“Look up, in the highest level of the pavilion, you can see her drapings.”

“Is that the Mistress of Rolling Silk?”

“I can’t see from here!”

Cutting through the loud chatter of the many scions, heirs, wealthy families, elders, high-ranking soldiers, and other renowned figures, the raspy death throes of a young man sounded throughout the Autumn Wreath Pavillion.

And cheers pierced all their ears as their attention shifted to the many battles at the center…

The Ordinaries fought first in the tourney before all the exalted warriors of the Ordeals began their battles.

In the past, only death matches were displayed, but in recent years as the war approached, they couldn’t waste any Path Finders.

But such reprimands didn’t apply to Ordinaries no matter how talented, prospective, or which family they hailed from.

So although they were once the most overlooked day of matches, the audience now roared in delight at the madness unveiled upon the stone stage that wouldn’t happen in the following days as the Path Finders fought.

Osias was waiting inside a vast branch of the main pavilion along with all the other Ordinary competitors… hundreds that would eventually dwindle to a single one.

They were all divided — everyone lingering around their own small corner with their attendants if they had some. From military families to martial schools, their origins were all varied.

But Osias was the most out-of-place Ordinary here.

He was accompanied by tens of lower courtesans — the little flowers of the House of Silk who served under his Mistress.

With their attention, He looked nothing like the war prisoner of another country. Mistress Seol provided him some gifts the Ordinary representative of her House — a deep and fine blue martial robe and a gallantly large curved saber.

Tall as he normally was, but much more lithe and ghastly, he looked like one of the elegant swordsmen under a grand family.

From his right, another of the courtesans came right beside his ear and said softly:

“The Mistress wishes you luck, Visalros. And she also said…” Her words trailed off hesitantly, but relented when Osias turned to face her and added, “She hopes to see more of your pained face.”

Osias grimaced and scowled at the words but before he could say anything, one of the Second Ordeal guards that oversaw the many Ordinaries called for him.

“Visalros and Rickard.” A low voice huffed out.

“At the first platform closest to where the Mistress is, where the attendants are cleaning where the last competitors fought.”

Osias nodded, stepping to his feet with a groan, and waved aside his many attendants as they yelped in surprise.

He came to his large dresser where his barbarically fashioned saber rested and he brought it to his back.

“Such a blade?”

“I thought that was a spare taken from the soldier’s armory… the like to cut down the beast mounts of the Red Feathers.”

Osias disregarded the many whispers as he brushed past the guard and eyed down his first opponent.

It was a stout and round bellied man… it reminded Osias of Nico if his stomach was as large as the armor that covered it.

This competitor used a great hammer… an odd pairing, but Osias didn't care.

With a scoff he emerged from the warrior's quarter and into the ever-shimmering light that illuminated the city in gold and narrowed his eyes.

Above the many extravagant floors of the Autumn Wreath Pavilion, Osias caught a glimpse of his Mistress's flowing lines of silk that covered her entirely.

‘Pained face…’ He recalled with a dark scowl.

He hurried to the first raised stone platform and got to his end, facing the pavilion from below.

Although many cries sounded from the other platforms, Osias could hear the many murmurs and chatter among the onlookers.

“Is that the Rolling Silk Mistress's pet?”

“He looks too thin to wield such a… saber.”

Osias shook his head and poised himself, raising his absurdly large saber to his shoulder in just one hand.

His opponent reciprocated, simply bringing his hammer over their own shoulder.

“Uncomfortable…” Osias said quietly, but he saw his opponent's helmet slightly lift as he said it.

“I'd worry about not dying before my hammer, you plaything.”

Osias glared at the stout man… Rickard.

In his free hand, he tore the silk drapings that the attendants took so long to dress and fit him into. With that… some of the crowd whispered amongst themselves as they witnessed his appearance below the extravagance.

Before he could even make out what they wete saying, the soft bell chimed, and their battle began.

Withiut hesition, Osias lowered himself and dashed towards his greatly armorred opponenent ferally with the tip of his saber dragging across the rough stone below.

He sometimes brought a hand below to keep himself just above the ground as though he were a rabid dog.

“Insolent!” Rickard yelled from his helm and swung downwards with both hands the moment Osias came into the distance with his hammer.

But Osias felt like the man was impossibly slow… his essence control was likely inefficient, clouded, and wild as Osias’s demeanor.

Ans though Osias rashly approached, he feared nothing, trusting his experience and himself.

Simply bringing his saber to gracefully meet the shaft of the man's hammer, Osias parried the blow as it trucked deeply into the stone below with a thunderous crash.

