CHAPTER 430: THE TOURNAMENT 2

A shadow loomed at her side. She ducked just as a heavy fist swung past her ear. The impact of air alone rattled her. A brute of a man, shoulders thick as an ox’s, bared his teeth at her in a grin. He was fast despite his size. Very dangerous.

But Lara was faster and more dangerous.

Her pulse quickened. She sidestepped, letting him chase her momentum, her mind calculating. A direct clash would cost too much strength. She needed precision and patience.

He lunged again, but this time she shifted at the last breath, driving her palm into his elbow while her knee struck his side. The force of his own charge sent him stumbling past her, straight over the rope. The referee’s shout confirmed his elimination.

The crowd thundered. Lara’s breath came quick, her heart racing—not from fear, but from exhilaration. She steadied herself, forcing her body into calm readiness.

Fenris. Fenris. Fenris.

The crowd chanted, but Lara had no reaction.

She and Logan were part of the first batch in the elimination round, each batch a group consisting of a hundred contenders.

When the other players realized that the masked man known as Fenris was a formidable opponent, those belonging to the same school or sect banded together and attacked her.

But Logan came closer, and so did Alaric, Agilus, and Redon.

She allowed herself one glance—only one—toward Alaric.

He was now beside her, a mask concealing half his face, but she didn’t need to see his mouth to know he was smirking. His strikes were deliberate, but every time his eyes cut toward her, a silent message passed between them.

I’m watching your back.

The field was thinning. Fighters fell one by one, and so did Agilus and Redon.

The danger only grew sharper as the strongest remained. Lara was hurt a few times. But the more she was hurt, the fiercer she became.

A half hour passed. The arena was chaos. Dirt churned beneath scrambling feet, bodies collided with bone-jarring force, and the crowd roared with every brutal exchange. Lara wove through the storm with sharp precision, her strikes clean, her movements fluid.

By the halfway mark, only a fraction of the warriors remained. Logan was still standing, his face set in grim determination as he battled two men at once. Across the field, Alaric fought with a calm ferocity, masked and unrecognizable to the crowd but utterly unmistakable to Lara.

No matter how fiercely he moved, his gaze flicked to her between strikes, steady and unrelenting. She hated the way her chest tightened at those glances, how his silent presence steadied her.

The gong sounded, signaling the shift. The round was finished.

The survivors of each batch would face off in the afternoon until only the strongest remained.

Jethru welcomed his two disciples with a proud grin.

"You did well, both of you," he patted Lara and Logan on the shoulders, then he huffed and thanked Alaric.

...

That afternoon, the royals and nobles of Savadra entered the arena to watch the finals. The herald proudly announced the presence of the Crown Prince, his princess consort and concubine, and the rest of the princes and princesses.

Then, to the surprise of everyone, he announced the presence of ’His Majesties, King Heimdal and Queen Helga.’

A roaring applause welcomed the royalties. King Heimdal sat on a wheelchair, looking better. His king-like demeanor did not diminish at all.

The master of ceremonies, a stout man with a booming voice, stepped forward. "Warriors! This afternoon begins the final round. Victory is claimed by incapacitating your foe, forcing them to yield, or driving them beyond the boundary. Members of the same school or sect are not allowed to fight each other, or they will be disqualified. Fight with honor, fight with might!"

Lara, Alaric and Logan entered the arena. The three huddled together, their backs against each other as they prepared to defend and attack. The remaining survivors were the best amongst the best and should not be underestimated.

Lara’s next opponent lunged—a wiry man with daggers for eyes and fists as fast as whips. Lara barely ducked the first blow, feeling the rush of air against her cheek. The two clashed in a blur of strikes and counters, neither gaining ground. He wanted to unmask, but Lara would not let him.

Sweat slicked Lara’s brow, but she refused to yield. With a sudden pivot, she drove her elbow into the man’s ribs, then swept his legs from beneath her. The wiry man toppled past the rope. He was finally eliminated.

But so was Logan. The enemy who defeated him was wearing the crest of the Cardill’s, came at her like a storm. Fists like hammers, footwork precise for his size. Lara’s body moved on instinct, weaving, deflecting, retreating by inches. Every block jolted through her arms, every near-miss left her breath ragged. Her lungs burned. Her legs trembled from the strain.

Her chest heaved. Blood trickled from a cut along her temple where a strike had grazed her earlier. Her body ached, but she remained upright, steady.

It was at this time that General Odin and his men entered the arena to watch the tournament. He was disguised as a merchant, with a turban around his hair, and he was wearing a pair of spectacles.

"Percival, are my eyes playing tricks on me? Why does that man look like our Lara?" He asked with narrowed eyes as he watched the fierce battle between the remaining twelve contenders.

"Father, she is Lara," Percival whispered.

"Damn old man! How dare he let her fight there? I will skin him alive." Odin’s gaze darted until they landed on a particular spot near the arena.

"Father, calm down. You might blow our cover." Percival whispered into his ear.

Odin calmed down, but he could not stop clenching his fists every time he saw an enemy connect a punch to his daughter.

Meanwhile, at the arena, Lara was surrounded by five players, and so was Alaric. Every other player made them their target.

Alaric pursed his lips. His enemy’s martial arts level, when combined, was far greater than his. After defeating two, the third one was very cunning. When he knew he was about to be thrown out of the ring, he grabbed Alaric with him. It was too late for Alaric to dodge because he was distracted.

A blow slipped past Lara’s guard, crashing into her ribs. Pain flared white-hot. She staggered, nearly losing her balance. The crowd gasped. Then the arena grew still.

The two have become the crowd’s favorite.

Jethru and Logan stood up from their seats, and so did General Odin and Percival.

Julian Cardill, who was seated on the opposite bleacher, narrowed his eyes as it lingered on Jethru. He thought he found him familiar.

He got distracted when the battle in the ring became even more intense.

Through the haze, her eyes flicked—only once—toward the edge of the ring.

Alaric stood there, mask concealing his face, but his body leaned forward, fists clenched at his sides. She couldn’t hear his voice, but she felt it, like a command pulsing in her blood.

Stand. Don’t you dare fall.