back. He exploded forward, inside the arc of her swinging dagger. His injured arm shot out, his forearm slamming into her wrist. The shock jarred her grip, and one enchanted dagger clattered to the sand.
She tried to bring the second one around, but he was already inside her guard. His other hand clamped onto her forearm, his thumb digging into a precise pressure point. Her fingers spasmed open. The second dagger fell.
She stood there, disarmed and panting, her chest heaving. She looked from her fallen weapons to the cold determination in his eyes. The respect in her gaze was hard-won, and all the more genuine for it.
She yielded with a sharp, respectful nod.
His third and final match for the bracket was against a grizzled legionnaire named Marcus, a man known for his unbreakable shield wall technique.
As Alexander walked onto the sand, the crowd fell silent, waiting for another masterclass.
But Marcus didn't raise his sword. He looked at Alexander—at the confident posture, the focused eyes, the recent graze that seemed to bother him not at all.
He remembered the effortless dismantling of Sir Alistair and the tactical brilliance against Lyra.
He shook his head, a wry, resigned smile on his face.
"I forfeit the match!" Marcus declared, his voice carrying easily in the quiet arena.
A wave of surprised murmurs swept the stands. Forfeiture was rare, seen by some as cowardly.
Marcus ignored them, his eyes locked on Alexander. "I've fought for fifteen years, boy. I know when I'm outclassed. My shield can stop a sword. It can't stop whatever that is." He gestured not at Alexander's weapon, but at him.
At the unnerving calm, the predatory patience. "The bracket is yours. Good luck."
He turned and walked away, his pride intact in his own pragmatic assessment.
Alexander had won his bracket. He hadn't just defeated his opponents; he had intimidated one into surrender.
King Theron's gaze was noone except Alexander. A prince with a spark of power was a tool. A prince with an inexplicable and unpredictable power was a threat that needed to be either mastered or broken.
As the herald announced his victory, a page hurried to the announcer's stand. A message was relayed.
"The final challenge for titles," the herald declared, "will be held tomorrow when Duke Viktor returns!"
A mix of disappointment and heightened anticipation buzzed through the crowd. They wished it'll all happen now.
As the arena began to empty, Alexander felt a presence beside him. He turned to find Elvin.
"That was impressive work, Your Highness," Elvin said, his tone genuine. "My father would be pleased to see you... resilient."
"Your style is impressive as well," Alexander replied. "It's good to see a friendly face here."
For a moment, the calculating prince faded, and the boy who had played in these halls with a friend was visible.
"Friendly faces are rare in the arena," a new voice cut in. Fionna strode up, wiping sweat from her brow. She looked from Alexander to Elvin. "You both fight smarter than the oafs in this bracket. It's refreshing."
She fixed her gaze on Alexander. "I'm going for the Executioner's seat. I saw your match. You're not what they say you are. What are you aiming for?"
Alexander met her challenging stare. The mask of the broken prince was gone. In its place was a cool, determined confidence.
"Duke Viktor," he said, loud and proud.
Fionna's eyebrows shot up. A slow, fierce grin spread across her face. "Ambitious. I like it. Try not to get yourself killed before I have a chance to spar with you."
She clapped him on the arm, a gesture surprisingly free of mockery, and walked off.
"Are you okay?" Elvin's asked.
"Yeah, I just need to rest," The lie left a bad taste in Alexander's mouth.
But who could he tell? The father who dismissed him? The brother who changed the second after the Awakening ceremony? He was alone in a crowded palace.
Elvin gave him a worried but respectful look before following the dispersing crowd.
Alexander was stood alone in the emptying pen, the setting sun casting long shadows across the sand.
He had done it. He had shattered his old image and planted the seeds of new alliances. The world now saw a contender.
But as he looked toward the empty seat reserved for the returning Duke, he felt the true weight of his declaration.
Tomorrow, the wolf would come. Tomorrow he would claim his place.
A grim satisfaction, not his own, echoed in his mind. "The stage is set, partner. Let us see if the wolf's hide is as tough as they say."