The preliminary rounds to decide who would make it to the grand arena, located very close to the king’s castle, would commence in a week.

Lucian did not know what had caused a change in heart for Haymond, but he appreciated it.

“Go ahead, and embarrass yourself,” Haymond said. “I cannot believe I agreed to tarnish my guild’s name.”

Despite all the harsh words and grunts he gave Lucian, riding back in a fancy carriage, more coins were given to him to stay at any inn he chose before the start of the tournament. Right dab in the middle of the streets, he dropped Lucian off. Mortis tagged along, continuing to advise him on whatever he wanted to learn. Near a large door, which read, “Training Quarters,” an Inn sat adjacent to it. With a carved snake running across the name “Andros’s Inn,” it was one of the more mediocre ones that operated in the city, according to Mortis. People mainly stayed here due to it being right next to the training quarters.

The inn was not the largest inside, but not as small as he would have thought, given Mortis’ description. The lobby and the cafeteria were one and the same. Tables were lined with food, and residents sat and ate.

"Welcome, traveler," greeted the innkeeper, a stout man with a friendly demeanor. "What can I do for you on this fine day?"

"I'm looking for a room for the night," Lucian replied, trying to hide his nerves behind a polite smile.

“How many nights?” the innkeeper asked.

“Not sure, but I will pay for however many I stay,” Lucian assured.

The innkeeper nodded understandingly and led Lucian to a cozy room on the second floor, furnished with a sturdy bed and a small writing desk. It was simple but comfortable, a welcome haven after a long day of travel. He wanted to just drown in the sheets and rest his eyes, but it was still quite early in the day.

Lucian headed downstairs, hoping to eat something before he headed out again, exploring with Mortis, who, coincidentally, he found out, worked as a cook from time to time at the inn. The innkeeper had scolded him for missing some shifts after he spotted Mortis hiding behind Lucian at the counter.

The food he ordered was simple. It was one of the only things that he could understand, chicken and rice.

Now there's a food that transcends both worlds and time.

By the time the plate arrived, Lucian found himself seated next to a very loud group of residents. They appeared more than just the average people he had seen. Three women, four men, and one individual hooded. The men were clad in silver metallic armor. Next to them, different shaped helmets sat tableside. The women were dressed similarly but with thinner armor. Some of their weapons were hipside, while others had it mounted on their back. Fighters.

No doubt about it in Lucian’s mind. He could make out some of the things they were saying, like “Can’t wait,” or “You’re the worst of us,” and snarky replies like, “Am not!”

Likely, they were here for the tournament, or one of the many tournaments.

“Your food, Lord,” Lucian heard.

“Mortis?” He realized the one bringing his food over was Mortis, who had been punished by extra duty.

“Eat up, Lord. I have personally prepared it for you,” he smirked. “You ought to be fed with the best, and by the best before the tournament.”

Lucian laughed and took the plate from Mortis, and began to eat with the wooden spoon that came with it.

“Tournament, eh?” a husky voice asked. “This happen to be the glory one?”

Lucian eyeballed to the side, where a square jawed man, cleanly shaven, and parted hair, gazed at him. He was a part of the group that he knew were fighters.

“Yes,” Lucian answered.

“What a coincidence!” a girl, orange-haired, freckled, and having a fake smile on her lips said. “We are too.”

Lucian nodded, and replied with a smile, though not as fake as hers.

“Who are you representing?” she asked, everyone shifting their head sideways to watch him.

“Er … Lord Haymond,” he replied.

Lucian saw puffed up cheeks of some of them, containing their laughter. The girl with the red hair nudged them hard with her shoulders, and responded, “Lord Haymond! What a surprise. He had never been one for these things, being busy with dancers and whatnot.”

Was that supposed to be an insult?

“We fight for Lord Kasper, the right hand of the king,” she boasted.

She was definitely boasting now. The girl went on about how they almost won it four years ago had it not been for others cheating. The man had to calm her down as she was visibly getting angry talking about it. Once she had finished, he turned to Lucian.

“We will be seeing you in the prelims then, I assume?” the man asked.

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“Yes.”

“My name is Guilford,” he said.

“And I’m Genny,” the red-haired girl chimed in.

“Ruferd,” another said.

“Laila,”

“Masandra,”

“Don,”

“Eryk,” the last person said, following all the others in introducing himself. “Oh and that over there is Bort. He’s a little shy,” Eryk finished, pointing to the cloaked figure sitting next to them.

“Nice to meet you all,” Lucian politely commented.

Some of them stood up and excused themselves. Guilford and Genny stayed behind, along with Bort.

“The group’s just going out now to the training quarters. Most of the sparring goes on at this time,” he said, putting his arms around Lucian. “You wanna come?”

“You can bring every member of Lord Haymond's group,” Genny added.

Lucian informed them that he would join them a bit later, and thanked them for their kindness. The trio left waving. There was a definite arrogance to them, but the group was not altogether bad. After all, he had seen worse. Much worse.

Finishing his plate, Lucian took a little walk around the streets, just by himself. He needed to familiarize himself with these streets if he were to ever get lost. Every street leading up to the inn was walked thrice, and he kept memory of specific things to help. One of them was a giant bulletin board, posted near a corner. In it, there were help wanted requests, missing people notices, and in the center, a massive sheet of paper, pinned that read, “Rules of the Tournament of Glory.”

