The carriage brought them straight to the tournament grounds, and the roar of the crowds was louder than the day before. The half siblings could hear it even from the halls, waves of voices chanting names, calling out rumors, carrying bits of gossip through the air like sparks.

“Did you see the Torvares boy drag his sister across the sand?” one noblewoman laughed as they passed. “Like a child hauling a sack of grain!”

“Ridiculous, yes,” another murmured, “but effective. Both of them won. Both of them kept winning. That’s no accident.”

“Don’t forget,” a third voice added sharply, “Viola broke that boy’s nose years ago. And now she beat him in front of everyone. The Torvares children are becoming a problem for more than just their opponents.”

By the time Ludger and Viola reached the waiting room, the air inside felt different. Yesterday, it had been packed with kids from noble houses, all of them buzzing with nerves or pride. Now, the numbers had thinned. Only a handful remained, each one leaner, sharper, more dangerous than the last.

No more easy wins.

The children who were left carried themselves differently—blades resting loosely in practiced grips, eyes calm and steady, expressions betraying nothing. They didn’t flinch when the Torvares siblings walked in. They just studied them, calculating.

Viola cracked her knuckles and smirked. “Looks like the fodder’s gone.”

Ludger scanned the room silently. Every face here looked like a worthy challenge. No more sloppy footwork, no more opponents rattled by cheers or glares. These were the ones who had survived just as cleanly as they had.

He adjusted the strap on his armguard, his thoughts flat and practical. Three matches today. All against opponents who wouldn’t crumble from a smirk or a shove.

Viola leaned toward him, whispering just loud enough for him to hear. “Better have a plan, strategist. These ones aren’t going down easy.”

Ludger didn’t answer right away, eyes narrowing on the nearest group—two tall boys with swords resting across their knees, their expressions cool, almost bored. He finally exhaled, voice low.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

The waiting room was quieter than the day before, but the buzz from outside was impossible to ignore. Through the stone walls, voices of nobles carried between cheers, sharp and cutting like knives wrapped in silk.

“Half the crowd’s chanting their names together. Torvares has stolen the momentum of the entire tournament.”

“I wouldn’t celebrate too quickly. Fame this fast paints targets on their backs. Every other house will be eager to humble them.”

Viola smirked when she caught the echoes, tilting her head toward the sound. “Hear that? Children of Torvares. We’re already legendary.” She sounded pleased, almost giddy despite the bandages under her sleeve.

Ludger stayed silent, arms crossed. Children of Torvares. The phrase sat in his stomach like a stone. Viola could grin at it—she was born into the name. But him? Half-brother. A child of Arslan, not of Lord Torvares.

Lord Torvares was a patron, a benefactor, a man who’d given him gear and attention, but no blood tied them together. To the world, though, it didn’t matter. The crowd had lumped him in with Viola.

Should he correct them? Tell them the truth? Or let it ride, let the misunderstanding grow? Being seen as Torvares’ child gave him cover, protection, and a reputation he hadn’t earned—but it also shackled him to a house that wasn’t his.

His fingers brushed the red-and-silver armguard. A gift. A chain. Both at once.

He glanced at Viola, who was bouncing one leg restlessly, itching for the call to fight again. She doesn’t care. To her, this is natural.

He let out a slow breath. Maybe there was nothing he could do right now. Maybe the name was useful, even if it wasn’t truly his.

“Don’t scowl so much,” Viola muttered, catching his expression. “You’ll get wrinkles before you’re ten.”

Ludger shot her a dry look. “Better than looking brain-dead before then.”

That earned him a snort.

Outside, the crowd roared again—louder this time. Another match was ending, which meant their turn was drawing close.

Ludger leaned back against the stone wall, tuning out Viola’s restless fidgeting and the crowd’s endless noise. His thoughts gnawed at him harder than the ache in his shoulder.

Do I keep holding back? Or do I stop pretending?

Keeping a low profile had worked so far. Every fight, he’d shown just enough—sturdy defense, clever tricks, flashes of strength. Nothing that screamed prodigy. Nothing that would draw the wrong kind of noble eyes. If he kept playing that game, he could keep growing in the shadows, stacking up strength where no one could measure it until the time was right.

But then… there was the other side. These weren’t ordinary children anymore. Every opponent left in this room carried themselves like weapons, not kids. They weren’t just heirs—they were super soldiers in training, wrapped in magic, blessed with bloodlines, drilled to fight like adults before they’d even reached fifteen.

And he was supposed to fight them halfheartedly? Pretend he was still just another child when every swing they threw could break ribs, split skulls, or end with him sprawled in the sand?

I don’t want to go all out against children, he thought, jaw tightening. But what’s worse—going all out, or letting myself get broken because I was too cautious?

