Chapter 674: The tournament continued
The tournament continued like a bone-grinding machine.
With each call from the scribes, the sound of the runes activating filled the arena with a bluish glow that reflected on tense faces. Men rose from their seats, each step carrying pride, fear, or arrogance, and walked into the fighting circles. The crowd grew larger by the moment, thirsty for spectacle. Nobles and commoners mingled in the stands, cheering, betting, shouting names they didn’t even know, just eager to see someone fall.
The metallic smell of blood began to linger in the air, even with the runes protecting lives. The blood didn’t kill, but it marked, reminding everyone that every blow was real, every wound a price.
Strax stood still, like an uncrowned king, watching from his elevated position. His golden eyes gleamed amid the blue torches, absorbing every detail. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, a rhythm only he understood.
There, before him, the other Dragons exposed everything they had. Brute strength, swift magic, techniques inherited from ancient families. The young man in light armor demonstrated incredible speed, disappearing in a blur before striking his opponents. The scarred man absorbed wounds like a wall of living flesh, knocking opponents down with one punch. The thin man, the one with refined mana, cast spells so precise that each strike felt like a needle piercing vital points.
They were good. Very good. But Strax saw through them. He saw their limits. He saw where their strength would break, where their convictions would waver. To him, this was just a menu.
And yet, the flame in their eyes wasn’t boredom. It was hunger.
“Show me something…” he murmured, barely audible. “Show me if you’re worthy of being hunted.”
As the Dragons clashed, distant echoes pierced the floor. The hall vibrated like a beating heart. It was the Phoenixes.
And among all the voices, one echoed the loudest: Violet.
Samira.
Strax closed his eyes for a moment, feeling every burst of mana coming from the women’s arena. The heat of the flames that surged like whips, the dry sound of blades splitting the air, the muffled screams of competitors falling. He didn’t need to see her to know: she was smiling.
And the whole world was watching her.
His jaw tightened. The desire to rise, to burst through the walls, to tear out the eyes of all who dared look at her burned like acid in his throat. His mind roared like a chained beast.
But he took a deep breath. He held it. She wanted this. She wanted to be seen, to be feared. Part of Samira’s pleasure was teasing others, only to laugh in the end, reminding everyone who was prey and who was predator.
Strax rested his chin on his hand, taking a deep breath, his golden eyes sparkling.
“Ah, wretched woman…” he murmured, no sound escaping beyond the circle of his own aura. “If only they knew who owns the smiles you give…”
He forced himself to relax. It was too early to show jealousy. At the right moment, he would show that Phoenixes or Dragons didn’t matter. Everyone was dust before him and her.
Meanwhile, the tournament was drawing to a close.
The swift young man won another fight, knocking his opponent unconscious in less than three minutes. The scarred man crushed another mage, laughing as he spat his own and others’ blood. The thin man with refined mana made the ground tremble with ancient runes, drawing applause even from the scribes.
But there was more. Other names began to emerge, figures who had previously remained inconspicuous, but now revealed hidden claws. A shadow-conjuring archer who fired arrows that stalked targets like predators. A dark-skinned monk who fought barefoot, his body covered in vivid tattoos that moved during combat. A silent swordsman who seemed to transform each cut into a deadly dance.
Strax observed everything. Each one was noted in his mind like a chess piece. He underestimated no one. Predators fall when they ignore their smaller prey.
From the Phoenix side, the stories arrived in increasingly intense whispers. Rumors swirled that Violet had defeated her second opponent without raising a weapon, using only sheer mana pressure, forcing the other to surrender in tears. Some said she was toying with everyone, like a cat dragging a mouse before killing it. Others claimed she was conserving strength, saving her true power for when she truly needed it.
Strax didn’t need rumors to know the truth. He felt it. Every burst of laughter, every predatory look she cast across the room. Samira was at her peak, and the whole world was dancing to her tune.
“Show them, Violet,” he murmured, his eyes narrowed. “Show them what happens when you play with fire they can’t control.”