The main rules he understood from the whole set were: a one-on-one duel until one surrenders or demands a fight to the death, no weapons can be used that are not disclosed, and absolutely no help from anyone at all, even “familiars.” He was not quite sure about the last rule, but it appeared to be straightforward.

After Lucian had thoroughly engrained the streets into his brain, he approached the training quarters and opened the door. He went back out again, and inside, and then out.

What the hell? What is going on? Am I tripping balls, or is this …

The outside was a giant door, with an average-sized frame to the building. Inside was the complete opposite. It was almost sky-high, the ceiling. The room stretched wider than Haymond’s estate! A lone guard, yawning and reading a book rolled his eyes at Lucian, while he kept coming in and out.

“You, country bumpkin!” he yelled. “Stop that, it’s just magic,” he said, sighing.

Lucian nervously laughed and told him that he was there to train.

“Weapons,” he requested, extending his hands.

“Pardon?”

“No weapons are permitted inside the train quarters. All weapons are provided for you,” he said.

Lucian did not want to part from his weapons, but he gave them to the guard. Killing those pirates, and the Nosferatu was not enough to convince him that he was strong. After all, those three men, the royal legionnaires in the ship, were much stronger.

The space was divided into many parts, each marked by a flag of a different color, and symbol, to signify what group was training in the area. There were so many of them, and all of them seemed to be heavily engaged in training. Lucian felt like an outsider, knowing that Haymond had none.

“You hoo! Lucian!” someone shouted.

He followed the sound of the voice, and saw, behind two rows of flags, Genny, Guilford, and the rest of their squad. Their flag was an orange triangular-shaped one that had the symbol of a robin in it.

“You finally made it,” Guilford said, running up to him, out of breath.

“But where’s the rest of the team, Lucian?” Eryk inquired from a bench, sitting down and wiping his sweat.

“This is it. I am the whole team,” Lucian announced.

It had taken them a while to take his words seriously. When they had, none of them could believe it and told him that they felt for him. Genny said that Haymond set him up for failure, but she believed in him.

Another lie.

Haymond could have enlisted more people to join the group, and represent him, but why should he? The only reason he even agreed to do this was because of Lucian, and for that he was grateful.

Lucian picked out the sword. Though it was not quite like his longblade in terms of thickness, the wooden sword was around the same length. They wanted to “help” him prepare, and thus matched him with Don, their youngest. The space cleared, and only Lucian and Don stood across each other, ready to engage. Everyone stood in anticipation.

He observed Don before he stood across. Don wielded a sword, just like him. In fact, it was the exact same sword. He was not a big man, nor a small one. He was blain buck average.

“Begin!”

Lucian gripped his wooden sword tightly as Don charged towards him like a jaguar, deliberate and precise. Despite his average build, there was strength to Don's motions that spoke of years of training and experience.

As Don closed the distance between them, Lucian swung his sword in a wide arc, aiming for his opponent's midsection. But Don was already one step ahead, effortlessly sidestepping the blow with a graceful agility that left Lucian momentarily off-balance.

Before he could recover, Don countered with a series of rapid strikes, each one landing with pinpoint accuracy against Lucian's defenses. With every clash of wood against wood, Lucian could feel himself being pushed back, his arms straining under the force of Don's relentless assault.

Desperately, Lucian tried to adapt his strategy, shifting his stance and varying the timing of his attacks in an effort to catch Don off-guard. But it was no use – Don seemed to anticipate his every move, effortlessly parrying each strike with a calm and collected demeanor that belied the intensity of the duel.

With each passing moment, Lucian could feel his frustration growing. He knew he was outmatched, but he refused to give up without a fight. He could tell that despite it all, he was still quicker and stronger than him. Summoning every ounce of determination he possessed, he redoubled his efforts, launching a flurry of blows in a last-ditch attempt to turn the tide of the battle.

But Don was relentless, his movements a blur of speed and precision as he expertly countered each of Lucian's attacks with ease. Slowly but surely, he began to wear down Lucian's defenses, driving him back with a relentless onslaught that left him gasping for breath.

He was more tired than he was after killing the Nosferatu. Was it his longblade that stopped this exhaustion?

In the end, it was clear that Don was the superior swordsman. Despite Lucian's best efforts, he simply couldn't match his opponent's skill and finesse. With a final, decisive blow, Don knocked Lucian's sword from his hand, leaving him defenseless and defeated.

This would not be the only one he suffered that day. Every single member had bested him, with a variety of weapons. Some of them even took the sword on to give him a better chance. At day’s end, when all the training had been finished, Lucian sat on the floors of the sparring grounds. He did not take himself to be a competitive person, but this feeling. He hated it. Weakness. His longblade was the reason now, he was sure of it. The false sense of power had almost tricked him into thinking he could win the tournament as he was. No, he needed to be better. Stronger than anyone, quicker than anyone, smarter than anyone, hungrier than anyone.

“That’s what I like to see,” Guilford told him, watching him lay on the ground. “The fire burns in your eyes.”