The two days before the tournament did not feel real.

  Time slowed without truly stopping, stretched thin between anticipation and silence. While the academy grounds grew louder with each passing hour, Adlet moved farther from the crowds, seeking corners where the noise dulled into distant echoes. Training fields overflowed with competitors testing techniques, bursts of Aura flashing like brief storms across the courtyards. Voices carried everywhere — speculation, confidence, nervous laughter.

  He avoided it all.

  Instead, he chose stillness.

  Quiet corridors at dawn. Empty terraces overlooking the outer walls. The shaded edges of the academy gardens where only the wind disturbed the leaves. There, he breathed, again and again, feeling the steady rhythm of his Aura beneath his skin.

  The capital itself seemed restless. Students, Protectors, merchants, and spectators poured into the academy district, drawn by the promise of the season’s first promotion tournament. Even from afar, Adlet could feel the tension building — a pressure hanging in the air, invisible but undeniable.

  Yet inside him, something had settled.

  Not confidence.

  Not fear.

  Clarity.

  Each slow breath reminded him how far he had come — from the uncertain boy who had first entered the academy to someone who had survived the forest alone. His body remembered the Bind Lizard’s strikes, the pain, the exhaustion. Compared to that, the coming fight felt almost… simple.

  At night, he rested beneath the faint glow of the distant Stars embedded high above the world’s vault. Sleep came lightly, broken by fragments of movement and instinct. In the quiet, his mind replayed patterns endlessly — footwork, timing, distance. Not imagined victories, only sequences. Adjustments. Possibilities.

  No opponent had a face.

  Only motion.

  Only survival.

  And then, morning came.

  The arena awakened long before the first match.

  By midday, the massive square of polished white stone shone beneath filtered light, its surface almost blinding. Tier upon tier of stone seating rose around it, now overflowing with spectators. Thousands of voices merged into a living roar — waves of excitement rolling across the arena before breaking into scattered chants and laughter.

  Hundreds of participants gathered along the outer edge of the square, divided into loose groups. Some stretched silently. Others spoke loudly, masking nerves with bravado. Auras flickered nervously here and there, quickly suppressed by watchful officials.

  Adlet stood among them, one figure among many.

  Anonymous.

  Just another candidate waiting to be called.

  The scale of it struck him only then.

  So many fighters. So many ambitions gathered in one place — all for a single match that would decide everything.

  A raised platform stood at the center. Officials moved across it, unfurling scrolls, preparing the draw. The announcer’s voice tested the amplifying arrays, echoing faintly across the stone.

  The noise gradually softened.

  Expectation tightened.

  Adlet exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the sensation of air filling his lungs.

  No forest.

  No monsters.

  Just a fight.

  The announcer stepped forward.

  A silence spread outward through the arena, ripple by ripple, until thousands of voices faded into anticipation.

  “The Promotion Tournament will now begin.”

  Cheers erupted instantly, shaking the air.

  Adlet barely heard them.

  A large scroll was opened beside the announcer — names inscribed in dense rows. Hundreds of participants.

  His pulse slowed instead of quickening.

  The first pairing would set the tone for everything.

  “The first match…”

  The words echoed, amplified across the arena.

  A pause.

  Then—

  “Adlet.”

  For a fraction of a second, he didn’t move.

  The name rang across the arena again, louder this time, carried by the echoing structure.

  Adlet.

  Among hundreds of competitors…

  first called.

  A murmur spread through the crowd as heads turned, searching.

  Heat prickled at the back of his neck. Every step forward suddenly felt exposed, visible beneath thousands of watching eyes. He walked anyway, crossing the white stone boundary toward the arena floor.

  The announcer continued.

  “And his opponent…”

  Another pause — longer this time.

  “…Daven Dryad.”

  The world narrowed.

  The name struck harder than any blow.

  Adlet stopped mid-step, the sound echoing through him before meaning fully formed. Out of all possible outcomes — dozens, hundreds of names — fate had chosen this one.

  Daven.

  A cold sensation slid down his spine, followed almost instantly by something hotter. Not fear.

  Recognition.

  Memory.

  Training grounds. Mockery. The forest. The constant friction between them.

  Of course.

  Of all people.

  The crowd reacted immediately — whispers swelling into excited noise as recognition spread. A Dryad heir fighting in the opening match drew attention like fire.

  Adlet’s jaw tightened.

  So this was how it would begin.

  The arena suddenly felt smaller, the distance between both sides impossibly short.

