Chapter 669: The Hall of Dragon and Phoenix.
The air felt heavy inside the barracks. After the brief confrontation, everyone was silent, and the sound of the defeated young man’s ragged breathing echoed as if it filled the entire hall. The boy tried to compose himself, rising with visible effort. His knees trembled, his face still scarred by the shrapnel and mana burns Strax had left.
But as he staggered to his feet, a faint light began to pulse on his skin. Superficial wounds slowly healed, burns faded, and color returned to his cheeks. He possessed some regenerative ability, a rare but not impossible gift among warriors of noble blood.
Strax simply watched him, motionless. His golden gaze was cold, detached, as if assessing an insect trying to take flight with broken wings. A soft sigh escaped the corner of his lips, thick with disdain.
The young man—now firmer—gnashed his teeth, his wounded pride screaming louder than reason. His eyes flickered away for a moment, searching for the elders watching the scene from the back of the barracks. They stood there silently, almost like shadows. They hadn’t intervened even when the first fight broke out. But the young man believed he could turn the tide, that if he defeated Strax now, he would draw their attention in a positive way.
"If I finish him off here... they’ll notice me," he thought, clenching his fists.
"I get it..." he growled, his voice thick with anger and shame. "Words don’t work on you. So there’s only one way!"
He took a few steps forward, his hand sliding to the hilt of his sword, determined to draw and attack. But before he could complete the movement, a female figure appeared beside him.
"Enough, you idiot!" said a firm but distressed voice. A young woman with black hair tied in a simple bun and eyes as dark as night held his arm tightly. "You’ve already lost once! Are you going to insist on embarrassing yourself further?"
It was his sister. The air between them betrayed it. The connection was clear—not just blood, but partnership. She was his partner in the tournament, and she could clearly see he was digging his own grave.
"Don’t worry, I can handle him!" the boy retorted, jerking her arm away. "He’s just an underdog who thinks he’s smart. I don’t need your protection."
He took up his sword again, pride burning more than the physical pain. But the instant his fingers touched the hilt, something changed.
A soft, almost imperceptible sound filled the space—the sound of Strax’s footsteps. He simply vanished from where he stood, and the next moment, he was standing before the young man. No one could follow the movement clearly.
Strax’s hand moved like lightning. His strong fingers wrapped around the hilt of the boy’s sword, stopping the draw before the blade even flashed from its sheath. Shock coursed through the boy’s arm, Strax’s brute strength crushing his attempted attack.
The young man’s eyes widened in surprise. He tried to pull his sword harder, but it was useless. It was like trying to move a mountain with his bare hands.
And then, the air shifted.
Strax’s aura—that predatory calm, until then contained—vanished completely. It was dense, suffocating, as if the hall itself had lost its breath. A murderous thirst, cold and meticulous, exploded from his body like an invisible tide, pressing down on the chests of everyone present. Some competitors instinctively recoiled, others swallowed hard, and even the elders in the background straightened their backs, alert.
Strax’s golden eyes glowed intensely, and his voice was low but penetrating, every syllable charged with pure menace:
"How about... not being humiliated and just listening to your sister, you bratty child?"
The young man’s face paled instantly. His muscles, which had previously trembled with rage, were now paralyzed with fear. His heart pounded wildly, and he felt as if he were facing a beast ready to tear him apart with a single movement.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Only instinct screamed within him: flee.
Samira, watching closely, let out a low, almost cruel laugh. There was a glint of amusement in her amber eyes, but also respect. She knew Strax’s aura well, that face few saw: the beast behind the calm mask.
The silence in the hall was absolute. Everyone was staring at them. Some competitors murmured among themselves, others simply stared, not daring to intervene. The young man’s sister, still beside him, seemed torn between relief and dread.
Strax kept his gaze fixed on the boy, unblinking, until he felt his resistance finally disappear. The boy’s body relaxed, overcome not by physical strength, but by the sheer pressure that gripped him.
With a deliberately slow movement, Strax released his grip on the hilt of his sword. He took a step back, the murderous aura fading as if erased entirely, leaving the two of them behind.
