The air was thick with anticipation as the crowd settled into their seats, the noise of the arena growing quieter as all eyes turned toward the central platform of the arena. A figure stepped onto the wooden dais, his presence commanding immediate attention. The announcer, a man of unusual stature and appearance, was wrapped in a thick, fur-lined cloak of deep violet, his exposed skin etched with glowing tattoos that pulsed faintly in the cold air. His long, silver hair flowed down to his waist, and a pair of horns—more decorative than functional—curved elegantly from his forehead, marking him as one of the Frostkin, a humanoid race native to the northernmost regions of Vördrheim.

His voice boomed through the arena, magically amplified so that every word echoed off the frozen cliffs surrounding the vale.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Warriors and beasts alike! Welcome to the grand tournament of Vyrskeld’s Fury!” His voice was deep and resonant, carrying both the weight of tradition and the showmanship of a seasoned performer. “Today, we bear witness to legends in the making! Heroes will rise, and the weak shall fall! Prepare yourselves for a spectacle of blood, steel, and magic! Remember the rules: No killing, accidental murder can occur, but you will not be penalized! If an opponent gives up, the match is over! If they cannot fight anymore, then the match is over! May the best warriors win!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices a cacophony of excitement and bloodlust. The announcer raised a hand, calling for silence once more.

“And now, for our first bout! A young challenger, new to these lands, but filled with potential! A warrior whose sharp teeth and colorful armor have already earned him… interesting attention! Standing before you, he is “Xyenn the Clown!”

The crowd’s reaction was immediate—a mixture of laughter and jeers, and Xyenn scoffed, “Damn you all!”. The name was unfamiliar to them, and the sight of Xyenn—his armor a patchwork of vibrant colors, his youthful face barely masking his excitement—seemed to amuse them more than anything.

“Look at him! He thinks he can beat us all!” someone in the crowd shouted, followed by a chorus of mocking laughter.

“He’s a clown! A jester!” another voice jeered.

‘Ohhhh I hope I’m fighting them all!’

Xyenn stepped onto the platform, trying to maintain a calm composure, but he couldn’t help the grin that kept creeping onto his face. His heart pounded in his chest, his body tingling with excitement. He could feel the energy of the crowd, the anticipation in the air—it made him almost giddy. He kept smirking and trying to put it away, but the thrill of finally standing in an arena like this, after so many years of being denied, was almost overwhelming.

‘I really wish Yuuna was here with me. To experience this great moment.’

Xyenn was flustered at the thought, then thinking to himself:

‘I wonder how she’s doing, if she’s alright. For some reason I can feel she’s alive. I don’t know how to explain it. I know we’re connected now, so it’s obvious I probably would feel something, right? Can’t deny the fact that I wanna see her again. I’m not saying I miss her because it would sound super weird in my head. But I know I do anyway.’

Then out of nowhere he began to think about that night they had, when Yuuna was on top of him, sniffing and rubbing on him. Xyenn could feel his junk about to rise, so he hurried to switch his thoughts up as his face turned red, shaking his head.

‘Stupid hormones! Not here! Not right now! Go down! Go down!’

The announcer’s voice boomed again, cutting through the laughter. “And his opponent… a warrior whose name is known across all the continents of Kyrrin! A Rune Warden of unmatched skill, a veteran of King Haldrek’s quests, and a champion of every noble-sanctioned tournament in the land! I give you… Blake Gundor!”

A hush fell over the crowd, followed by a wave of cheers and applause. Blake Gundor stepped onto the platform, his armor gleaming in the cold light. His attire was a deep azure, the metal plates etched with intricate runes that glowed faintly with magical energy. His long, dark hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, and his smirk was as sharp as the blade at his side. He looked every bit the seasoned warrior, his confidence radiating from him like heat from a flame.

Blake raised a hand to the crowd, basking in their adulation. “I hope you brought more than just that ridiculous armor, boy,” he sneered, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Because I’ve fought gods, monsters, and men twice your size… and you don’t even look like you belong here.”

The crowd roared with approval, many of them shouting encouragements to Blake.

“Kill him, Blake! Show that brat what a real warrior looks like!”

“Send him back to the circus!”

‘Tch! Damn Kaelith, it’s his fault they’re mocking me. But I don’t care. Total face slapping incoming. I’ll show them I belong here now.’

Xyenn took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He could feel the weight of the crowd’s expectations, the disdain in their voices. He knew they didn’t take him seriously, but that only made his smile grow wider.