  Across the white stone, Daven stepped forward with easy confidence, as though the outcome had already been decided. His short brown hair caught the light, and a faint grey Aura shimmered around him — restrained, controlled, unmistakably powerful.

  Their eyes met.

  The noise of the crowd faded, swallowed by focus.

  History settled between them, heavy and unspoken.

  For a moment, the arena held only two people.

  And the fight had not even begun.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  A few hours earlier.

  The chamber where the pairings were prepared lay quiet compared to the growing chaos outside. Thick stone walls muted the distant noise of the gathering crowd, leaving only the scratch of a quill and the soft shifting of parchment.

  Rows of names covered the central table — hundreds of participants waiting to be matched by chance.

  The door opened.

  The official barely looked up at first, assuming another staff member had entered. But when he recognized who it was, his hand paused mid-stroke.

  Daven walked in without hesitation, closing the door behind him with casual ease. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t need to.

  He simply approached the table and glanced down at the roster.

  The official cleared his throat. “This area isn’t open to participants.”

  Daven hummed faintly, as if he hadn’t really heard him. His eyes moved lazily across the list, scanning name after name.

  Most meant nothing to him.

  Then one did.

  Adlet.

  A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

  So he actually registered.

  A quiet breath escaped him — almost a laugh, quickly restrained. Of all places for the boy to appear again… here, of all tournaments.

  He rested one hand on the table, leaning slightly closer to read.

  Behind it, the official shifted uncomfortably.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” he repeated, less firmly this time.

  Daven finally spoke, tone relaxed, almost conversational.

  “This tournament draws quite a crowd, doesn’t it?”

  The man hesitated. “…Yes.”

  “First impressions matter,” Daven continued, eyes still on the parchment. “The opening matches especially. People remember how things begin.”

  His finger traced lightly down the column of names before stopping.

  A small, deliberate pause.

  The official followed the motion despite himself.

  Adlet.

  Silence settled between them.

  Daven didn’t issue an order. Didn’t even look up. He simply let the moment stretch, as if the conclusion were obvious.

  “A match with some history behind it,” he added softly, almost thoughtfully. “That would get people’s attention.”

  The quill in the official’s hand hovered above the parchment.

  Technically, the draw hadn’t been finalized yet.

  Technically… adjustments still happened before publication.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Ink touched the page.

  One name shifted beside another.

  Daven straightened, satisfied, as though nothing unusual had occurred.

  “Good,” he said lightly, already turning toward the door. “Wouldn’t want the audience to be bored.”

  The door closed behind him.

  The official remained still for several seconds, staring at the fresh ink drying on the parchment.

  Then he quietly resumed writing, as if nothing had happened.

  Now, standing across from Adlet on the pristine white stone of the arena, Daven wore the same expression.

  Calm.

  Certain.

  As though the outcome had begun long before the match itself.

  “Didn’t think I’d get the honor of crushing you in front of everyone,” Daven said, rolling his shoulders as his knuckles cracked one after another.

  Adlet didn’t answer.

  He simply raised his guard.

  Dark Aura rippled faintly around him, spreading like heat distortion in the air. The noise of the arena dulled at the edges of his hearing. Breath in. Breath out. Focus narrowed until only the space between them existed.

  The signal rang.

  Daven moved first.

  He exploded forward.

  Their Auras collided with a violent pulse that burst outward like a shockwave. Dust lifted from the white stone floor as pressure rippled through the arena.

  They clashed instantly.

  Palms struck. Elbows snapped forward. Legs whipped through tight arcs. Every impact rang with the dull resonance of Aura meeting Aura. Adlet deflected, redirected, countered — movements precise, economical.

  But Daven’s power was different.

  Every blocked strike felt like stopping a falling hammer.

  The force drove through Adlet’s arms, into his shoulders, rattling his bones. Even perfect technique couldn’t fully absorb it.

  Daven pressed relentlessly.

  No hesitation. No testing phase. Pure domination.

  He opened his hands suddenly, lunging to seize Adlet’s forearms.

  Adlet reacted on instinct, catching Daven’s hands instead.

  Their grips locked.

  For a heartbeat, the world froze.

  Then both pushed.

  Aura flared violently around them as muscles strained to their limits. Stone ground beneath their boots. The sound echoed across the arena like grinding metal.

  The crowd roared as Adlet forced Daven backward.

  One step.

  Another.

  White stone scraped beneath Adlet’s heels as he drove forward with everything he had, pushing his opponent several meters across the arena floor.

  Then—

  Nothing.

