Chapter 8: The Melee Begins - Part 3
Two hours wasn't enough.
I sat in the rest area, every muscle screaming. My forearms were purple with bruises despite the Tekkai protection. The cut on my thigh had reopened, blood seeping through the leather. My hands shook when I tried to drink water.
The maester approached. "Let me see."
I let him examine the thigh wound. He poked at it, making me hiss through clenched teeth.
"Shallow. Won't kill you, but it'll slow you down." He wrapped it in clean bandages, tied them tight. "You should withdraw. You've done well enough. Twenty gold dragons split seven ways is still almost three dragons each."
"No splits. I'm winning."
He snorted. "Confidence or stupidity?"
"Both."
The other six finalists were scattered around the rest area. Most looked worse than me. One man had his nose clearly broken, breathing through his mouth, face a mask of blood. Another couldn't stand without leaning on his sword.
But one—one looked fresh. Barely touched.
Ser Mallor Egen of the Vale. Tall, maybe six-two, with the kind of lean build that spoke of speed and endurance. Half-plate armor, polished and expensive. Longsword that probably cost more than I'd made in my entire life as Ulf.
He caught me looking. Smiled. Stood and walked over.
"White the Bastard." His voice was cultured. Noble-born. "Quite the show you put on."
I said nothing.
"Those tricks of yours. Never seen anything like it. Fast one moment, heavy the next. How do you do it?"
"Practice."
"Hmm." He squatted down to my eye level. "I'm going to enjoy killing you. Well, beating you unconscious. Same thing in the arena."
"You'll have to catch me first."
His smile widened. "That's what the last man said. I caught him just fine."
He stood, walked back to his corner.
The other fighters were watching. I could see them thinking the same thing I was: Mallor was the real threat. The rest of us were half-dead already. He was fresh, fast, and clearly skilled.
Eliminate him first. The others will follow.
The tourney master appeared. "Final round! All seven fight until one remains! No mercy, no breaks! The champion receives twenty gold dragons and glory eternal!"
Eternal glory. Right. More like eternal bruises.
We stood. Filed toward the arena one last time.
The crowd was deafening.
Seven of us spread out in the arena, forming a rough circle. Everyone eyeing everyone else. Waiting for the horn.
The tourney master raised his hand. "Begin!"
The horn blew.
I didn't wait.
Dropped my weight to thirty kilograms and triggered Soru. Shot forward like an arrow, targeting the fighter with the broken nose. He barely had time to raise his sword before I was on him.
Grabbed his wrist, twisted, disarmed him in two seconds. Kicked his legs out. He hit the mud hard.
One down.
Soru again. Appeared beside a second fighter—the one who couldn't stand properly. He swung at me. I flowed around it with Kami-e, body bending like paper. Got behind him, wrapped my arm around his throat, squeezed.
He struggled. Weakly. Five seconds later, he went limp.
Two down.
The third tried to run. I caught him with a weighted kick to the back of the knee. Bone crunched. He screamed, collapsed.
Three down.
Twenty seconds had passed.
The crowd was losing its mind. Roaring, screaming, stomping. The stands shook with the noise.
Mallor and the remaining two knights—both in full plate—had stopped fighting each other. They were staring at me.
Then, smart men that they were, they nodded to each other and turned toward me as one.
Shit.
Three armored knights. All fresh enough. All coordinating.
Mallor smiled. "Let's see your tricks now, bastard."
They charged.
The first knight—broad, maybe two-fifty in armor—came straight at me with an overhead chop. The second—leaner, faster—circled left. Mallor hung back, watching.
I used Kami-e to flow right, avoiding the overhead strike. The blade passed through where I'd been, hitting mud.
The second knight's sword came horizontal. I hardened my side with Tekkai. The blade scraped across my ribs, screeching against the technique. Pain, but no cut.
His eyes widened. "What—?"
I shifted to heavy weight. Fifteen hundred kilograms. My feet sank into the mud up to my ankles.
Grabbed his arm. He tried to pull away. Couldn't. I was an anchor.
Yanked him forward, drove my knee into his gut. Even through plate, the impact folded him. I released him, let him collapse.
The broad knight recovered, came at me again. I dropped weight to ten kilograms, let his charge carry him past me. His momentum did the work. He stumbled, off-balance.
I spiked my weight back up. Jumped. Came down on his back with all that mass.
Bone cracked audibly. His scream cut off as he hit the mud face-first.
Four down.
Mallor was the only one left.
He'd watched the whole thing. Seen every technique. His smile was gone now. Replaced by calculation.
"You're a monster," he said quietly.
"Just determined."
He raised his sword. "Then let's see who's more determined."
He came at me fast. Faster than any of the others. His sword was a blur—thrust, slash, parry, counter. I barely kept up, using Tekkai to block when I couldn't dodge.
But every block cost me. The muscle cramps were coming back. I couldn't maintain Tekkai indefinitely.
He feinted high, went low. Caught my injured thigh. I gasped, stumbled.
He pressed. Sword tip aimed at my throat.
I triggered Soru sideways. Appeared at his flank. Drove my stiffened fingers—Shigan—at the gap between his breastplate and armpit.
The technique pierced. Not deep. But deep enough to hurt.
He screamed, dropped his sword, clutched at the wound.
I pressed my blunted sword to his throat. "Yield."
He stared at me, breathing hard, blood seeping between his fingers where my Shigan had penetrated.
"Yield," he gasped.
The crowd's roar was a physical thing. I felt it in my chest, in my bones.
The tourney master ran into the arena, arms raised. "The champion! White the Bastard!"
He grabbed my wrist, held my arm up.
The roar intensified.
I barely heard it. My eyes were scanning the stands again, searching for—
There.
Helaena. Still sitting apart. But this time, she wasn't looking at bugs or beetles or whatever had held her attention before.
She was looking at me.
Head tilted. Eyes narrowed slightly. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
Our eyes met. Held.
The world narrowed. The crowd noise faded to a distant hum. There was just her. Just that curious, intelligent gaze cutting across the distance.
Then someone shoved a heavy purse into my hands—twenty gold dragons, solid and real—and the crowd surged forward. Nobles descending from the stands to congratulate or curse me. Commoners pressing close, shouting my name.
"White! White the Bastard!"
I lost sight of her in the mass of bodies.
But that moment stayed. Burned into my memory.
She saw me. Really saw me.
The tourney master was leading me away, toward the winner's platform. People were shouting questions. Someone wanted to hire me for their guard. Someone else wanted to challenge me to a private duel.
I ignored them all.
Twenty gold dragons sat heavy in my hands. A fortune. More money than Ulf had seen in his entire wasted life.
But all I could think about was a silver-haired girl who looked at the world sideways and somehow, impossibly, had looked at me like I mattered.
I didn't know her. Had never met her.
But I would.
Whatever it took, I would.
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