Chapter 677: Tournament continues
The afternoon sun streamed down through the stained-glass windows at the top of the arena, painting the floor with hues of gold and scarlet. The runes delimiting the fighting circles pulsed intensely, heating the air like embers. The audience stirred, voices mingled in murmurs and shouts, and even the scribes seemed uneasy.
The tournament had reached the point where only the most feared names remained standing. The previous rounds had separated the ambitious from the true warriors. Now, each bout was a spectacle and a risk—and, above all, a statement.
The scribe stepped onto the central platform and raised his staff, his voice amplified by sonorous runes.
“Next fight! Victor… against Alaric Venn, the Swordsman of the Winds!”
A roar rippled through the arena. The name “Alaric” carried a certain weight. Among the competitors, few were so respected. He was a veteran warrior, a fallen noble who had rejected his family inheritance to follow the path of the sword. He fought not for fame, nor for gold. He fought for meaning.
Strax rose from his seat and walked to the circle with the predatory calm that was his trademark. The crowd parted around him, falling briefly silent. His presence seemed to alter the air—as if a beast had just awakened.
On the other side, Alaric was already waiting. He was tall, lean, with silver hair tied in a simple knot, wearing light armor with plates on his shoulder blades and forearms. His sword, a two-handed blade of pale steel, rested on the ground. He didn’t look anxious. Nor fearful. Simply present.
Strax’s eyes gleamed gold.
“Someone with pure energy…” he murmured. “Finally.”
Alaric looked up to see Strax watching him differently, his voice calm but firm.
“Such scary eyes… although I find that ferocity appealing.”
Strax smiled, flashing one of his fangs. “I like the sword.”
The scribe raised his staff.
“Let the fight begin!”
The runes of the circle glowed blue, sealing the space.
The sound of wind cut through the silence.
Alaric moved first. Not brutally, but fluidly. His sword rose in an almost invisible arc, and the air around him seemed to bend. The blade grazed Strax’s chest—and the ground where the blow landed parted in a clean, straight line.
Strax took a step back, eyes narrowed.
“A blow of pure wind… no magic. Just power and precision.”
Alaric twisted, sliding his left foot across the ground and returning to his starting stance. His gaze was calm, calculated.
“I’ve heard you don’t block blows, Victor. That you prefer to crush.”
Strax inclined his head slightly.
“It’s more fun this way.”
“Then show me.”
The second attack came. This time, faster, more ferocious. Alaric lunged forward with a series of slashes at different angles, the air whistling around him. Strax blocked the first with his mana-coated forearm, deflected the second with a shoulder movement, and then… he struck.
His fist swung like a sledgehammer.
The impact shook the air, and Alaric raised his blade at the last second, deflecting the blow. The ground cracked beneath their feet.
The audience cheered.
Strax stepped back, analyzing. Alaric’s sword trembled slightly, but he held it steady. His physical strength was immense, but the warrior didn’t seem intimidated.
“You have good reflexes,” Strax commented, raising his fist. “Few can block me without losing an arm.”
Alaric smiled, taking a deep breath.
“And you have eyes that hunt before you fight. It’s not common to see a man who watches before he kills.”
The next exchange was brutal.
Strax advanced with a speed that seemed impossible for his size. The ground exploded beneath his feet, and he appeared before Alaric, his fist clenched, aiming for his chest. But the swordsman spun, dodging by millimeters, and countered with a rising blow that tore through the air.
The blade sliced through Strax’s shoulder.
A trickle of blood fell to the ground.
The crowd roared.
Strax looked at the wound, then back at his opponent. And smiled.
“Finally.”
Alaric steadied his sword in front of him, the wind whispering around the blade.
“Show me what lies behind those golden eyes.”
The air shifted.
Strax took a deep breath, and for a moment, the entire arena seemed silent. The circle’s runes vibrated as if reacting to his presence. A dense, golden, pulsing energy surged from his body—not violent, but inescapable.
The audience slumped under the pressure.
“This… this is no ordinary mana,” one of the scribes murmured. “It is… pure vitality!”
Strax stepped forward.
This time, Alaric couldn’t keep up. The blow came like thunder. Strax’s fist met the blade, and the impact created a shockwave that shattered some of the runes on the ground. Alaric was thrown backward, spinning in the air before falling to his knees, using his sword for support.
