The morning air outside the estate was crisp, carrying the faint murmur of the capital already stirring awake for the next stage of the tournament. Carriages rumbled distantly, hawkers raised their voices, but at the gates of the Torvares residence it was quiet.

Ludger stood there, dressed simply—plain traveling clothes, his worn shin and forearm guards strapped into place. They weren’t flashy, but they were practical, reliable, the same ones he’d trained in countless times. He adjusted them absently while waiting, glancing back toward the manor. Viola was still upstairs, no doubt parading through every ribbon in her trunk before declaring herself “ready.”

The heavy front doors creaked open behind him. Lord Torvares emerged, cane in hand, his expression as severe as ever. His presence cut through the morning stillness like a blade.

“Ludger,” the old lord said, his voice carrying easily across the yard. “Walk with me.”

They moved a few paces beyond the gates, standing where the early sunlight caught the stones. Lord Torvares regarded him for a long, heavy moment before finally speaking.

“I owe you thanks.”

Ludger raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For accepting the burden.” The old man’s eyes were sharp, weighing him. “You didn’t have to step into this mess. Yet you did. For her.”

Ludger gave a half-shrug. “Well… it would be better than to return home empty-handed.”

Lord Torvares’ gaze lingered, then he motioned with his cane. From behind the gate, a servant stepped forward, carrying a bundle wrapped in dark cloth. With precise care, the servant unwrapped it, revealing polished armor pieces—armguards and shin guards of gleaming silver with crimson inlays. Each piece bore the Torvares emblem, etched deep and proud.

Even from a distance, Ludger could tell: they weren’t ordinary. The weight of craft alone screamed fortune, and the faint shimmer along the edges suggested enchantment.

“For you,” Lord Torvares said.

Ludger blinked, staring at the set. “…Those cost more than everything I own.”

“They cost what they must.” The old lord’s voice was iron. “And they carry more than protection. They carry the Torvares name.”

Ludger frowned, crossing his arms. “Which brings me to the obvious problem. Why should I wear something like that when I’m not a Torvares? Isn’t that false advertising?”

Lord Torvares’ eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but in assessment, like a man deciding how much truth to weigh out.

“You’re not blood of my line,” he said slowly. “But in this tournament, standing beside Viola, you will be seen as such. Every strike, every defense you make in that arena will echo on our name. If you protect her with strength, it will be the family’s strength. If you fall, it will be our shame.”

He leaned on his cane, gaze sharp as a hawk. “That is why I give you these. Not as a family. Not as heir. But as one I trust to carry the weight of my house for as long as you fight.”

Ludger looked at the gleaming armor again, lips pressing into a thin line. So, no pressure then. Just the weight of an entire noble name. Perfect.

He exhaled through his nose, meeting the old man’s eyes. “…I’ll hear the rest of your conditions before I put them on.”

Lord Torvares’ mouth curved, not into a smile, but something close—a recognition of steel meeting steel.

Lord Torvares’ cane tapped once against the stone, the sound crisp and deliberate. His eyes bore into Ludger like they were testing for cracks.

“Then I will be plain,” the old lord said. “My expectation is simple: keep her standing. Whether she burns too bright or stumbles in her pride, you will steady her. If her flames falter, you will not let her be crushed beneath the laughter of jackals. That is what I ask of you. Nothing less.”

He gestured toward the gleaming set of red-and-silver guards. “Wear them not as decoration, but as a statement. Let every family here see that even the youngest Torvares is not without her shield.”

Ludger studied the armor, the emblem etched deep into each plate. He could already imagine what it meant—every noble eye marking him as part of the family’s pride. Not just a helper in the shadows, but a piece on the board, branded with their crest.

He exhaled, slow and heavy. “Then I’ll be just as plain with you.”

Lord Torvares raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“I’ll heal her. I’ll keep her from being overwhelmed. That much, I’ll do.” Ludger’s voice was firm, his usual sarcasm stripped away. “But don’t expect me to shine. I’m not here to be a spectacle, and I’m not here to paint a target on my back for every noble with a grudge. Viola is already enough of one.”

The old lord’s gaze didn’t soften, but it sharpened in a different way—assessing, weighing, measuring the boy’s resolve rather than his strength.

“You would stay in the shade,” Torvares murmured. “But still hold the pillar steady.”

“Exactly.” Ludger’s lips tugged into a faint smirk. “Let her blaze. I’ll make sure she doesn’t burn herself to ash. Beyond that? I’m not here to win anyone’s applause.”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, the morning breeze carrying faint snippets of city life from beyond the walls. Finally, Lord Torvares gave a short nod, the faintest glimmer of something like respect in his hard eyes.

“…Very well,” he said at last. “I will not force you to carry more than you’ve chosen. But know this: even in the shadows, those who watch will see you. Whether you like it or not.”

He turned, cane striking stone again as he began to walk back toward the estate. “Take the armor, Ludger. Whether you wear it as Torvares or not, it will serve you well.”

