CHAPTER 41: THE PROVING

The arena was fire and silence.

Smoke coiled from the seven great braziers, their flames painting the sky in molten gold. Obsidian sand shimmered underfoot, and for a single breathless moment, no one moved.

The eight survivors stood at angles around the intruder, muscles coiled, weapons drawn, eyes flicking like wolves sizing up an unknown predator. The Stranger stood alone at the center, sword lowered casually, black armor absorbing all light, like a void carved into the heart of the fire.

From the Noble’s Box, panic spilled in every direction.

"Who IS that man?!"

"Someone find his name—now!"

"I’m doubling my bet! No—triple it!"

Runners were already sprinting down the corridors beneath the stands, dispatched into the city to scrape up anything about a warrior in black steel.

In the Royal Pavilion, the tension was palpable.

Caelen leaned forward, eyes narrowed. The man’s stance, loose, unguarded, yet perfectly balanced, struck something deep in memory. The weight on the back foot, the angle of the sword, it was familiar. Too familiar. His cup of wine sat forgotten by his side.

The High Priest across him in a separate pavilion stroked his beard, murmuring, "Fascinating. This just became much more interesting."

The Herald lifted his trumpet with a trembling hand. His voice cracked through the charged air:

"LET THE PROVING BEGIN!"

The silence shattered.

Four of the eight moved as one... young, eager, burning with insult. A spear, a sword, an axe, and twin daggers. They charged from different angles, screaming war cries that shook the stands.

The Stranger didn’t move.

Not until they were almost upon him.

Then... he moved.

The axe came first, a brutal downward swing meant to cleave him in half. The Stranger stepped aside, barely an inch, and brought the pommel of his sword up into the attacker’s temple. The man crumpled like wet sand.

A dagger flashed for his legs. The Stranger turned with the motion, knee snapping upward into the attacker’s jaw. A wet crack. Down.

A spear thrust from behind. The Stranger pivoted mid-step, as if he had eyes in his back. The spear grazed air. His hand caught the shaft, yanked, pulled the fighter off-balance, and his elbow found the man’s throat. The fighter folded. Down.

The last one came with sword and shield, more cautious, hanging back just long enough to read his movements. He lunged, shield raised, ready to bash,

But the Stranger was already beneath it. A sweep of the leg. A twist of the body. The shield-bearer hit the sand hard, and the Stranger’s boot caught him in the chest on the way down.

Silence.

Four bodies in the sand.

Total time: Thirty seconds.

The crowd went feral. The noise became thunder, shaking the braziers themselves.

"FOUR—FOUR WARRIORS DOWN ALREADY!" the Herald cried, voice breaking in disbelief. "WHO IS THIS MAN?!"

In the noble box, chaos. Bets screamed, scribes frantically rewriting odds, coins exchanged by the handful. "He didn’t even break a sweat!" one shouted. "Whoever he is, he’s a ghost!"

Caelen sat perfectly still. His stomach turned. He knew that style. The speed. The precision. It wasn’t just skill—it was training. An old, awfully familiar kind.

And in the royal Pavilion, Eris... Eris leaned forward, mask shattered. Her expression remained stone, but her pulse thundered in her ears.

Who was this man?

The way he sounded so confident. It wasn’t a bluff in the slightest.

Eris thought long and hard for who this man could have been? There were many occurrences in the original plot but this...

This was new.

Was this an effect of hers? Her defiance?

Below, the Stranger tilted his head toward Eris stealing a glance before turning back to the four who still stood. He sheathed his sword with a quiet click, as if what he’d just done meant nothing.

"You can still come at me," he said lightly. "I don’t mind."

The words carried, almost playful.

The crowd howled.

The remaining four, each a champion, regrouped, reading him carefully.

There was the dual-sword man of House Aetherion, sharp-eyed and calculating.

A mountain of iron, the shield-bearer from House Eryndor, bruised but unbroken.

A skilled fighter from House Vincent, flames chain around his arms, eyes glowing with bloodlust.

And a scarred veteran from House Pyrestone, greatsword resting across his shoulder, breathing steady, cold.

They exchanged looks, silent agreement.

The dual-sword man, Jorel, spoke out first: "Alliance?"

The shield-bearer gave a curt nod.

Across the sand, the chain fighter and the veteran mirrored them. Two pairs. Two alliances.

"The survivors adapt!" cried the Herald. "Alliances form!"

The Stranger shifted his stance, sword sliding free once more, tip glinting faintly in the firelight.

The first duo struck, Eryndor and Vincent. The shield-bearer thundered forward, shield raised high to pin him, while the Jorel danced around, fast as flame, ready to exploit the first opening.

The Stranger didn’t retreat. He stepped into the charge. Steel clashed.

At the last instant, he twisted, driving an elbow up into the shield-bearer’s collarbone. The man grunted, shield sagging.

The Stranger pivoted behind him, smooth, instinctive and suddenly the Vincent warrior became his wall.

Jorel’s strike came down, then halted, blade inches from his ally’s back.

A breath. That hesitation was all it took.

The Stranger kicked out, striking the back of the shield-bearer’s knee. The man dropped with a roar. The Stranger vaulted over him in a blur of black steel, his sword arcing down toward the dual-blade fighter. The man caught the blow in an X-block, knees bending under the pressure. Sparks spat like angry stars.

The shield-bearer struggled to rise, swinging his shield wildly. The Stranger didn’t even glance back, just ducked. The shield cut air, and his boot drove backward into the man’s gut.

The shield-bearer folded.

Jorel, the dual-sword fighter snarled, striking fast and hard, a flurry of silver, high and low, relentless. The Stranger moved like smoke, sidestepping, turning, letting each strike miss by fractions.

Under the helmet, you could hear the smile in his breathing.

He caught one sword, twisted, and yanked the man forward. A pivot. A sweep. The fighter’s legs went out from under him. He hit the sand, skidding into the still-gasping shield-bearer.

Both down.

The Stranger stepped back, sword sliding cleanly into its sheath.

"You’re skilled," he said to the sprawled man. "But predictable."

The crowd erupted. Stomping, chanting, the stands shook with madness.

Flame Menders waited at the edge, rushing in to drag the fallen from the sand. The shield-bearer didn’t get up.

Three remained. Including the Stranger.