The scribe announced the final fight of the Dragons’ round. The silent swordsman entered, his blade reflecting the runes, his eyes lowered, but each step carrying lethality. His opponent was the shadow archer, arrows already conjured, hovering in the air like a swarm of black flies.
The duel was spectacular. The archer fired from every angle, arrows emerging from the shadows, chasing like dogs. The swordsman cut each one down, a clean, wasteful movement. The air seemed to tinkle with each collision, runes igniting and dissolving under the clash of technique against magic.
In the end, the blade flashed once. Just once. And the shadow vanished, along with the archer, who fell to his knees, breathing heavily. The crowd erupted, cheering for the swordsman, who simply cleaned his blade and left the circle without looking back.
Strax opened his eyes a little wider in surprise. This one had potential. Perhaps he was the only one so far deserving of anything more than indifference.
The scribes declared the end of the round. The next would come after a brief interval, but blood, sweat, and fury still seethed in the air.
Strax closed his eyes for a moment. He felt Samira’s warmth in the distance, as if even separated by walls, her flame called to his.
Strax let his eyes close for a moment, enjoying the fleeting calm of the interval, like a predator resting before the next hunt. But suddenly, something changed.
A vibration cut through the air, unlike the previous ones. It wasn’t the echo of ordinary mana, nor the bubbling life force of combat techniques. It was heavy, viscous, like poison poured into crystal-clear water. The air seemed to tremble, and even the murmurs of the audience subsided, without them realizing why.
Strax opened his eyes.
Down below, inside one of the circles, two men were already facing off. The scribe had called their names shortly before, but no one seemed to pay them any attention—until now. One of them, tall and sturdy, wielded a black iron spear. The other, thin, with disheveled hair, had sunken, dark eyes. They exchanged fierce blows, steel against steel, but what spread around them wasn’t from the weapons.
It was energy.
And not just any energy.
Strax frowned. This was demonic.
It was like a living shadow, dense and suffocating, escaping from the runes and spreading through the air. Small black fragments snaked like smoke, invading the senses of those nearby. Some onlookers shivered for no reason, running their hands over their arms as if suddenly chilled. Others, more sensitive, turned pale, sweating.
“Tsk…” Strax clicked his tongue, his golden eyes flashing. “So, even here you hide…”
The robust warrior’s spear glowed red, shrouded in a shapeless aura, like corrupted flames. The thin man chuckled softly, and his mana seemed to gain consistency, transforming into spectral claws that tore through the air. Neither of them seemed to be fighting to win. They seemed, rather, to be competing to release the most of that forbidden energy.
The audience, largely laymen, merely applauded the spectacle, thinking it was an exotic technique. But the strong… the strong felt it. The scarred man stopped smiling. The silent swordsman, until then unshaken, looked up with something close to irritation. The thin man with refined mana bit his lip until he drew blood.
And Strax… just smiled.
“You have courage. Or stupidity,” he murmured, leaning forward. His aura began to pulse, imperceptible to the weak, but the twelve prodigies felt it. It was as if an even larger predator had just opened its eyes.
Below, the fight reached its climax. The spearman swung his weapon, unleashing a wave of red energy that cracked the floor of the circle. The other lunged forward, black claws exploding toward his rival’s chest. The instant the impact occurred, the runes glowed brightly, struggling to contain the excess power. The circle nearly shattered.
And that was when it happened.
For an instant, a face appeared amidst the black smoke. It wasn’t human. Red eyes, long teeth, twisted horns. A presence that shouldn’t be there, that didn’t belong in the mortal world.
The heart of the arena stopped. Even the screams of the crowd died, replaced by a heavy silence.
The scribes exchanged anxious glances. One of them almost stood to end the fight, but hesitated. To interrupt a fight was to defy the sacred rules of the tournament.
Strax slowly rose to his feet. His shadow seemed to grow, as if it no longer fit in the space he was in.
“Something’s wrong…” he murmured, his predatory smile widening. “I was getting bored.”