Ludger looked down at the gleaming guards one last time. Red and silver, shining with weight and symbolism. He reached out and ran his hand along the etched emblem.

Fine. If I’m already caught in this circus, I might as well have decent gear for the chaos. Let's work to pay for these bad boys.

Ludger strapped the new armguards into place, the polished red-and-silver plates catching the light. The Torvares crest gleamed faintly on his forearms, sharper and prouder than anything he’d worn before. He shifted, testing the fit, the weight—solid, snug, almost too fine for him.

Footsteps clattered down the front steps. Viola emerged in her tournament attire, hair tied neatly back, eyes bright with anticipation. But when her gaze fell on him, fastening the last of the shin guards, her smile faltered.

She stopped short, frown creasing her face. “Those… are ours.”

Ludger flexed his fingers against the new plates, deliberately casual. “Your grandfather thought I’d put them to better use than letting them sit in a chest.”

Viola’s frown deepened, suspicion flickering in her eyes. “So he spoke with you.”

He met her gaze evenly, saying nothing. There wasn’t much to explain that wouldn’t turn into another argument, and her expression already said enough—she’d been with Lord Torvares earlier too, hearing her own share of sharp words and expectations.

In the end, she looked away, huffing softly. “Hmph.” No protest, no fight—just a flash of frustration she swallowed down.

The heavy front doors creaked open again. Lord Torvares appeared, cane in hand, his presence pressing down on them like stone. His gaze swept over Viola, then lingered briefly on Ludger in the new gear. If there was satisfaction in his eyes, he hid it well.

“All that remains,” he said, voice steady, “is to wish you luck.”

For him, that was blessing enough.

The old lord raised his cane in a crisp motion, the morning light catching the silver tip. Viola straightened immediately, pride burning. Ludger gave the faintest nod, the weight of the crest on his arms suddenly heavier than the steel itself.

Then the carriage wheels rumbled to life. The time for questions had passed. The tournament awaited.

As they rode through the capital streets, banners swaying overhead and crowds already pressing close to catch glimpses of the competitors. Whispered voices followed them—nobles pointing at the Torvares crest gleaming on Ludger’s gear, commoners gawking at the boy walking beside the proud heiress. Some murmured with surprise, others with skepticism.

Inside, Ludger kept his eyes on Viola. “We need to be clear before we step in there,” he said, voice steady. “I’ll focus on defense and support. You’ll handle the attack.”

Viola tilted her head, frowning. “You won’t fight?”

“I’ll fight if I have to,” Ludger replied, tugging at the strap of his armguard. “But my priority is keeping you standing. Healing, guarding, making sure you don’t get overwhelmed. That’s how we win.”

Her lips pressed into a line. For a moment, she looked ready to argue. But then she huffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I’ll crush them while you cover me. But don’t expect me to hold back just because you’re playing shield.”

Ludger smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She nodded once, though her restlessness still showed. Her hands flexed on her knees, eyes flicking toward the scabbard at her side—empty.

“You’ll get a weapon before the match,” Ludger reminded her. “Rules say anyone using swords, spears, or other sharp weapons is issued dulled versions. Safety measure.”

“Safety measure,” Viola muttered. “As if wood and blunt steel make losing hurt less.”

He didn’t argue—she wasn’t wrong.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop, the second arena loomed ahead. Unlike the sprawling circle used for the spell trials, this one was tighter, built for close combat. Stone walls rose high around it, and inside was a broad quadrangular ring of carved stone, each line and angle perfectly measured.

Ludger stepped down from the carriage, eyes narrowing as he took it in. The size, the shape, the energy of the crowd pressing in from the stands—it stirred an old memory. Wide floor, squared ring, audience roaring like they’re watching blood rather than sport… Hah. Feels like one of those martial arts tournaments.

The ground under his boots felt solid, unyielding. Viola came up beside him, her pride burning, her restlessness still gnawing as she glanced toward the racks of dulled weapons waiting to be issued.

The announcer’s voice boomed, names echoing across the stone walls, the crowd already stirring with anticipation.

Ludger rolled his shoulders, flexing against the new guards. Alright. Martial arts tournament, noble edition. Let’s see how ugly this gets.

One by one, names rang out across the arena, the announcer’s voice echoing against the stone walls. Each pair of competitors descended into the quadrangular ring, the crowd cheering, banners waving.

They were all children, yes—but children of nobles and warrior families, heirs who’d been drilled with magic, steel, and etiquette since they could walk. None were younger than ten, and many stood at fourteen, already tall and broad for their age, bristling with pride and raw strength.

So when Ludger’s name was called alongside Viola’s, the crowd stirred differently.

Whispers spread through the stands. “That one can’t be more than seven.”

“Is he a page? A mascot?”

“Why would Torvares field someone that young?”

Ludger felt their stares prickling against him like needles. His jaw tightened, a faint frown tugging at his lips. Great. The peanut gallery thinks I’m a toddler who wandered into the wrong playpen.