He imagined it: unleashing the full depth of his Overdrive run wild, pushing his body past limits with the gear Lord Torvares had given him. It wouldn’t just win matches—it would flip the entire tournament on its head. The nobles wouldn’t just whisper about him then. They’d hunt him. Study him. Want him chained to their houses or destroyed before he grew too dangerous.

Troublesome didn’t begin to cover it.

But then he pictured Viola across from him yesterday, fighting with everything she had, laughing through blood and exhaustion. She hadn’t hesitated. She’d chosen pride, chosen to stake herself fully, even if it nearly broke her.

Ludger exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a beat. Hide, or burn. Either way, the cost is mine.

Viola broke the silence first. She was still leaning forward on the bench, elbows on her knees, sweat-darkened hair clinging to her temples. For once, there was no smirk tugging at her lips.

“Hey,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. “Fight for real today.”

Ludger tilted his head. “You’re actually asking me that?”

She let out a dry laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “As much as I hate admitting it… I can’t win all this by myself. I thought I could. I thought the tournament would just be a parade of weaklings, a chance to show off and crush a few brats.” Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword. “I was wrong.”

Her voice wavered, not from fear, but from the strain of saying something she never wanted to. “These kids… they’re monsters. Magic, techniques—it’s like they’ve been training for war their whole lives. If I’d known they’d be this skilled, I would’ve trained harder. A lot harder.”

She finally looked up at him, and for once her sharp eyes weren’t challenging him—they were steady, almost pleading. “But I want to win, Ludger. Not just for me. For our name. For our family. If we crush this tournament, House Torvares spreads like wildfire. Everyone will know we’re strong, that we can’t be ignored.”

Ludger studied her, his mouth tightening. Viola rarely spoke without pride dripping from every word. But now? This was raw, stripped down to ambition and honesty.

She took a breath, forcing the smirk back onto her face like armor. “So yeah. Stop playing games. Stop hiding. If I’m giving everything, then you’d better do the same. Or we lose.”

Ludger didn’t answer right away. Viola’s words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, her smirk trying to mask the truth she’d just bared. She wanted the Torvares name to blaze across the capital. She wanted to carve their family into the memory of every noble watching.

He sat back against the cold wall, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded.

Fame, huh…

He didn’t mind if his name never left this room. Fame was noise, and noise attracted knives. What use was a shining reputation when his influence was still small, his strength still a fragile sprout? Fame without power to defend it was just bait for people who had both.

Want too much too soon, and you get crushed.

Viola didn’t see it that way. She was too young, too hot-blooded, too tied to the idea of her family’s pride. Maybe she always would be. But Ludger? He was already tired of the thought. He didn’t need the world to chant his name. He needed coin, power, leverage—quiet things that built safety.

Still, he didn’t tell her that. Not now.

He let her words hang, gave her no answer but silence. Viola’s eyes narrowed, searching his face, but he kept it flat, unreadable. She huffed and leaned back, arms folded, muttering under her breath.

Outside, the crowd roared again as another match ended. Their turn was coming.

Ludger closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the steady thrum of his [Spiritual Core] in his chest. She wants me to fight for real. But whether I do or not… that’ll be my choice.

The waiting room door creaked open, and a voice rang down the hall.

“Next match! Torvares Viola and Ludger—step into the ring!”

The room went still. The few remaining competitors glanced up, sharp eyes following them as if weighing how long the siblings could last. Viola stood first, rolling her shoulders with a wince, then grabbing her sword. Ludger followed, tightening the straps on his armguards one last time before stepping forward.

Neither spoke.

They didn’t need to.

Viola’s smirk was gone, her jaw set in focus. Ludger’s expression was flat as stone, his eyes steady and unreadable. They walked side by side, the heavy silence between them carrying more weight than words could.

The tunnel opened into blinding sunlight, the roar of the crowd crashing down on them like a wave. Cheers of Torvares! Torvares! mixed with whispers from nobles seated high above, all of them leaning in to catch a glimpse of the siblings who had turned the tournament on its head yesterday.

The two of them stepped into the ring together, still silent, still shoulder to shoulder.

Whatever happened next, they would face it side by side.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the arena.

“Facing the Torvares siblings—House Deyler’s heirs! Karas and Joran Deyler!”

Two figures strode into the ring from the opposite tunnel. Both boys were tall for their age, shoulders broad, eyes sharp with the kind of discipline that came from brutal drills and endless expectation. Their uniforms bore the black-and-blue crest of House Deyler, a lesser noble line known more for military tradition than wealth.

Karas, the elder, carried a longsword strapped across his back, his movements calm and deliberate. He didn’t so much as glance at the crowd. Every step was measured, steady, as though he were already picturing the fight ten moves ahead.

