Resting his back against the arena's wall, Jon waited patiently for the rest of the fights to play out. The herald hadn’t been completely accurate when claiming that the one-on-one would be the second and last stage of the tourney. There was still the matter of draws.
Only two contestants were able to win all of their fights, one of which was precisely the raven-haired woman who beat Jon. That score placed them firmly into the top 25, so they didn't have to take part in any tiebreakers. Of the 23 spots left, 21 were occupied by those who had achieved six wins, the group where Jon found himself at.
That still left open the two last spots on the top 25, as well as all the other spots on the top 250. And so, Jon waited as the rest of the fights played out, contestants fighting tooth and nail for their last chance of getting into the academy.
Forming a line to his right were the twenty other participants who achieved six victories while to his left were the two who achieved seven. None of them paid much attention to the fights, their gazes instead being focused on the broad platform where the duke found himself at.
They had been like that for what felt like hours already. The waiting felt everlasting, which only served to make Jon more and more anxious. He was sure that he saw the duke and the other Olsandre man looking in his direction. Were they planning on disqualifying him? Maybe they never expected Jon to come this far and were now figuring out how to best dispose of him.
Would the duke declare Jon’s participation invalid and kick him out? Maybe even worse, maybe Jon would end up getting arrested, doomed to spend the rest of his life in some dark dungeon. He had no way of fighting back, no one to call upon for support. Any of the spellcasters who have officiated the tourney was fully capable of subduing him without breaking a sweat. An aeromancer would make him float helplessly in the air while a geomancer would bury him alive—
The sands under Jon’s feet began to move and his heart jumped to his throat.
Then came the cries of surprise as, to the left and right of him, the sand began to rise up, carrying the contestants upwards with them. The field now lay empty, the last fights having already come to an end.
To Jon’s right, the 247 other participants were in a single line. The last-placed contestant remained at ground level, the sands under her feet barely moving. As the line advanced, the sands inclined upward, forming a ramp that circled along the arena walls and came to a stop directly in front of the platform.
“Now that the results have been confirmed, we shall begin the accolade,” the herald declared.
Jon sighed in relief, letting out the breath he had been holding all this time. The whole waiting had been feeding into his imagination and allowing it to run wild. Under the armor, his clothes were sleek with cold sweat while his heart continued beating loudly. Somehow, standing around doing nothing left him more worked up than the fights themselves.
The duke, a robust-looking man with a sharp gaze, stood up from his seat. “First of all, I want to congratulate all of you for your performance in this tourney. Before me, I see 250 young, valiant souls who have won the privilege of studying in our prestigious academy. The same academy that has once housed not only myself, but also other great names such as Cayden Thrice Champion, Kane the Thaumaturge, and Heidi the Conqueror. Even after graduating, the lessons learned here will accompany you for the rest of your lives.”
After ending his speech and waiting for the applause to die down, the duke glanced to the herald at his side.
The herald looked down at the stack of papers in his wrinkled hands before calling out the first name. “Elina of Tarrin's Keep, come forth.”
First in line, the raven-haired woman walked up the ramp. If she felt any sort of anxiety at all, then she did a great job of hiding it. She came to a stop where the sand ramp met with the stone platform.
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The duke made a simple gesture with his hand, beckoning her.
Elina took three steps forward, coming to a stop at arm’s length from the duke before bowing her head deeply.
“Elina, do you swear to faithfully represent the academy’s values, history, and traditions?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“Do you swear to always uphold the interests of Somerford and its people?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“And do you swear to stand against those who wish harm on house Olsandre?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“Then, I accept you into the academy,” declared the duke, a slight smile on his face. Contrary to his expression, though, his hand flashed through the air, the palm of his hand slapping the woman across the face. It carried such force that even Jon felt it.
Elina swayed on the spot, almost stumbling to the side.
“This is the last blow you shall ever receive without offering a proper retaliation. From this moment forth, you're officially a knight-in-training under the Phoenix Academy. During the seven years of your training, during your whole life afterward, every single action you take shall reflect on the names of the academy, Somerford, and on the Olsandre house. Now raise your head.”
She did as told, on her face a bright red mark in the shape of a hand.
With the same hand that slapped her, the duke gestured to the right, towards an exit at the end of the platform. “Through there you’ll find a healer as well as attendants who will return to you any belongings you might have brought.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head again before walking towards the exit.
“Rory of Dryport, come forth,” the herald called the next name.
Meanwhile, Jon still had his mind on what he just witnessed. Was this how all the accolades went? While still squiring for Marleya, he once asked her about the ceremony itself but she told him to focus on his training instead. Better to worry about getting admitted, was the answer she gave.
While the advice was the right one, Jon now wondered if she wasn’t also trying to hide it from him. Not that knowing would have changed his decision to take part in the tourney. He was set on quickly improving his cultivation, after all, and a little bit of abuse was something he had grown accustomed to. But a heads-up would still have been appreciated.
After the second contestant went through the ceremony, the herald called the next name. “Jon of Rochdale.”
Fuck, Jon cursed in mind, not daring to even mumble it in fear of someone hearing. He walked up the ramp, coming to a stop before the stone platform where he then removed his helmet and held it under one arm.
Jon noticed various changes in emotions. From the herald who pursed his lips for a brief moment, to the various nobles farther back at the stands who began to whisper. Still sitting at his chair, the other Olsandre man, who Jon recognized as the duke’s uncle Lanard, had an amused look on his face.
The duke, for his part, displayed no change in emotion, instead simply beckoning him forth. With a head of red hair, green eyes, and a perfectly shaven face, the duke looked like a younger version of his uncle.
“Jon of Rochdale, do you swear to faithfully represent the academy’s values, history, and traditions?” the duke asked, starting the proceedings once again.
“I do, Your Grace,” Jon answered, his head still down. Eyes open, he kept the duke’s hands always in sight, preparing for the moment they moved. The punch you don’t see coming hurts the most. While not really a punch, he had no doubt that the duke’s slap carried more power than any boxer’s uppercut.
“Do you swear to always uphold the interests of Somerford and its people?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“And do you swear to stand against those who wish harm on house Olsandre?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“Then, I accept you into the academy.”
The duke’s hand moved in the blink of an eye. Jon responded by stiffening his neck and loosening his torso, hoping to roll along with the blow and so lessen the impact. Jon wasn’t sure if it made any difference or not because it still hurt like hell.
He felt the left side of his face burning while a ringing in his eardrum squelched all other sounds. It took him all of his strength to not stumble back.
“This is the last blow you shall ever receive without offering a proper retaliation. From this moment forth, you're officially a knight-in-training under the Phoenix Academy. During the seven years of your training, during your whole life afterward, every single action you take shall reflect on the names of the academy, Somerford, and on the Olsandre house. Now raise your head.”
Done with the ceremony, the duke directed Jon towards the exit.
Jon bowed again before walking away to the end of the platform. The pain on his face made it hard to smile, but not impossible. He had made it. He had finally made it. Now would begin a new chapter of his life.
He was now one step closer to making his mother's dream come true.