  The motion stopped abruptly.

  Adlet’s eyes widened slightly.

  Daven wasn’t resisting with strength alone.

  His Aura flowed downward, dense and immovable, rooting him into the arena itself.

  A slow grin spread across Daven’s face.

  “You’re strong, peasant,” he said, voice tight with effort yet dripping with amusement. “But not enough.”

  Pain exploded through Adlet’s hands.

  Daven’s grip tightened.

  It felt like iron jaws closing around his bones. Aura screamed under the pressure, barely preventing his fingers from shattering. Agony shot up his arms, turning his muscles numb.

  Daven leaned closer, voice low enough that only Adlet could hear.

  “My Guardian is a Bone-Crusher Ape. Rank Three. Grip strength without equal.”

  The pressure increased.

  “You can’t win like this.”

  Adlet’s vision trembled.

  Instinct took over.

  He kicked.

  Once — into Daven’s ribs.

  Again — into his thigh.

  Again — driving into his knee.

  Each impact landed cleanly… and barely moved him.

  Daven absorbed the blows, Aura reinforcing his body like living armor.

  Desperation surged.

  Adlet braced both feet against Daven’s chest and pushed with everything he had.

  Their grips shattered apart.

  He was thrown backward, sliding across the stone. His hands trembled violently, skin split where the crushing force had nearly destroyed them.

  Pain pulsed with every heartbeat.

  For a fleeting instant, he considered healing — drawing on the Bind Lizard’s regeneration.

  Lathandre’s warning surfaced immediately.

  Never reveal everything.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  He endured.

  A direct contest of strength was impossible. That much was clear.

  So Adlet changed the fight.

  He retreated.

  Slowly. Deliberately.

  Step by step toward the arena’s boundary.

  Murmurs spread through the crowd.

  Daven laughed loudly.

  “Running already? I expected as much!”

  He charged again, confidence swelling, victory already assumed.

  Exactly as Adlet wanted.

  At the last moment, Adlet pivoted sharply and surged forward instead, wrapping his arms around Daven’s waist and driving ahead with explosive momentum.

  The arena’s edge rushed closer.

  Recognition flashed in Daven’s eyes.

  His Aura slammed downward again, anchoring him into the stone.

  But this time—

  Adlet smiled.

  His feet stood on a different slab.

  Aura surged through his body, focused downward.

  The stone beneath them cracked.

  With a roar, Adlet lifted.

  The entire slab tore free from the arena floor.

  Gasps erupted from the stands as Daven — still anchored — rose into the air along with the massive block of white stone.

  “Impossible—!”

  Too late.

  Adlet twisted and hurled the slab sideways with everything left in him.

  Stone and fighter spun through the air toward the arena boundary.

  Daven reacted instantly, kicking off the slab to avoid crossing the line.

  But Adlet was already moving.

  Aura detonated beneath his feet.

  He launched upward.

  For a suspended instant, both fighters met midair.

  Adlet gathered everything — pain, exhaustion, fury, resolve — into his right arm.

  The same arm nearly crushed moments before.

  Aura condensed, dark and violent.

  He struck.

  The impact cracked like thunder splitting the sky.

  Daven’s body folded around the blow. Air burst from his lungs as he was hurled backward, smashing into the stone wall below the stands with a deafening crash.

  Silence fell.

  A single heartbeat.

  Then the arena erupted.

  The announcer’s voice thundered overhead:

  “Daven Dryad — eliminated! Victory to Adlet!”

  Daven slid down the wall, blood spilling from his mouth. His eyes burned with disbelief, rage shaking through him as he forced out broken words.

  “This… this can’t… be real… not… against… a damn… peasant…”

  His strength failed.

  He collapsed.

  Unconscious.

  Adlet remained standing where he landed, chest heaving, Aura fading slowly around him. Every muscle trembled now that the fight was over. Pain returned all at once — hands, ribs, shoulders — demanding recognition.

  But beneath it…

  Warmth.

  He had done it.

  Not just survived.

  Won.

  The roar of the crowd washed over him like a rising tide — distant yet overwhelming. For the first time since entering the arena, he allowed himself to breathe fully.

  No triumphal pose.

  No celebration.

  Just quiet certainty settling inside his chest.

  He turned and began walking toward the exit, dust swirling beneath his steps.

  The wind brushed against his face as the noise followed him out of the arena.

  And, almost without realizing it, a faint smile appeared.

  The path ahead hadn’t changed.

  But now—

  he knew he could walk it.

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