"It's me, Bubbles… your teammate during the match."
"Oh—you're that fat guy."
Bubbles let out a reluctant laugh. Being called fat was something he had grown accustomed to, though that didn't mean he enjoyed it. At least Jurgen remembered him.
Before Bubbles could respond further, a loud, cavernous yawn escaped Jurgen. He made no effort to engage him; at this point, Bubbles was little more than a distraction. He had been healed, yes — but the exhaustion still lingered heavily. Restoring injuries did not erase everything he had endured.
Just as his thoughts began to wander on what to do about Bubbles, Nemesio's voice cut cleanly through the surrounding chatter.
A sudden realization struck him. He snapped his head toward where Leonidas had been moments ago — gone. Completely gone. Setting aside the fact that he had somehow forgotten him, what unsettled him more was how close Leonidas had been—close enough for Jurgen to feel his breath, yet he hadn't sensed when he disappeared. Not even a shift in the air.
"Silence, all of you."
Nemesio's voice rang out — calm, yet commanding, carrying effortlessly across the crowd. One hand rested behind his back while the other gestured for quiet. Leonidas stood beside him, mirroring the same composed posture, as though it were not a choice but a practiced formality.
Every head turned instinctively, eyes lifting toward the elevated stage.
Jurgen's own movement slowed for a brief moment, the world narrowing to that single voice.
The arena fell silent.
"Congratulations to all of you… for reaching this stage."
He paused, allowing the words to settle, his gaze sweeping across the assembled participants.
"Every match you've fought today has tested your strength, your skill… and your resolve."
A flicker of approval crossed his expression.
"You've faced challenges, surprises, even fear. And yet… here you stand."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd, some quietly encouraged by his words.
"Remember this — victory is not measured solely by who strikes the hardest,
but by how you grow from each fight,
how you rise after every fall,
and how you carry yourself in the face of adversity."
He let the message linger, studying the determined faces before him.
"Today, each of you has shown courage, and that alone is a triumph."
A faint smile formed, warm yet resolute.
"Carry this strength forward. Learn from one another. Push beyond your limits.
Continue to challenge yourselves."
His voice strengthened, resonating across the arena.
"The path ahead will be even harder…
but I have no doubt that each of you is capable of greatness."
Below, Viktor's gaze remained fixed solely on Jurgen. Nothing from above seemed to reach him. His arms stayed crossed, his thoughts drifting toward the idea of facing Jurgen himself. For someone who held himself in such high regard, Jurgen felt like the only one who could truly match him at full strength.
Kimura's voice followed, cutting through the fading tension.
"Please proceed to the Black hall, east of here. There, you will meet the Prime Ministers, who will issue statements to those who passed — documents you will carry forward."
Viktor finally looked away, dismissing the thought with a quiet shrug. He wasn't even from this region; the chances of meeting Jurgen again — let alone fighting him were slim.
Kimura continued, his tone subtly shifting.
"And those who failed… return home. Train. Come back next year."
His gaze moved across them, reading their expressions.
"Do not mistake this for failure."
"You were given the chance to see yourselves clearly. Those who believed they were unbeatable… have now seen their flaws."
His voice firmed.
"Take that truth with you. Refine it. Grow."
A final pause.
"And return… stronger."
Jurgen sat off to the side, absorbed in his thoughts. His head lowered, hands resting loosely on his lap. The evening breeze had grown stronger, brushing against him. All he wanted was to go home and rest — but even that felt impossible. He shook his head, discarding the thought. He wasn't going home. He couldn't face Hana.
Voices rose again as the crowd began to disperse — some elated, others weighed down with disappointment. His eyes followed a few who passed in front of him, then he leaned back slightly, noticing others moving in the opposite direction.
He returned his gaze forward and found Bubbles standing before him.
"Jurgen-san… we have to go."
His voice was timid, uncertain, more like a child's than a teenager's. He stumbled slightly over his words, his tone fragile, as though even speaking required effort. It irritated Jurgen more than it should have.
He clicked his tongue and stood up. Ignoring Bubbles entirely, he moved toward the small group that had already begun walking. It didn't take much to realize these were the participants who had won their matches. Spotting Viktor — and that strange boy from the second match was all the confirmation he needed before he fell into step with them.
***
East of the arena, a tall building stood in absolute silence, as though it were a cemetery. The surrounding area stretched wide, vast and unsettling in its emptiness, its sheer scale carrying an eerie weight. A calm evening breeze drifted through the expanse. It was already late, and the hour grated on Jurgen. What, truly, was the point of all this?
The building bore black rooftops layered upon themselves, doubling beneath in a heavy, deliberate design. The entire structure hovered near black, softened only by a deep grey that dulled what little light remained. Its door stood ahead, yet the longer it was observed, the more it seemed to stretch, as though space itself were subtly warping.
Jurgen knew at once this was no hall meant for a simple assessment. There was a quiet composure to it, too measured, too intentional. It felt like a place built to conceal, a hall that harbored secrets.
"What a drag," he lamented under his breath, fatigue threading through his voice.
Bubbles remained pressed close to Jurgen's side, an unwelcome presence that steadily tested his patience.
"I don't think I'm going in there," Viktor spoke cautiously.
He paused, then folded his arms across his chest. A gentle breeze moved through the space, calm and unbothered, as the rest of them lingered just short of the building's entrance. Weariness lingered in his posture; it was his first time here, his first time taking part in a tournament of this nature.
"What are you… scared?"
Moshi raised a hand to scratch lightly at his ear as he spoke. His expression remained flat, but the intent behind his words was unmistakable — calculated provocation aimed directly at Viktor.
Viktor dismissed him with a scoff, unbothered by Moshi's attempt at provocation. His attention shifted slowly across the group, a measured scan rather than any sign of concern, his arms still folded firmly across his chest.
Eventually, his gaze landed on Jurgen, who stood apart as though detached from it all, indifferent to the unfolding exchange.
Jurgen's eyes briefly traced the boy's charred arm before returning to his face. Viktor contact was fleeting, yet deliberate. His stare lingered for a moment longer, devoid of warmth, before he looked away again entirely.
The group fell into complete silence. A moment later, it was broken by the arrival of a young woman as the great doors groaned open. She stepped through with quiet ease, arms neatly stacked with what appeared to be documents.
An old man followed behind her, frail in appearance yet difficult to dismiss. His white hair was jagged and uneven, scattered without care, while his beard ran along both sides of his chin — rough and spread, stopping just short of the jaw it left exposed. A wooden cane supported his steps. At a glance, there was little about him that seemed imposing, yet something in his presence suggested quiet authority, the kind that did not need to announce itself.
Jurgen studied the figure for a moment before lowering his gaze. His fingers pressed lightly against his closed eyes, as though to steady the thoughts crowding his mind — questions that remained unanswered. None of it made sense. They had simply walked through a massive door to reach this place, one not unlike the entrance he had used when he first arrived at the arena.
He remembered the crossroads that were eerily quiet, almost unnaturally so and the branching paths that had all led toward that same door. This place should have been a continuation of the town surrounding the arena. In his mind, the arena stood at the center of everything, woven into the life of a vast, living city.
"Good grief."
The words slipped out with a strained breath.
There was no use dwelling on it now. He would think on it later — preferably after a proper night's rest.