Leaving the barracks felt almost like a relief. The air inside had grown too dense, heavy with the weight of Strax’s murderous aura and the collective fear of the other competitors. Now, in the torchlit corridor, the atmosphere was different—still heavy, but less suffocating.
Samira adjusted her sword at her waist, walking beside him. Her amber eyes still shone, excited by the scene she had witnessed.
"You really are unbearable, you know that?" she murmured, with an amused smile. "You didn’t even have to fight; your presence alone nearly scared the boy to death."
Strax didn’t respond immediately. He just walked with firm steps, the golden medallion swinging beneath his cloak. A faint smile curved his lips.
"If he fell for that alone, he’d better give up now," he said, his voice calm. "The tournament is no place for spoiled children."
Samira chuckled and shook her head. "Speaking of the tournament..."—her eyes scanned the corridor—"...where are we going now?"
Strax held up the cut piece of the painting, the "pass" that revealed the words. The runes still glowed faintly on the surface, as if indicating a path.
"To find the hall," he replied.
They walked for a few minutes, crossing courtyards and stone corridors, guided more by Strax’s intuition than by signs. The place seemed like a fortified maze, full of identical buildings and passages that would confuse anyone who wasn’t paying attention.
Samira was growing impatient when, finally, they turned a corner and came face to face with a monumental gate.
Two black stone columns supported the entrance, and above them, gold carvings depicted a dragon and a phoenix entwined in an eternal dance. The phoenix’s wings almost touched the dragon’s scales, and the two creatures’ eyes gleamed with encrusted gems that reflected the torchlight.
Samira stopped in surprise, her chin raised.
"Wow... it really exists," she murmured, almost in reverence. "The Hall of the Dragon and Phoenix."
Strax chuckled, crossing his arms for a moment. "Did you think it was a joke?"
"I thought it was a riddle, a trick..." he replied, still examining the details. "But if it’s real... how many people will actually show up here? How many have caught the clue?"
Strax didn’t answer immediately. He simply raised his hand and pushed the gate. The deep thud echoed through the hallway as the stone structure opened, revealing the interior.
What they saw made Samira hold her breath.
A gigantic hall stretched out before them, so vast it seemed like an entire arena. The arched ceiling was supported by columns bearing ancient symbols, and red and gold banners hung from the sides. The space was vast, illuminated by magical crystals attached to the walls, projecting an intense white light.
And inside... at least thirty pairs of competitors were already waiting.
Samira’s eyes widened in disbelief. "That’s impossible..." she murmured. "Thirty pairs? How? They couldn’t have deciphered the riddle so quickly."
Strax entered calmly, his golden eyes sweeping the room. The pairs were divided into groups, some relaxed, others silent. But most wore arrogant, confident looks, as if certain they belonged there.
It didn’t take him long to notice.
Many of them were hiding their strength.
Their bodies were too relaxed, their breathing too measured. The mana was kept deeply contained, almost imperceptible, but Strax could feel the pressure of well-trained warriors behind the masks of normalcy.
A cold smile curved his lips.
"I see," he murmured. "So that’s it."
Samira turned to him, still trying to understand. "What?"
Strax lifted his chin toward a group of four pairs, all young men in shining armor and embroidered cloaks. "Nobles," he said simply. "Of course they cheated to get through."
Samira narrowed her eyes, following his gaze. Now it made sense. Wealthy and powerful families wouldn’t leave their children to the mercy of riddles or their own perception. They probably already knew the secrets, or had someone from the organization whisper the answers in their ears.
"So..." she crossed her arms, her smile returning. "We’re among well-dressed peacocks who don’t deserve to be here."
Strax shrugged. "Nothing new."
Samira bit her lower lip, assessing the couples in the room. A few eyes had already turned their way, curious about their late arrival. Two strangers without a last name, daring to reach the same point as the "blue-blooded heirs."
"Thirty couples..." she repeated, her eyes sparkling. "This will be fun."