Without another word, Osias kicked the man away, releasing their grip on the hammer as they stammered, not knowing what to do.

Osias chased the staggered competitor and battered his saber deep into the joint of their knee in a wicked arc.

Severing everything below their right knee as they pooled at blood, Osias watched as the stout Rickard tried to hobble away from the platform, leaving a trail of blood as Osias slowly walked towards him.

His saber made an eerie and rough noise as its weight was dragged along the platform, trailing the line of blood leaving Rickard's leg.

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Suddenly, Osias felt the attention of many powerful Path Finders all lined against him at once as something unnatural began to occur.

From the tip of the saber, the trail of blood was… flowing upwards through the blade and past the hilt into Osias’s hand.

Immense intrigue plagued the crowd as cheers and shouts sounded, dampening the loud pants and wails of Rickard who tripped over his own leg.

Rickard turned over and brought two hands to wave off Osias in a desperate plea.

“Plea—”

In the next moment, Osias's tall frame disappeared from the weakenening sight of Rickard… and suddenly he felt as though the sky itself collapsed onto his torso.

Osias lept and slammed both his feet into Rickard’so chest, crumpling into his armor.

He threw his saber aside and tore off the fragmented chest peice and eventually the helm of Rickard, disregarding what weak words were being spouted.

‘My nails… they've grown long again. I wonder if Myra could cut them again.’ He thought, his mind in an entirely other place from this morbid scene.

Osias didn't stop one the broken apart was stripped apart. Deeper and deeper, Osias clawed into the chest and tore apart flesh and bone. He gripped an odd bone and broke it off, exposing where Rickard's heart was before he grabbed it. Alas, he was too rough and it turned into a mess in his hand.

‘Heh, it's like that time she said I was too rough with the kneading the dough.’

Rickard was long dead by this point and his kicks and struggles below Osias stopped coming.

Climbing back to his feet, Osias looked up and took a deep breath as the metallic tang in the air brought his mind to reality once more. He disregarded the many differing emotions in the audience — the disgust shown on the faces of some, while others showed a mad excitement at his display and everything in between.

And from atop the highest level of the Autumn Wreath Pavilion… in a storm of silk, his Mistress was leaning over the fine balcony, her face was half exposed as her veil was lowered just atop the bridge of her nose.

The crowd quieted down and even the competitors stopped their fighting to catch a glimpse of her pearly eyes.

“I bring you all… my warrior—my champion, Visalros!” She said proudly.

Osias scoffed, breaking the silence by throwing the bloody mess he held toward his Mistress in an arc, landing right atop the balcony alongside her.

Suddenly Mistress Seol began to laugh softly and turned around to enter the pavilion once more, yet Osias could hear it already and he was sure the onlookers could as well.

Turning around without another word, Osias headed for the warrior's quarter once more as he awaited his next fight. Glancing behind him, he found exasperation strewn on the attendants tasked with swiftly cleaning the platforms between matches.

He apologized to him below his breath, but more importantly, Osias’s eyes caught the two people he needed to find in this tourney — the Black Warden and his daughter.

Making sure to not have his gaze linger too long, Osias began to pull together a scheme if he couldn’t rely on the other armies of the Red Feathers to siege this city.

Chaos… if it wouldn’t happen on its own, he’ll sow it himself.

—

“Visalros and Creman.”

Just about an hour later, he was called up once more.

Osias once more gently pushed aside his attendants and emerged from the warrior quarters and faced his opponent… but like his last one, this Creman wasn’t special.

He didn’t hear the entire background of the Ordinary Creman, but it was something about a line of swordsmen who served the army.

But Creman met an untimely and brutal end as Osias deeply caved the man’s helm with a stomp.

“Visalros and Herin.”

“Visalros and Jeraha.”

“Visalros and Mosen.”

What was hundreds of competitors eventually dwindled to just four in a few rounds. And although the difficulty has been gradually increasing for Osias… he still felt as though they weren’t a match for him.

The moment his saber hit true and they felt an overwhelming amount of blood pour out, their minds were riled.

Whenever Osias’s blows could crumple their Ordinary armor, they were staggered in hesitation.

When doubt plagues their minds, Osias walks them down.

Though Osias did see someone interesting, eyeing down the far other corner of the warrior’s quarter there was someone who felt… dangerous, even for him.

In this these large quarters once bustling with competitors and attendants was now desolate, empty of the many Ordinary prospects. Osias was one of the few enigmas who didn’t mind to kill their competition without another thought, something he came to learn as many powerful families do not wish for their talents to die so early.

