The once-green trees had turned to shades of brown as their leaves floated overhead. The amphitheater was a marvel unlike anything Gabriel had seen in Balatia. Built with the same gray stone that shaped the city's functional structures, it stood apart due to the trees intricately woven into the tiered stones. Gabriel counted the trees, the branches, trying to distract himself from the mounting pressure within. The crowd was immense—far larger than anything Gabriel had ever seen, easily numbering fifty thousand. The sheer size of it overwhelmed him, and though his eyes took in the sight, his mind struggled to fully comprehend the mass of humanity.

The hum of the crowd was deafening, a constant wave of noise that made his ears thrum as if under assault. Gabriel sat among eight students, Lakan on his left, Ryn on his right. None of them would have an easy fight today—there would only be one victor.

Across the amphitheater, the royal family sat with named warriors, their families, and the Eldorian delegation. Gabriel squinted, trying to make out details, but the distance made it impossible. He had been told to steer clear of the castle during the Eldorian visit, a precaution to ensure no one would recognize him. But Gabriel had been a babe the last time an Eldorian delegation visited Accamania. No one from the royal family had been present then, so why the need for such secrecy now? He sensed an ulterior motive lurking behind the shadows of this visit, something darker, something that gnawed at his earlier fears.

The stakes were higher than ever. The victor would be honored tonight, and perhaps that honor could give Gabriel the leverage he needed—enough recognition to unearth the truth behind the shadows. He welcomed the rising stakes; he was ready for it.

The crowd’s roar intensified as the Grand Master appeared, his name soon becoming a chant. Gabriel strained to make out what they were shouting until the words became clear: “Black Beard! Black Beard!” A smile tugged at his lips—he hadn't expected the man to be named after his beard, large as it was.

Gabriel noticed Lakan tense beside him, his shoulders rigid with the weight of unspoken pressure. Gabriel didn’t have to guess why. At the same time, Soltis appeared at the steps in front, his presence immediately drawing their attention. Even the usually stoic Lexon was jittery, shaking his leg as Soltis reached their row.

“Come with me,” Soltis commanded, his tone brisk as he gestured for them to rise.

The boys stood simultaneously, their restless energy pushing them to move. As they followed Soltis down the stone steps, the murmur of the crowd washed over them—whispers, pointing fingers, curious eyes watching their every move. Gabriel felt the weight of the crowd's scrutiny pressing down on him, and for a moment, his carefully maintained facade began to slip under the growing tension.

Soltis led them around a corner, and suddenly a small, unmarked gate came into view, hidden in the amphitheater’s towering walls. Four soldiers stood guard, bowing as they opened the gate to let them pass.

Gabriel stepped beneath the arched gate, and the daylight vanished behind them. The passage ahead was dimly lit by flickering flames, casting long shadows on the damp stone walls. Moss clung to the surfaces, lending the tunnel an ancient, almost otherworldly quality. Gabriel took a deep breath, the air thick with an oddly calming scent.

He trailed his fingers along the stone, feeling the dampness beneath his touch. The rough texture was softened by the moisture, giving the cold stone an almost inviting quality that stood in stark contrast to the harsh reality of what lay ahead.

They continued in silence, weaving through narrow staircases and winding corridors. Gabriel couldn’t help but marvel at the labyrinth beneath the amphitheater. It was as intricate and awe-inspiring as the arena above, a hidden maze of passageways that seemed endless.

How Soltis navigated it with such certainty was a mystery, but Gabriel trusted that their path—like everything else—had been carefully laid out for them.

Before long, natural light streamed ahead as they approached the surface. Gabriel glanced at his companions—they all looked more nervous than before, tension evident in their stiff postures and darting eyes. When Gabriel’s gaze met Velar’s, the sneer on the boy’s face was unmistakable. Gabriel forced himself to ignore it; there was no time for rivalries now. His focus had to remain sharp.

As they arrived at the crisscross of steel gates, Soltis nodded to the soldiers stationed there. Without hesitation, they opened the gate, allowing the group to pass. Soltis turned to address them all. His tone softened, almost reflective. “You’ve done well. All of you.”

Gabriel noticed Soltis’s eyes linger on him for a brief moment. There was something unspoken in that look—a silent acknowledgment of how far Gabriel had come. From last place to fighting in front of a crowd, it was more than anyone had expected, including Soltis himself.

Gabriel nodded to his friends as they walked in single file behind Soltis, moving toward the grand stage where the Grandmaster and the royal family awaited. As they reached their destination, the group dropped to their knees in unison, saluting the King.

“Beat them all, Orion,” came a familiar voice from above.

Gabriel’s head was bowed, but a faint smile touched his lips. Looking up, he spotted Princess Casena waving wildly, entirely unbefitting of her royal status. He returned the wave with a nod, offering a respectful glance to the rest of the royal family. Even Adriella nodded back, a rare moment of civility between them. Though they weren’t friends, their verbal sparring had become less frequent—and there was a part of Gabriel that looked forward to those exchanges.

