Chapter 672: The real tournament is about to begin.
The hall remained in reverent silence after the humiliating expulsion of the young man who had dared to challenge him. Everyone could still feel the weight of the elder’s mana, as if the air were permeated with his presence. Some competitors trembled, others maintained a proud posture, trying to hide their nervousness. But one thing was clear: no one dared underestimate the old man after such a spectacle.
The elder walked slowly to the center of the stage. His wooden staff, adorned with ancient inscriptions, tapped the floor twice. The sound echoed through the hall like a mystical bell, causing the red curtains behind him to part. A gigantic mural was revealed, engraved with runes and symbols that lit up in blue and gold, depicting figures of dragons and phoenixes intertwined in an eternal cycle.
“The first step was vision,” the elder began, his voice firm, every syllable charged with authority. “The second step, however, is combat.” The Dragon and Phoenix Tournament is no child’s play. Here, only those who can endure the pressure, the pain, and the glory may continue.
The hall stirred. Many competitors straightened their shoulders, others clenched their fists tightly. Blood began to boil, as everyone awaited the part that truly defined greatness: the battle.
The elder raised his arm, and the mural shone brighter. The figure of the golden dragon roared on the left, while the flaming phoenix spread its majestic wings on the right.
“From now on, two tournaments will take place simultaneously,” he declared, his eyes flashing. “The Dragon tournament, reserved for the warriors. And the Phoenix tournament, reserved for the warriors. Two paths, two crowns. In the end, two pairs of Dragons and two pairs of Phoenixes will remain. And only these four names will have the right to compete in the final battle.
A murmur immediately erupted among the competitors.
“Two Dragons and two Phoenixes?” asked a stout man, frowning. “Why not just one champion of each?”
The elder turned his gaze to him, and the simple gesture made the man fall silent, cringing. Still, the old man replied:
“Because this tournament is not about solitary kings. The Dragon alone does not rule the heavens. The Phoenix alone does not rise from the ashes. True power is born of balance and rivalry, of the flame and fury that only exist when there is more than one wielder.” His voice echoed powerfully. “Two Dragons, two Phoenixes. And then… the duel that will decide the final titles.”
Some nodded in understanding, others frowned, trying to absorb the philosophy hidden in the elder’s words.
Samira, arms crossed beside Strax, leaned toward him and whispered ironically, “That sounds more poetic than practical. I bet half of you only understood ‘beat until one remains.'”
Strax chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving the stage. “Which is exactly the point.”
The elder raised his staff again, and the mural expanded, now showing two columns of blank names. Runes danced around them, waiting to be filled.
“The men will fight each other in the Dragons’ tournament. The women will fight each other in the Phoenixes’ tournament. Each group will battle until only two finalists remain,” he explained. “And don’t think it will be simple. Every fight will be observed, judged, and recorded. Not only strength decides. But also cunning, courage, and, above all, how you fight alongside your partners.”
A female voice echoed from the crowd, thick with impatience:
“What if we lose in the tournament? We’re… eliminated?”
“Eliminated from this tournament,” the elder replied dryly. “Not from life.” A pause, and then he added in a chilling tone: “But some who engage in combat here may not have the strength to walk away. This is the price of the Dragon and the Phoenix.”
A chill ran through the hall. Some competitors swallowed hard, but no one dared complain aloud. The expectation of blood and pain hung in the air like an inescapable shadow.
Samira arched her eyebrow, leaning toward Strax again. “Not dead, but perhaps torn apart? A great way to welcome.”
He smiled, showing a flash of genuine enthusiasm. “At least it will be fun.”
Suddenly, another competitor—a man with fine clothes and a noble bearing—raised his voice.
“What if there’s a draw?” “What if two competitors refuse to fight?” he asked with a wry smile, trying to convey superiority.
The elder stared at him as if he were facing an insect. “There is no room for cowards in this tournament. Refusing to fight is the same as accepting defeat. And as for draws…” His gaze glittered. “Dragons don’t draw. Phoenixes don’t surrender. If there is no victor, both fall.”