He forced himself to ignore it, stepping forward beside Viola. Her head was high, her presence sharp enough to silence some of the muttering, but it didn’t stop every glance flicking down to him, weighing, judging, doubting.

Whatever, he thought. They’ll keep staring until they see what happens in the ring. Let them choke on their own curiosity then.

His eyes shifted away from the crowd, focusing on the field instead. Pair after pair assembled in their corners, and the scale of it hit him.

One hundred and twenty-eight pairs.

Two hundred and fifty-six competitors ready to fight.

The ring was wide, but the sheer number of matches meant the contest would stretch long and brutal, a grinder of steel, magic, and pride.

Ludger’s smirk sharpened faintly. Well, at least it won’t be boring.

Beside him, Viola flexed her fingers around the hilt of the dulled practice sword she’d been issued, her eyes blazing as if she’d been waiting her whole life for this.

The announcer’s voice boomed again, declaring the start of the first bracket. The crowd roared like thunder.

Ludger rolled his shoulders, the Torvares crest on his armguards catching the light. He tuned out the whispers, the doubts, the endless eyes weighing him down. All that mattered now was the ring, the opponents, and keeping Viola from burning herself out before the real test even began.

The announcer’s voice boomed outside, the crowd roaring as the first bracket began. From the waiting room tucked under the arena stands, the noise sounded like distant thunder rolling across stone.

Ludger sat on a bench, elbows on his knees, eyes drifting over the room.

It was packed wall-to-wall with kids his age—or older. All nobles, all dressed in crisp training uniforms or polished gear with their family crests stitched boldly across the fabric. Some were polishing their dulled swords, others showing off by flicking sparks of magic from their fingers.

And almost every one of them carried the same smug look.

Ludger sighed. So this is what passes for the future generation of nobility. Smiles too sharp, noses too high, and voices just loud enough to remind everyone else they exist.

Of course, maybe that was just his own preconception. He hadn’t exactly spent time with kids since he was reborn. Outside of Viola, whose arrogance was its own natural disaster, this was the first time he’d been crammed into a room full of children his age.

Maybe they’re not all smug, he thought, glancing at a boy boasting loudly about breaking his practice sword on purpose. …No, they’re all smug.

One pair of older boys—probably thirteen or fourteen—shot him a look, then whispered to each other while smirking. Ludger caught the words “too young” and “dead weight” easily enough. He rolled his eyes. If I had a coin for every time someone underestimated me, I’d have already bought that tavern for Mother.

Viola, meanwhile, stood with her arms crossed, ignoring everyone with the same imperious disdain she used on servants who moved too slowly. The other children gave her a wide berth, whispers following her name. The Torvares reputation carried weight, and her third-place finish in the spell trials only added fuel to the fire.

Ludger leaned back, watching another cheer explode from the crowd above as the first pair’s fight ended. One match down. One hundred and twenty-seven to go. Wonderful. This is going to take forever.

Still, his fingers drummed against the red-and-silver armguards. Beneath the smug grins, the whispered taunts, and the noble arrogance, there would be real fights. And that, at least, was something he could look forward to.

The muffled roar of the crowd swelled again, shaking the walls of the waiting room. One of the attendants stepped inside, a clipboard in hand, his voice cutting through the chatter of restless children.

“Next match! Viola Torvares and Ludger—prepare to enter the ring!”

For a heartbeat, the room went quiet. Dozens of eyes turned toward them. Some curious, some amused, some openly sneering. Ludger caught more than a few smirks—the kind that said this will be entertaining, watching the little one get stomped.

Viola’s reaction couldn’t have been more different. Her emerald eyes lit up, her entire frame straightening as if she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. She gripped the hilt of her dulled practice sword with both hands, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yes!” she hissed under her breath, grinning wide. “Finally!”

Ludger rose more slowly, adjusting the red-and-silver armguards on his forearms. His face stayed neutral, but inside he was already bracing himself. Great. She’s hyped. I’m about to spend the next ten minutes making sure her excitement doesn’t get us both flattened.

Viola glanced at him, her grin sharp. “You’d better keep up, little brother. I won’t hold back just because you’re here to patch me up.”

Ludger gave her a flat look. “Trust me, I wasn’t expecting you to hold back. Just don’t trip over your own ego, and we’ll be fine.”

She huffed but didn’t lose her grin, practically bouncing on her heels as they followed the attendant out. The hallway beyond opened up to sunlight and the thunder of the crowd, the stone of the quadrangular arena gleaming ahead.

Viola’s hand tightened on her sword. Ludger flexed his fingers against the Torvares crest on his armguards.

The announcer’s voice boomed above them, echoing across the stands.

“Next in the dueling bracket—representing House Torvares, Viola Torvares and her partner, Ludger!”

The crowd erupted, cheers and murmurs mixing into a storm as the pair stepped into the light.