“Little Wolf!” Aluban’s voice boomed from the stands, his fist pressed firmly over his heart. Gabriel returned the salute, grateful for the bond they shared. To the side, Tunklard sat quietly, his support unspoken but solid. They had spent hours discussing this moment, and Gabriel knew Tunklard’s silent encouragement was the strongest of all.

“They won’t be able to protect you,” came Velar’s voice, dripping with malice from beside him.

By now, everyone in the academy knew Gabriel was essentially a ward of the royal family. That connection had earned him considerable status among the other students, making him something of a minor celebrity. Even the older students, who rarely paid attention to underclassmen, had started introducing themselves to him. Despite the recognition, Gabriel wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He didn’t want to be known because of the mere association with the royal family. Still, at the end of the day, renown was a tool he could use for his own purposes, and he needed it more than he cared to admit. Dismissing the thought, Gabriel turned to face Velar.

“It is you who needs protection,” Gabriel said calmly, eyes fixed forward.

Velar’s sneer deepened. “I’m going to hurt you so bad; you’ll never fight again.”

Gabriel turned his head slightly, a chilling smile on his lips. “You can try.”

He knew Velar would be his second opponent—assuming they both made it past their first matches. Turning his attention back to the crowd, Gabriel scanned the faces, his gaze catching on a few unfamiliar ones seated near the royal family. The newcomers were fair-skinned, the men with long hair and the women with intricate braids that shimmered beneath oversized jewels.

His eyes settled on two figures seated side by side, and Gabriel's breath caught in his throat. He assumed they were the Eldorian Queen and Princess, but he had never seen such beauty, even from this distance. The princess looked almost ethereal, her pale blonde hair draped over one shoulder, falling in soft waves. She had her mother’s high cheekbones but softer, more delicate features. Her emerald green dress—the colors of Eldoria—enhanced the striking contrast of her complexion.

For a moment, Gabriel could only stare, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen, her beauty almost tangible, as if the very air around her shimmered with her presence. He shook his head slightly. You lucky bastard, Aluban. His friend clearly felt the same, throwing the occasional smitten glance in her direction. She was at least three years older than Gabriel, and three years younger than Aluban—right in the middle of their ages.

Seems we have the same taste, Gabriel thought with a wry smile. But then again, he mused, Princess Lahera was probably everyone’s type.

The Grandmaster's booming voice interrupted his reverie. Gabriel had heard the speech countless times before—it was for the benefit of the crowd, not the fighters. But when the Grandmaster finished, the crowd erupted into wild applause, their excitement palpable in the air.

Finally, the announcement Gabriel had been waiting for: “Orion against Jara.”

Gabriel took a deep breath. He was ready. He had spent the entire night going over strategies, thinking about how to handle Jara’s unique fighting style. He knew there was more to Jara than met the eye, but he still believed he could beat him.

His biggest consideration was whether to reveal his trump card—the two swords. Perhaps it was complacency, or perhaps overconfidence, but Gabriel decided to keep his secret weapon hidden for now. If he advanced, his next opponents would be Ryn or Velar, and he would need every advantage against them. For now, strategy would be his best weapon.

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Gabriel gripped his one-and-a-half-handed sword, feeling the familiar weight in his palm as he approached the carved stone circle. With a quick leap, he entered the battleground. The boundary was solid stone, standing as tall as his hip, filled with hard-packed soil and sand. It was designed to punish anyone who stepped out—not just by disqualifying them, but by adding physical pain to their defeat. The stakes were higher here, both in honor and in injury.

He bowed to his opponent, Jara, who slinked into the circle with a fluid motion, returning the gesture. There was a subtle smile playing on Jara’s lips, a hint of excitement that intrigued Gabriel. He hardly knew the boy, but it seemed Jara was eager for this fight, perhaps relishing the challenge.

Gabriel, ever cautious, studied him. Let’s see what you’ve got, he thought, deciding to let Jara make the first move. Patience was often Gabriel’s best weapon, and in this match, it would be no different.

It didn’t take long. Within five breaths, Jara surged forward with surprising speed, almost as quick as Jonan. Gabriel had plenty of experience against fast opponents, so he ducked and parried, refusing to be drawn into a reckless exchange. He only countered occasionally, careful not to give Jara a rhythm to exploit.

He watched as Jara’s eyes flickered, searching for openings. The boy was clever, constantly recalculating, trying to find a crack in Gabriel’s defense.

“It’s a shame,” Gabriel said as he deftly deflected another blow.

“What is?” Jara asked, his voice tense as he followed up with a jab that was swiftly parried.

“I warned you,” Gabriel said with a wink, effortlessly turning aside another strike.