High above the arena, in the luxurious tower reserved for the noble elite, Lord Gorvhan Velmire sat in his plush chair, surrounded by attendants and maids. His corpulent frame was draped in rich furs and silks of burgundy and gold, his beady eyes peering down at the combatants with keen interest. His fingers, adorned with rings encrusted with gemstones, drummed on the arm of his chair as he watched the proceedings.

Velmire’s family, the House of Velmire, had long been associated with the organization of tournaments across the continents of Kyrrin. Their wealth and power had grown over generations, largely thanks to their connections with the rulers of Vördrheim and their monopoly on tournaments such as Vyrskeld’s Fury. Velmire himself was a shrewd and greedy man, always on the lookout for opportunities to increase his family’s influence.

His eyes lingered on Blake Gundor, and a small smile crept onto his face. “Ah, Blake Gundor. The pride of the Rune Wardens,” he muttered to himself. “He’s been to every tournament we’ve sanctioned… a fine warrior, indeed. I’ve heard stories—how he led his guild on King Haldrek’s most dangerous quests. They say he’s slain frost giants, wyverns, and even bested a dragonkin in single combat. Quite the reputation he’s built for himself.”

As Velmire’s gaze shifted to Xyenn, his smile faltered slightly. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I’ll be keeping an eye on this one.”

Meanwhile, in the stands, Skaris, Kaelith, Dreugan, and Ellyra watched the arena with interest, their eyes fixed on Xyenn.

Skaris snorted, leaning on his halberd. “The kid’s got guts, I’ll give him that. But he’s also got no idea what he’s walking into. Blake Gundor’s not just some random thug—he’s been killing guys like Xyenn for years.”

Ellyra chuckled, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “I’m more interested in where the kid’s from. He’s too… different to be some random kid who killed 50 bandits. And those teeth—“

Kaelith, ever the observer, nodded thoughtfully. “It’s possible. But he could also be a vessel. Those who are children of the draconic vessel do not inherit their powers or magic, only their features like eyes, teeth, etc. Xyenn has all those features, slit pupils and sharp teeth, but I can tell he’s strong. The look in his eyes is filled with bloodlust, the pacing of his heartbeat is fast like a dragons. I have him all figured out.”

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Dreugan grunted, his eyes narrowing as he watched Xyenn. “Whether he’s draconic or not, we’ll find out soon enough, isn’t that why we brought him to this tournament? To see the nature of his power? King Haldrek promised a bonus if we can inform him of what deity the draconic vessel is bound to. With the war brewing, King Haldrek’s ordered that anyone with draconic bloodlines or any vessels of draconic deities be hunted down and killed. If the kid’s one of them, he’s as good as dead. We’ve had too many damn abominations of war arrive in Vördrheim causing a ruckus, which put the hunters and adventurers on edge. We know Yuuna is responsible for most animals and beasts being super fucking chaotic whenever they get around anyone due to her opening hell

Itself years ago, but the draconic god of war himself is reshaping harmless beings into weapons of war. That bastard fears Haldrek.”

Skaris grinned, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Yeah This tournament might be the perfect way to figure out which deity he belongs to. And when we do… well, let’s just say I’m looking forward to the kill.”

Kaelith smirked, his eyes flicking to Xyenn. “He’s young. Naive. He came with us without even questioning why. But that might be his downfall.”

Ellyra said, “You mentioned you had him figured out. What did you mean?”

“Nothing. Let’s just enjoy the show shall we.”

“Aww, but I wanna fight in it.”

“You know we’re too strong. We’d kill someone. We’re not just his warriors.”

Druegan added, “We’re his executioners.”

The announcer raised his hands, signaling the start of the match. The crowd fell silent for a moment, tension crackling in the air like the calm before a storm.

“Fight!”

Blake Gundor smirked, drawing a long, thin blade from his side. The runes etched along its length flared to life, glowing with a fierce red light. “This won’t take long,” he said, his voice filled with confidence. “These runes? They’ve been passed down through my family for generations. They’re imbued with the power of ancient magic—speed, strength, and fire. You won’t even be able to touch me, brat.”

With that, Blake’s body blurred, moving at an impossible speed. He dashed around the arena, his movements a whirlwind of flashing steel and glowing runes. He circled Xyenn like a predator toying with its prey, the crowd cheering him on.

“Too slow!” Blake taunted, his voice echoing from all directions. “Come on, brat! Try and keep up!”