So when Osias cut down Mosen just as he mouthed the words to surrender, he heard piercing screams somewhere from his left. Second Ordeal guards under the House of Silk rushed out to quell the yelling, and even Mistress Seol said a word from atop her pavilion.

‘...More, I need more.”

The Black Warden’s presence as part of the audience was something Osias couldn’t ignore. The pull was intense, calling him towards the warden. To kill him, gut him down, behead him into a mess of blood as his daughter watched.

Osias narrowed his eyes and shook his head, if the walls that enclosed the quiet warrior's chamber were made of glass, he’d be staring daggers at the Black Warden.

Averting his gaze, he focused his attention once more at the particularly strong Ordinary. No more than just a single attendant, the Ordinary was called Surtil.

And Surtil, like Osias… possessed an Innate Ability.

Surtil was the pride of his family — his father was the Golden Duskveil General. The Third Ordeal that beheaded Geral and Erdma before Osias’s eyes. The same one that spared him that day.

…As Osias studied the other two competitors, he knew that there was no one capable enough to meet both himself and Surtil in the finale. The pride of the military and the champion of the courtesans.

Osias could laugh at how different they were. Yet it was fitting in a sense… the general’s son can finish his father’s execution today.

“Visalros and Pierce.”

Nodding to the Second Ordeal guard, Osias got up and once more dragged himself out to fight.

“Merkel and Surtil.”

Raising a slight eyebrow as he walked out, Osias wondered why they wouldn’t have one match at a time.

However as he emerged from the entrance of the warrior quarters, instead of a dozen raised stone platforms, two vast platforms of the same style were set aside from each other.

‘Ordeal Ability…’ He noted.

Walking over the the platform on his right, he came to his end as his opponent, Pierce, awaited him at their end.

Inhaling deeply, Osias studied the young man named Pierce. A long staff of an unnatural snow-white, as though it was made from the very pristine stone of the walls that enclosed the city’s palace, Pierce looked beyond his years. Draped in loose and aged garbs of blue and gold, ivory wrist and leg wraps, and a headband of gold wrapped tightly around his head, Pierce exuded elegance.

Even his weapon choice looked to be reflective of mercy and sport instead of death.

“Truly a foreigner indeed,” A smooth voice left Pierce's mouth.

“It’s quite the mystery.” Pierce then said from across the stone stage. He paced slowly around the edge with his regal and hearty staff before adding in a curious tone, “We look to be of the same age, though you may be older. Though for anyone else, they’d find it difficult to see past that dirt, hair, scowl, and most notably… that bloodlust. Instead of an older man, they’d call you a monster instead.”

Looking up towards the Autumn Wreath Pavilion, Pierce continued:

“I wonder… What sort of conviction would warrant such strength? My master has told me I am lacking.”

Osias awaited for his platform’s bell to chime, uneager to exchange words with the strange Pierce.

“Not responding? I heard you talk a lot to the guards…” Pierce said, bringing a hand to scratch behind his ears.

In the next moment, a bell chimed and the audience clamored in response, but it was the bell for the other platform to begin — not Osias’s.

Pierce and Osias looked towards the two who were fighting, yet even from the very first moment, they both knew that the opponent named Merkel stood no chance against Surtil.

A whistle sounded from Pierce as he added:

“That Surtil… I should ask him later. He talks more than you.”

“Later? Are you so sure you would survive?” Osias cut back, breaking his silence.

“Ah, so you do talk,” Pierce said with a smile. “But indeed, I do believe I will walk out of this platform alive and well. But before I do, I wish you could provide an answer to my question.”

Osias paused, accepting that the bell had oddly not chimed.

“To live untethered from the whims of the others.”

Pierce narrowed his eyes and eerily smiled, “I see, I see. Perhaps it is fitting…”

Meeting Osias’s eyes, Pierce continued:

“Grief and rage lay untold,

I saw kindness repaid with cold.

Oh, the world, the dream smeared in dread,

Let the world bleed as the sky turns red.”

Osias’s eyes raised uncannily as he heard the poem Pierce sang, before scowling deeply and tightening his saber to tightly his sunken hands turned paler than usual.

But before he could raise his question, the bell for their platform chimed melodiously.

“I concede,” Pierce said, having already left the platform.

The audience roared at Pierce’s refusal to fight, but Osias stayed still. He was confused, shocked, and frustrated at what Pierce hinted at.

He wanted to dash towards the disembarked Pierce to ask more, but just as he lifted his foot in that direction, he felt his chest pull taut and a cold shiver ran down his back… and then he heard an unsettling voice sound intrude in his mind:

“Why so eager to chase the defeated, Osias of the Red Sky?”