Gabriel had achieved his goal—he’d studied Jara’s patterns. The boy favored his right side and had a habit of retreating after each strike to reassess. Now that he had a read on him, it was time to go on the offensive.

Jara swung again, aiming for Gabriel’s arm. Gabriel met the strike with extra force, causing Jara to stumble slightly. That was the opening. Gabriel swung toward Jara’s neck, but the boy ducked, trying to bring his sword around for a counter. Gabriel had already anticipated it—he stepped forward and delivered a sharp elbow to Jara’s chin. The blow dazed him, sending him reeling backward, but he quickly regained his footing and leaped away.

Gabriel pressed forward, not giving Jara a moment to breathe. Each attack forced Jara back, closer and closer to the edge of the circle. The crowd roared in approval, sensing the shift in momentum. Gabriel didn’t let up his strikes relentless. With every parry and dodge, Jara lost more ground, inching ever closer to the precipice.

Jara’s eyes flicked behind him—he was running out of space. Gabriel saw the brief flicker of doubt cross his opponent’s face. Now or never, Gabriel thought, his focus razor-sharp.

Jara made his move. His sword arm pulled back further than usual, signaling a wild swing. Gabriel didn’t risk parrying such an unpredictable strike. Instead, he leaped back, feeling the air from the sword whistle past him. The crowd roared louder as the blow missed, stirring up the dust.

Without giving Jara a chance to reset, Gabriel delivered a powerful kick to his chest. Jara staggered, his balance wavering. By the time he steadied himself, his heel was already at the edge of the circle.

Gabriel offered him a sad smile. With all the force he could muster, he swung his sword. Jara managed to parry, just as Gabriel had predicted, but the sheer strength behind the strike was too much. The force drove Jara backward, toppling him over the edge.

Jara hit the ground hard outside the circle. The bout was over.

Gabriel stepped to the edge of the ring, watching Jara for a moment. He jumped down beside him and crouched, meeting Jara’s wide-eyed gaze.

"You fought well," Gabriel said, offering his hand.

Jara, still catching his breath, looked up, his expression a mix of surprise and reluctant respect. He grasped Gabriel’s extended hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "You had a few surprises," Jara admitted with a grudging smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Gabriel returned the smile. "I’ve got a few more left in store for today."

Jara raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the subtle challenge in Gabriel’s words.

“You should join us for our morning workouts,” Gabriel suggested, his tone casual yet inviting.

Jara hesitated, glancing away briefly. "I’ve heard about those... but I’m not really one for crowds."

Gabriel chuckled, gesturing toward the audience, still standing and cheering, their energy coursing through the air. "You handled yourself pretty well in front of this crowd."

Jara let out a more genuine laugh this time as he considered it. "Maybe I’ll take you up on that."

The two walked side-by-side back to the benches at the edge of the amphitheater, still under the watchful eyes of the spectators. Gabriel noticed Jara shift slightly, clearly uncomfortable under the intense gazes. He gave Jara a reassuring pat on the back as they sat down, a silent promise that, in time, he’d grow accustomed to the attention.

Next up was Lakan, facing off against Morpheus. Though consistent, strong, and quick, Morpheus had never truly stood out—neither the strongest nor the fastest. Lakan, however, wasted no time launching into a relentless assault from the very start. Morpheus struggled to keep pace, and within moments, it became clear he was over-matched. Lakan secured a quick, decisive victory, the crowd roaring in approval.

Lexon followed, and like Lakan, he dispatched his opponent swiftly and with precision. Both were crowd favorites—the audience relished their showmanship and the clean, efficient victories they delivered. They were the ones to watch, their skill and confidence electrifying the amphitheater.

The bout Gabriel had been eagerly awaiting was next: Ryn versus Velar.

Ryn, though often cold and distant to others, was fiercely loyal to Gabriel and their group. To them, he wasn’t just a friend—he was a brother. Velar, on the other hand, was an enemy in every sense. The animosity between the two was undeniable as they approached the center of the circle, swords drawn. No words were exchanged, yet their expressions spoke volumes—the tension between them palpable, thick like the air before a storm.

As the bell rang, Ryn, ever the strategist, held back, eyes sharp as he assessed the situation. Velar, by contrast, charged forward with aggression, wasting no time. Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, watching as Velar began to taunt Ryn, his words dripping with venom, designed to provoke. Ryn, at first, stayed composed, his silence a shield against the onslaught of insults. But Gabriel could see the cracks forming—Ryn’s measured movements becoming erratic, his strikes losing precision, his control unraveling bit by bit.

Ryn was not someone who angered easily, but Velar’s relentless jeers were eating away at his composure. Gabriel’s fists tightened, his nails digging into his palms as the tension mounted. He noticed Lakan shifting forward as well, his eyes dark with intent, as if he were ready to leap in and strike Velar down himself. Gabriel knew that if Lakan acted, he would be right there beside him.