Xyenn stood in the center of the platform, unmoving. His hands were relaxed at his sides, his head slightly tilted as he watched Blake dart around him. He tried to hold back his smile, but it kept creeping onto his face. The energy of the crowd, the excitement, the memories of all the times he had been rejected from tournaments because he didn’t possess draconic mana—it all bubbled up inside him.

And then it happened. He couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Xyenn burst out laughing.

It started as a chuckle, but quickly grew into full-blown, uncontrollable laughter. His shoulders shook, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he clutched his sides, doubling over with laughter.

“I’m really moving up in the world!” Xyenn exclaimed between gasps of breath, his voice filled with genuine amusement.

The crowd fell silent, their cheers fading into confused murmurs. Blake stopped dashing, glaring at Xyenn with a look of utter disbelief.

“What the hell are you laughing at?” Blake demanded, his voice harsh. “You think this is a joke?”

Xyenn wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. “No, no… it’s just… I can’t believe it. All those years I couldn’t even enter a tournament… and now here I am. I’m fighting the famous Blake Gundor, and I’m laughing because… because it’s just so damn funny!”

Blake’s face twisted with fury. He felt mocked, humiliated in front of the entire arena. “You little brat! I’ll wipe that smile off your face!”

The red runes along Blake’s arm flared brightly, and his hand morphed into a grotesque blade of burning red energy. The spirit of a massive, flaming bull appeared behind him, its form crackling with fiery power as it charged forward, matching Blake’s speed as he lunged at Xyenn.

The crowd roared, rising to their feet as Blake closed in, his blade aimed straight for Xyenn’s heart.

But in the blink of an eye, Xyenn was gone.

Before anyone could register what had happened, Xyenn appeared behind Blake, his fist hurtling toward the back of Blake’s head with blinding speed. The impact was so sudden, so powerful, that Blake’s body jerked forward violently, his head snapping back as he was sent sprawling.

Then, just as quickly, Xyenn was in front of him, his fist connecting with Blake’s face in a devastating uppercut. The force of the blow was so immense that it sent Blake rocketing into the sky, his body hurtling upward as the entire platform beneath them exploded into splinters, the shockwave sending debris and snow flying in all directions.

For a moment, the entire arena was silent.

All eyes were on Xyenn, who stood in the center of the destruction, a wide grin on his face. The wind howled through the open arena, but no one spoke.

The silence was deafening.

High above the chaos unfolding in the arena, Lord Gorvhan Velmire* reclined in his cushioned chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the ornate armrests. His greedy eyes were still locked on Xyenn, a glint of intrigue flickering in their depths. The shock of the crowd below was palpable, but Velmire seemed more intrigued than shaken.

One of his maids, a young woman with wide, curious eyes, stood behind him, her hands working over his shoulders in a soft massage. She hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “My lord, that boy… he seems different from the others. Have you ever seen someone so… unhinged in these tournaments?”

Velmire sighed, leaning back further into his chair as he motioned for another maid to refill his goblet of wine. “Unhinged, you say?” He chuckled darkly, taking a slow sip from the goblet. “Perhaps. But madness, my dear, often runs hand-in-hand with power.”

He cast a glance at the maid, his piggish eyes gleaming with amusement. “Draconic bloodlines aren’t new to these tournaments. My family has run these events for centuries, long before most of these fools were even born. We’ve had dragonkin, half-bloods, even vessels of the draconic gods themselves set foot in our arenas. But this boy?” He paused, looking back down at the battlefield, where Xyenn still stood among the wreckage of the platform. “There’s something more dangerous about him. Something… unpredictable.”

The maid’s hands faltered for a moment as she glanced nervously at her lord. “Do you think he’s a vessel, my lord? Or perhaps something else?”

Velmire chuckled again, his large belly shaking beneath his furs. “Vessel or not, it matters little right now. But I’ll tell you this: he’s unlike any of the others we’ve seen. Most of the draconic bloodlines that have passed through our tournaments were either arrogant or burdened by the weight of their lineage. They were either fueled by vengeance or honor, desperate to prove something to their godlike ancestors. But this Xyenn?” He shook his head, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He seems… detached. Almost like he’s enjoying this too much.”

Another maid, standing nearby, dared to ask, “But my lord, didn’t your house once host a tournament where a dragon vessel fought? I’ve heard stories about the power they possess. Is this boy really so different?”

Velmire’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Ah, yes. You’re referring to the Tournament of the Crimson Scales, where Valthorax, the vessel of the draconic deity of rot, Gorgryth, fought. That one nearly burned half the arena to the ground. Yes, we’ve hosted many vessels, and their power is immense. But Xyenn… he’s different. He doesn’t carry himself like a vessel. Valthorax was burdened by his god’s will, driven by purpose. This boy? He fights like a man without chains. Like someone who isn’t here to serve a higher power… but to revel in his own. Something darker.”

