CHAPTER 264: CHAPTER 264: MARKED FOR DEATH

Noel adjusted the strap of Revenant Fang at his left hip, making sure it sat comfortably before heading for the arena. He had roughly ten minutes before his match began—enough time to arrive without rushing, but not enough to waste.

"See you," he said over his shoulder.

Roberto waved lazily from where he sat. "Yeah, good luck. I hope you get farther than I did, at least. And don’t get distracted by anything, by accident or otherwise."

"I wouldn’t, even without your warning," Noel replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Roberto leaned back in his chair, smirking right back. "Don’t come crying to me later saying I didn’t warn you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say." Noel gave him a casual wave before turning down the corridor.

The noise of the waiting area faded behind him, replaced by the low hum of magical wards built into the arena’s infrastructure. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, the faint vibrations of the ongoing matches rumbling through the walls.

’This is it. Win here, and it’s into the round of sixteen.’

He passed a pair of attendants checking equipment for other competitors. One glanced at him, eyes lingering on Revenant Fang, but didn’t speak. Noel kept his pace steady, his mind already narrowing in on the fight ahead.

The distant roar of the crowd bled through the walls, a constant reminder of how many eyes would be watching. But Noel didn’t feel the weight of their attention; all that mattered was the opponent in front of him, and finding the fastest way to dismantle them.

He reached the heavy reinforced gate that marked the competitor’s entrance. The faint shimmer of a protective barrier rippled across it, and beyond, he could hear the muffled call of the announcer introducing another bout.

Placing a hand briefly on the cool metal, Noel took a slow breath. His pulse was steady. The fight was already playing out in his mind, every possible opening and counter imagined in advance.

The gate attendant glanced up. "You’re early. Good. Wait for the signal."

Noel gave a short nod, positioning himself by the gate. The next time it opened, it would be for him.

- Torwan POV -

Torwan lounged in his high-backed chair, the polished wood and dark leather making him look more like a king than a tournament host. Across from him sat the dwarf who would soon face Noel, his small frame trembling, sweat dripping down his temple. The boy’s eyes darted toward the exit, but the presence of Torwan’s assistant—standing between him and the door—cut off any thought of escape.

In the assistant’s hand was a steel injector, the narrow tube filled with a viscous, murky liquid. Unlike the clean, bottled enhancer distributed through the factories, this one was raw, unrefined—and designed to hit instantly when injected into the vein.

The student swallowed hard. "No... please, I haven’t done anything wrong."

Torwan regarded him with all the warmth one might give to a pest crawling across the floor. "No, you haven’t. You’ve simply had the misfortune of becoming a piece on my board. Nothing more than bad luck, wouldn’t you say?" His tone was calm, almost conversational. "Besides... if you want your parents to remain well, you’ll stop resisting."

The dwarf’s breathing quickened, his hands tightening into fists. He tried to push himself out of the chair, but Torwan clicked his tongue. "Tch. Is it really that hard?"

"Stay still."

At his words, a black mark surfaced on the boy’s neck, the shape twisting and pulsing like ink under the skin. The dwarf froze mid-motion, eyes widening in panic as if invisible chains had wrapped around him. He wheezed, unable to move a muscle.

"Good," Torwan said, leaning back. "Now he won’t squirm."

The assistant stepped forward, gripping the boy’s forearm and finding the vein with practiced efficiency. The needle slid in, and the liquid disappeared into his bloodstream. The dwarf’s face contorted in pain, his jaw clenched tight. His veins darkened for a moment, pulsing with unnatural energy.

Torwan’s lips curled slightly. "Kill Noel Thorne."

The mark on the boy’s neck pulsed again, binding the order. His breathing was ragged, but his body moved on its own, obeying the command. Without another word, he staggered toward the door and disappeared down the hall, heading for the arena.

Torwan rose, straightening his jacket.

"Time to take my place at the directors’ balcony. Can’t keep the crowd waiting."

The assistant hesitated. "Do you think they’ll suspect the enhancer after the fight?"

"What does it matter?" Torwan’s smile was thin. "We’ll blame it on his own greed—say he used it to win because of the fortune in his name. Who wouldn’t believe it?"

The assistant chuckled. "You’re brilliant, Torwan."

"I know."

They left the office together.

The directors’ balcony overlooked the entire arena, its stone platform lined with high-backed chairs and guarded by a shimmering ward that kept stray spells from reaching them. Of the four seats, only two were occupied when Torwan arrived—one by Redna, the other by the director from Velmora Academy. The other two remained empty.

Torwan stepped into place with the poise of a man who owned the view. "Where’s Nicolas?" he asked casually, settling into his seat. "I thought he was rather fond of that student of his... what was his name again?" He paused deliberately, then snapped his fingers. "Ah, right. Noel Thorne."

Redna leaned back, folding her arms. "Haven’t seen him all morning. He hasn’t attended any of the fights today. Maybe something came up."

"I see," Torwan replied, his voice smooth. "Well, nothing to be done about it now. This match should be entertaining enough."

He rested an elbow on the armrest, his fingers tapping idly against his chin. Inside, his thoughts were far less casual.

’Better this way. Nicolas... you won’t have to witness the state your precious student is about to be in. Consider it a small mercy.’

The noise from the crowd swelled beneath them, waves of anticipation rolling through the stands as attendants prepared the field. The announcer’s voice cut through the air, echoing across the arena with magical amplification.

Torwan allowed himself the faintest of smiles, eyes flicking toward the competitor’s gate where Noel would soon emerge. The stage was set. The outcome, in his mind, was already decided.

The roar of the crowd shook the air as the announcer’s voice thundered across the arena, magically amplified so every syllable carried.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for our next match—Noel Thorne of the Imperial Academy of Valor! The magical swordsman who has been crushing his opponents one after another!"

A fresh wave of cheers erupted from the stands. Noel stepped forward from the shadow of the competitor’s gate. His expression was calm, but his emerald eyes swept the arena, noting the distance, the barriers, the faint shimmer of the defensive wards.

"And his challenger—from the Tharvaldur Institute of Arcane Might—our very own dwarf warrior!"

The opposing gate opened. The dwarf stepped out, his breathing already uneven, eyes burning with an unnatural intensity. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his posture was rigid, purposeful. His gaze locked on Noel instantly, sharp and unblinking.

’He’s... keyed in on me already,’ Noel thought, narrowing his eyes.

High above, the directors’ balcony loomed. Torwan leaned forward slightly, watching with quiet satisfaction.

With a low hum, the arena’s magical barrier flared to life, a translucent dome sealing the battlefield. The crowd’s noise dulled to a muffled roar inside the ward, replaced by the thrum of mana saturating the air.

The announcer’s voice rang one last time. "The winner advances to the round of sixteen! Begin!"

The signal crystal flared green.

Noel’s right hand drifted toward Revenant Fang, his stance shifting, weight on the balls of his feet. Across from him, the dwarf dropped into a low guard, muscles tense, the veins on his neck dark and pulsing.

The two began to circle, steps slow, the tension stretching thin.

Then the dwarf moved first—exploding forward with a speed that didn’t match his size, the ground cracking under the force of his launch.

Noel’s grip tightened. ’Something’s off...’