He coughed, blood trickling down his lips. But he was still smiling.
“So this is it… the power of the predator.”
Strax didn’t respond. He just walked slowly toward him.
“Get up. There’s still room for one more blow.”
Alaric chuckled softly, spitting blood.
“Heh… I expected nothing less.”
He struggled to his feet. His sword trembled, but his eyes were steady. And then, he did something that caught even Strax by surprise.
He spun the blade, drove it into the ground, and channeled his energy.
The wind reacted.
A vortex of pure air rose around him, kicking up dust and fragments of stone. The sound was like a thousand blades slicing through space at once. His mana was clean, crystalline—a direct contrast to Strax’s raw, golden energy.
The audience watched, fascinated.
“Secret Technique of the Venn Clan…” murmured one of the nobles. “The Heart of the Gale!”
Strax smiled, bracing himself.
“Now.”
The vortex exploded forward.
Alaric charged forward, fused with the wind itself, and in the blink of an eye, he was in ten places at once. The blades of air slashed from every angle. Strax blocked, dodged, took cuts to his legs, his shoulder, his abdomen—and kept advancing.
The air was saturated with energy, the runes trembling. Alaric screamed, the final blow coming from above—a blade shrouded in wind, aimed at Strax’s neck.
Strax raised his arm.
The blow descended.
And stopped.
The blade was stopped by bare fingers.
The crowd held their breath.
The wind died.
Strax held the sword between his fingers, blood dripping from his hand, but his gaze remained unwavering.
“Nice blow. But wind doesn’t cut gold.”
Alaric tried to retreat, but Strax pulled back the blade, snapping it in half. With the same movement, he twisted his body and landed a punch in his opponent’s stomach.
The impact was blunt.
Alaric’s body buckled, and he was thrown backward, crashing through part of the rune barrier, falling to his knees with a hoarse groan.
The circle glowed red.
“Winner: Victor!” “You… are you not going to humiliate me?” announced the scribe, his voice trembling.
For a moment, there was no applause. The audience was completely silent. Then, slowly, the roar began again, growing louder until it exploded into applause and shouts.
But Strax didn’t raise his arms.
He simply stared at Alaric’s kneeling body, breathing heavily. He walked over and held out his hand.
The swordsman looked up in surprise.
“You… are not going to humiliate me?”
Strax shook his head.
“Pure warriors are not enemies. You fought with honor.”
Alaric laughed, accepting the hand and struggling to his feet.
“So, there is still honor in monsters.”
“Only when it’s worth it.”
The two stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Alaric bowed slightly.
“I hope to meet you again, Victor. Perhaps… on the same side, someday.”
“Perhaps.” “If the wind still blows in your favor.”
Alaric smiled, staggering out of the arena, the healers following him.
Strax stood there, alone, under the golden light of the runes. Blood dripped from his hand and cuts, but he seemed unshaken. There was a strange calm in his gaze.
Samira’s voice echoed in his mind.
“I saw everything. He was clean. Completely human.”
“Yes,” Strax replied mentally. “And that’s why… it was a good fight.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Just enough to remind me that I’m grossly underestimating these people.”
She laughed softly.
“That sounds like something you’d say before doing something stupid.”
“Maybe.” He glanced up at the stands, unconsciously searching for the woman with the slanted eyes. “But not today.” The runes began to slowly fade, signaling the end of the round.
The scribes gathered notes, the healers cleared the field, and the crowd continued to chant Strax’s name—Victor, Victor, Victor!—like a tribal chorus.
But he didn’t see himself as a hero.
Heroes fight for glory. He fought for truth.
And the truth was still hidden.
Somewhere in the stands, in the shadows of the scribes, or perhaps in the fighters themselves, still waiting their turn.
Strax left the arena. Blood still dripped from the hand that had held the sword. He ran his thumb over the cut and licked it calmly.
“Iron… sweat… and no rot,” he murmured. “Finally, something pure.”
Samira’s voice returned, softer this time.
“Enjoy it while you can, my husband. The next round won’t be so clean.”
Strax chuckled softly.
“I know.”
And without looking back, he disappeared into the dark corridors of the arena—the sound of applause still echoing like thunder, mixed with the distant sound of drums that, once again, began to announce that the real tournament was just beginning.