Velmire leaned forward slightly, his eyes still fixed on Xyenn. “And that, my dear, makes him far more dangerous.”

The first maid, her hands still working over his shoulders, hesitated for a moment before asking, “But my lord, your family… they’ve always had a hand in controlling these events, haven’t they? Surely, you’ve dealt with dangerous fighters before.”

Velmire grinned, his teeth yellowed from years of indulgence. “Of course. The House of Velmire has been a pillar of nobility in Vördrheim for generations. It was my ancestors who first brought the concept of these tournaments to the continent. They recognized that the common folk needed spectacle, and the rulers needed warriors. We’ve provided both. And due to the upcoming war, the king uses us to seek out potential abominations of war, dragon-kin, or draconic god vessels.”

He paused, savoring another sip of wine before continuing. “But our influence extends far beyond Vördrheim. Our family’s reach crosses the seas, to the southern kingdoms, the desert realms of Othre, and even the western isles of Kyrrin. Every tournament we’ve sanctioned has brought wealth and power to our name. Bloodlines have clashed, kingdoms have risen and fallen, all under the watchful eye of House Velmire.”

His eyes darkened slightly as he continued. “We’ve seen many warriors fall in these arenas, from those claiming to be the offspring of dragons to those wielding the powers of gods. And yet, none have looked quite so… unchained as this boy.”

The second maid, emboldened by her master’s musings, asked quietly, “Do you think he’s a threat to your house, my lord?”

Velmire chuckled softly, shaking his head. “A threat? No, not yet. But he’s certainly one to watch. He’s got the aura of someone who doesn’t fear consequences, and that makes him unpredictable. But… if he survives this tournament, perhaps we’ll find a way to turn that unpredictability into something useful.”

He leaned back again, his fingers idly stroking the fur draped across his chest. “In the end, it’s all a game. Just a damn game. I’m only hosting this because Haldrek is paying me good coin. And the house of Velmire could easily earn a higher rep being associated with a king for the first time in hundreds of years.”

‘I’m supposed to immediately report to the king if there is a vessel or dragonkin in my tournament. But I see the king's executioners are out there, nothing else I can do. They’ll kill him. What are they waiting for? I hope these battle hungry fiends don’t kill him in the middle of the tournament, he’s bringing in all the attention my family has been looking for.’

As the dust settled, the crowd was still in stunned silence, jaws slack, eyes wide as they stared at the shattered remains of the arena. Blake Gundor lay somewhere in the wreckage, unconscious, while Xyenn stood in the middle of the chaos, grinning like a madman. The wind tousled his hair as he took in the moment.

And then, like a dam breaking, the fighters who had once mocked him suddenly surged toward him, their attitudes completely reversed. They gathered around Xyenn, their eyes glinting with admiration, desperation, and sycophantic glee.

“Hey, Xyenn, that was amazing!”

“You’ve got to teach me how you did that, man!”

“I always knew you had it in you!”

Xyenn stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, striking a dramatic, over-the-top pose like some kind of hero from a cheesy adventure story. His colorful armor gleamed in the cold light, and he puffed out his chest proudly. For a moment, he basked in their praise, soaking in the attention like a sponge.

But then, with an exaggerated flick of his hand, he pointed at one of the sycophants.

“Fake!” he shouted.

The man blinked in confusion, stepping back.

Xyenn turned, pointing at another with a dramatic flourish. “Fake!” he repeated, his voice rising with mock indignation.

“Hey, wait—”

“Fake!” Xyenn spun, pointing at yet another fighter, his eyes narrowing in mock accusation.

The crowd around him grew increasingly baffled as Xyenn continued his performance, pointing at random individuals, his tone dripping with malice. “Fake! Fake! Fake! Fake!”

Each time he said it, the fighters shrank back, their sudden admiration wilting under the weight of Xyenn’s playful accusations.

Finally, he threw his hands up in the air, shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief. “Now you all wanna be nice to me, huh? After all that laughing? Tch! FAKE!”

The group of fighters exchanged awkward glances, some scratching their heads, unsure how to respond. Xyenn, still grinning, gave a mock bow, then casually strolled off, leaving the befuddled crowd in his wake, content to let them stew in their newfound confusion.

As he walked away, he muttered under his breath, loud enough for them to hear, “Bunch of clowns…”