Joran, a year or two younger, held a heavy spear, the iron tip glinting in the sun. His stance was tighter, his jaw clenched, eyes darting between Viola and Ludger with the focus of a hawk. Unlike his brother, his energy ran hot—barely contained, itching to prove something.

The pair stopped just shy of the center. Karas rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and finally looked at them, expression unreadable.

“You’ve made quite the spectacle,” he said flatly. “But playtime’s over. We’ll put an end to it here.”

Joran grinned, twirling his spear with a flash of bravado. “Don’t take it personal, Torvares. Someone has to humble you.”

Viola smirked back, planting her blade into the sand like a flag. “You can try. Just don’t cry when it doesn’t work.”

Ludger stayed silent, his eyes narrowing on the spear’s weight and the longsword’s balance. His thoughts ticked quietly, calculating angles, reach, and stamina.

The referee raised his hand.

“Match—begin!”

As the referee’s hand cut through the air, the crowd leaned forward as one.

The other matches that morning had been respectable—clean duels, skilled heirs, sparks of magic and steel—but none of them had matched the chaos, spectacle, and grit of the Torvares half siblings.

Whispers flickered through the stands.

“Every time they fight, something wild happens.”

“Yesterday the boy dragged the girl out of the ring like a sack of grain—half the city is still laughing about it.”

“And the girl… breaking that boy’s nose years ago, then knocking him out in front of everyone? She’s a menace.”

“They don’t fight like nobles. They fight like—”

“Like they’re having fun.”

Some nobles scoffed, calling them reckless. Others leaned in, eyes sharp, hungry for every detail. Commoners, though? They roared their approval, chanting their names, stomping their feet, eager for another storm.

The expectation was clear. Whatever happened next, the Torvares siblings would make it entertaining.

On the sand, Viola smirked under the weight of the cheers, raising her blade as if feeding on the noise. Ludger, by contrast, let the sound wash over him without a flicker of expression. His eyes stayed locked on the Deyler brothers, calculating, waiting.

The arena held its breath for the first clash.

Karas and Joran didn’t leap forward at the referee’s call. Instead, they stood their ground, weapons poised, eyes sharp on the siblings across from them.

Karas’ hand stayed loose on his longsword, but his gaze flicked between Viola’s stance and Ludger’s posture, as if he were memorizing their weight, their habits, the rhythm of their breathing. His face betrayed nothing.

Joran, the younger, spun his spear once more—this time not for show, but to test its balance against the afternoon air. His eyes locked on Ludger, narrowing as if to say I’m watching you first.

The crowd shifted uneasily, murmurs rising.

“They’re not rushing?”

“They’re studying them.”

The difference was stark. Viola practically vibrated with tension, Overdrive itching to explode from her veins. Ludger stood with his usual calm, armguards lifted just slightly, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

Karas’ lips moved, low enough that only Joran could hear. A short nod passed between them. They had a plan.

And then, like a trap springing shut, both brothers surged forward at once—Karas angling toward Viola with measured strides, longsword flashing free of its sheath, while Joran cut a line straight for Ludger, spear leveled like a charging boar’s tusk.

No hesitation. No wasted motion.

The Deyler heirs had chosen their marks.

Joran lunged like a loosed arrow, the tip of his spear flashing straight for Ludger’s shoulder. The crowd gasped at the speed—too sharp, too precise for a boy his age.

Ludger twisted at the last possible instant, the iron tip scraping just past his sleeve. The thrust missed by a hair, the shockwave of its speed brushing his cheek.

Before Joran could recover, Ludger stepped in. Both palms came up and slammed into the boy’s chestplate with a sharp, cracking thump. The impact rattled the ring, forcing the air from Joran’s lungs.

He could’ve aimed higher—at the throat, the ribs, the weak seams where the armor didn’t protect—but he didn’t. This was still a tournament.

And yet…

As his hands pressed, the glow came. A pale, thrumming light seeped from his palms, a hum only he could feel. The energy flared for a heartbeat, flooding through his strike.

The effect was immediate. Joran’s body whipped backward as if struck by a charging bull. He rolled across the sand, weapon flying from his grip, armor screeching as he tumbled. One, two, three times he flipped until the final spin carried him past the ring’s edge, where he hit the ground outside in a stunned heap.

Silence fell.

The crowd, the nobles, even the referee—all of them froze for a breath, staring at the small boy standing in the center of the ring, palms still faintly glowing.

Then the whispers started.

“What was that…?”

“He sent him flying—like a doll!”

“Magic? No… it didn’t look like any spell.”

Even Viola, mid-clash with Karas, risked a glance, her smirk faltering for a second.

Ludger lowered his hands slowly, the glow fading, his face flat as ever. Inside, his chest still hummed from the pulse of power.

The arena had just seen something it couldn’t unsee.