And then it happened—Ryn’s brief lapse in control cost him. Velar seized the moment, delivering a crushing blow to Ryn’s arm. The impact was so fierce that Ryn’s sword flew from his grip, clattering onto the sand, out of reach.

Frantic, Ryn rolled across the ground, desperately scrambling to retrieve his weapon. But Gabriel’s attention was torn by the sound of Velar’s mocking laughter echoing across the arena. Velar, grinning wickedly, pointed his sword toward the crowd, basking in their approval. Then, with a sneer, he dragged the blade across his own neck in a grotesque, mocking gesture.

The crowd erupted in a frenzy, their chant rising like a swelling wave, deafening in its intensity: “Velar! Kill!”

A wave of bile surged up Gabriel’s throat, so strong he could barely keep it down. It was the same feeling that had overcome him when he saw his uncle’s head roll at his father’s command. The crowd had clamored then, just like they were now. Not much had changed since that day. The sight of blood had always made him feel weak, exposed—like the naive boy he once was. The revulsion and hatred for the violence unfolding before him intensified, washing over him in a flood of anger, disgust, and shame.

For the first time since leaving Accamania, Gabriel couldn’t control his body. His face went ashen, his hands trembled, and he doubled over, vomiting in a desperate attempt to rid himself of the sickening feeling. Only Jara noticed, casting a concerned glance in his direction. Gabriel waved him off angrily, fighting to regain control, but the shame gnawed at him. He hadn’t felt this helpless in years, betrayed by his own body, by the truth he had buried so deeply.

It was a truth he had forced down long ago, hidden beneath layers of purpose and anger. But in this moment, it surged to the surface: his aversion to violence, his deep-seated hatred for power wielded without conscience. The lie he had been telling himself—that he could embrace brutality for the sake of his mission—was laid bare. He had betrayed his own nature, and the realization made him sick to his core.

As the crowd’s roar grew louder, Gabriel forced himself to look back at the arena. Ryn was on his knees, Velar towering over him, the fight clearly over. But Velar wasn’t done. With cold cruelty, he slammed the hilt of his sword against Ryn’s head, sending him crashing to the ground, unconscious.

Gabriel’s gaze shifted to the crowd, still screaming in wild approval. Velar stood victorious, pumping his sword into the air, reveling in the violence. Gabriel's rage simmered beneath the surface, but it wasn’t directed at Velar—he could only think of Ryn. He watched as Lakan sprinted across the sands toward their fallen friend, and Gabriel followed suit. Together, they lifted Ryn’s limp body under their arms, Velar’s mocking laughter echoing behind them. Gabriel paid no attention to the scoundrel—his focus was on Ryn.

They reached the gate where Hale and a healer Gabriel knew well were already rushing toward them. They laid Ryn down gently on the ground.

“Will he be alright?” Lakan shouted, his voice tight with worry.

Gabriel shook Ryn, trying to rouse him, but there was no response.

“How bad is it?” Gabriel asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

“Let me through!” the healer snapped, pushing them both aside with surprising strength. She kneeled beside Ryn, her fingers deftly checking his pulse, her eyes scanning his pupils.

“Well?!” Gabriel demanded.

“His heartbeat is steady, his pupils are responding. But we won’t know more until he wakes up,” the healer said, her tone heavy with uncertainty.

“When will that be?” Lakan asked, his voice cracking.

The healer exchanged a glance with Hale. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

Hale kneeled beside her brother, wrapping him in a tight embrace. “We’ll take care of him,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Two soldiers appeared, helping to carry Ryn from the arena, with Hale and the healer following close behind. Gabriel and Lakan moved to join them, but Hale turned, blocking their path.

“You must stay here,” she said, her voice firm. “The fights aren’t over.”

Lakan waved her away dismissively. “I don’t care about the fights.”

Hale’s eyes locked onto her brother’s. “Do it for Ryn.”

Lakan looked down at their unconscious friend, his fists clenching at his sides. Slowly, he nodded.

As Hale left, Lakan turned to Gabriel, his eyes hard with determination. “You’ll face Velar next. I want you to hurt him.”

Gabriel’s vision blurred with rage, his chest tightening as the familiar storm of anger swirled within him. His hand instinctively reached for the necklace beneath his tunic, the heavy symbol of his pain and purpose. It had become both a burden and a comfort, anchoring him to a past he wished to forget but couldn’t. He would carry it always—this weight of anger, this reminder of everything he had lost and everything he still had to do.

No matter how much he had changed on the outside, the young boy who despised violence, who hated power for power’s sake, was still there. And now, he would have to live with that truth. He would become what he despised, even if it meant hating himself for it.

Gabriel clenched his jaw. This wasn’t about him anymore. He had to do what needed to be done—not for himself, but for something far more important.