A deathly silence followed this declaration. The message was clear: the tournament brooked no hesitation. It was win or be erased.
Strax crossed his arms, watching the competitors who were beginning to fidget nervously. Many of the men were already staring at each other, gauging their strength in glances. Among the women, the tension was even sharper, like blades hidden in smiles.
The elder raised his staff one last time, striking it against the ground. The mural glowed, and the runes began to move, awaiting the inscriptions.
“This is the second step. Men, choose your path in the Dragons’ tournament. Women, prepare for the Phoenix tournament,” he declared, his voice like thunder that echoed off the walls. “Only two pairs on each side will survive until the end. And then, when dragons and phoenixes meet… true glory will be decided.”
Samira smirked and turned to Strax. “So… ready to become a dragon?”
Strax smiled back, his golden eyes sparkling. “We’re already dragons, you naughty girl.”
The dull sound of his staff hitting the floor still echoed in everyone’s ears when the side gates of the great hall began to creak. The massive columns supporting the ceiling vibrated slightly, revealing two distinct passages.
To the left, a staircase led the men toward the Dragons’ arena. To the right, another path opened for the women, toward the Phoenixes’ arena. The division was clear, marked even in the glowing runes on the mural, which now separated the two paths with golden lines.
Samira looked at Strax, a half-smile playing on her lips.
“It seems our paths diverge here.”
Strax lifted the corner of his mouth, but his golden eyes remained fixed on the stream of competitors beginning to move.
“Not quite. We’ll still be in the same tournament. Just on different sides.”
Samira shrugged, tucking her black hair behind her ear. There was a glint of excitement in her amber gaze, mixed with something wild.
“If we meet in the finals…” She paused dramatically, winking at him. “Don’t hold back just because I’m pretty.”
Strax let out a deep laugh. “You wouldn’t want me to go easy on you.”
They walked together to the separation point. For a moment, they stood side by side, watching the crowd scatter, each competitor following their fate. The air seemed to vibrate with tension, with anticipation.
Then he heard, “Husband… I want a reward when this is over,” a whisper of mana coming from Samira…
Strax just smiled silently, his eyes shining like golden blades. Then he advanced down the Dragons’ corridor.
The corridor was long, lit by blue torches that burned without consuming fuel. The runes on the walls pulsed with mana, as if watching every step of the warriors passing by. There were more than twenty men following the same path, all in heavy silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts.
Strax walked among them calmly, like a predator who needed no hurry. His presence, though restrained, made the others uncomfortable. Some glanced discreetly at him and then quickly looked away, feeling something they couldn’t explain.
At the end of the corridor, the arena doors opened. The sight that revealed itself made even the most confident hold their breath.
The space was colossal, a circular arena of black stone, capable of holding thousands of spectators. The surrounding seats were empty for now, but it was clear they would soon be filled with people eager to witness blood and glory. In the center, ancient markings were etched into the floor: combat circles, lines of runes that radiated energy, ready to activate with each duel.
On the opposite side, a dark wooden bench had been set up, where magical scribes waited. Each competitor, as they approached, received a slip of paper with the name of their first-round opponent.
Strax walked toward it unhurriedly. When his turn came, the scribe—a thin man with narrowed eyes and a cold expression—handed him the paper without a word.
Strax opened his hand. The letters moved for a moment, as if alive, until they settled in gold ink:
First Round: Victor vs. Davion Karr.
He didn’t react immediately, simply tucking the paper into his belt. But in his mind, a spark ignited. The name was unfamiliar, but the way it was written in gold ink suggested this was no ordinary opponent.
As the other men received their slips of paper, Strax closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath, drawing in the cold air of the arena, and then exhaled.
His aura spread.
Not in an open explosion, as a warrior displaying power would. But subtly, like an invisible mist seeping through the cracks in the environment. It was like unleashing predatory instincts in the forest: the weak noticed nothing, but the strong… the strong felt it.