Nikolaos Argyri was never the inquisitive type growing up—or at least not so much that it would define him. He was the normal amount of curious, much like other kids, perhaps even less. His world was the only thing that he interacted with and, to his knowledge, the only thing that mattered. He was content and happy where he was and with what he knew, so there was little reason to stray out of those bounds.

  He did, at one point, become obsessively curious about one thing—a trivial little thing, looking back—but he remembered it vividly.

  He remembered, having eavesdropped in on the kitchen, one of the servants talking about “the most delicious tea he’d ever drank”. It wouldn’t have been such a significant detail had the servant who said it not been one of the most needlessly fastidious people Nikolaos had ever known. That sparked something in him—what sort of tea would be so remarkably delicious that it would make someone like him talk about it as fondly as he did?

  That man resigned the week after. Nikolaos never bothered to ask why he did, but he heard that he’d left Krysanth to go back to his hometown in Farlan, to the far north. Whatever the reason, he was gone. It left Nikolaos thinking about that tea he drank, one that apparently wasn’t sold in any of the public markets. It was a Farneese brew and rare to boot.

  He didn’t let that discourage him. He ordered as many people as he could to find the brew, no matter the cost. He spent months waiting for someone to get a hold of it. He remembered nights that stretched agonizingly long as the thoughts of that tea plagued him, an insomnia-inducing parasite that proved to be the bane of Nikolaos’ youth.

  When the day finally arrived that he had gotten his hands on that tea, he had it prepared with as much care as it could possibly have been and had it served to him with the best silverware they had. When he placed the cup to his lips and savored the drink, months of waiting and anticipation dissipated into pure unfiltered disappointment.

  Was that it? The product of his agony? A paltry flavor that didn’t clear even half the collection they had in their estate?

  His father was there, drinking the tea with him, and he simply called it “good tea”. He remarked that he understood why that Farneese servant had loved it so dearly. Nikolaos, on the other hand, was perplexed. Had that servant never tasted better tea? Why would he say that that was the best he’d ever drank?

  When Nikolaos shared his thoughts with his father, the lord laughed. “The dawnbrew is a fickle thing, son,” he said, “and its taste reflects the care behind its making. One small slip and the tea could end up being too bitter, too astringent. This pleasant aftertaste is proof of love poured into the brew itself. In that regard, this here is good tea.”

  Nikolaos did not understand. He thought, and thought, and thought, but he just couldn’t understand. Whatever his father was tasting, was it not worse than the other teas still? He felt betrayed. All those nights spent awake thinking about a silly, trivial little thing, and in the end, he simply wanted to drink something else.

  But every time he did from that point on, he thought about the dawnbrew and was reminded of that moment, of his father’s words that he could never wrap his head around—so inconsequential, yet so irritating.

  Since then, Nikolaos had rather disliked the taste of tea.

  Having taken a nasty hit to the face, Niko shuffled back. Blood spurted from his nose, dripping down and over his lip. He could taste the blood on them. His vision was blurring, but he kept himself upright, somehow.

  His opponent was a man, fully clad in heavy plate, named Eriska, a far better fighter than he was. It was barely a minute into the match, and Eriska had already pushed Niko close to unconsciousness.

  Of course, that wasn’t much of a surprise. Niko did not particularly think of himself as a strong man. He was the lanky, bookish type that most people associated with healers, the kind of person you’d find behind some counter rather than in an arena. Even after a first glance, someone like him would be the last person anyone would think of when they think about a Relic Festival fighter.

  There was a time in the past when he had genuinely endeavored to join the festival. He disregarded his studies and trained with the blade, hoping to win glory in the field of combat rather than the field of medicine. He begged his father until he relented and taught him what he knew. Maron Argyri was quite a skilled fighter, so it wasn’t like Niko was completely clueless in combat.

  Even so, the Relic Festival was a celebration of the strongest fighters in Artemest, and Niko was not someone meant to stand among them. The only reason he made it this far was pure stubbornness and luck, and it was a miracle that those two things even managed that much.

  The crowd was going feral. Perhaps this Eriska person was popular, and they were gleefully cheering him on as he showed Niko his place, as if asking what right he had to step foot onto these grounds.

  Many times along the way, Niko asked himself that same question.

  Eriska wielded knuckledusters on both hands. He shot jab after jab, Niko narrowly dodging them as they whizzed past his head, and he had no doubt that if they landed, it would be over for him.

  He swung his blade at his opponent, and Eriska dodged it handily. Then, a devastating uppercut was driven into the healer’s stomach. Niko grit his teeth and took it, using the opportunity to grapple the man and force him down. They toppled onto the stone ground. Niko raised his sword above him and began hammering its pommel into the man’s helm, over and over and over again, each strike accompanied by screams—his own louder than his opponent’s.

  He felt sick to his stomach. Niko hated pain and seeing people in pain, and yet, here he was, involving himself in a celebration that thrived in it, trying to crack open a man’s helmet with a sword.

  Eventually, Niko’s arms gave in; he dropped his sword to the ground and gasped for air. He’d nearly passed out when he noticed that Eriska was holding up his trembling arm—no, his identification bracelet. It was a surrender. The man’s helm had caved in. Niko could hear labored gasps from within.

  He grabbed the bracelet and ripped it away from Eriska’s wrist.

  “The match has been decided!” the announcer called, her voice seeming so distant as a ringing took over the Healmage’s ears. “An incredible upset! Fighter Niko wins the battle and advances to the next round!”

  By luck once more, he managed to win. Niko had a reason to be here. He wanted to win, to earn that money for the sake of a family that couldn’t pay for themselves. So long as he had that, he could justify anything he did here. He was doing the right thing.

  Why, then, did he feel so disgusted with himself?

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  Phaedon watched from inside the corridor, observing the fight as it played out. Niko was a far better swordsman than Phaedon thought he’d be, but even then, he was only barely able to win.

  The Healmage limped back into the coliseum’s interior as healers rushed to surround him—other Healmages who were contracted for the festival—but he dismissed them. “I can heal myself,” Phaedon heard him say. Contract Healmages were required by law to treat the people they were supposed to treat unless they’d run out of mana. There were exceptions: a Healmage could refuse the treatment of a contractor if they could heal themselves. Most contract Healmages would be grateful for that; they needed to mind their own mana reserves.

  “What are you even doing here, boss?” Phaedon asked as Niko began casting a spell to close his own wounds.

  “Fighting,” the Healmage replied. “You suggested it, remember?”

  “I mean, yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually ...” Phaedon trailed off. Niko leaned himself against a wall while the former contemplated his next words. “Are you actually trying to get your dad’s clinic back?”

  The heir didn’t really know the circumstances behind Niko’s personal life. All he knew was that his father used to own the SilverRose Clinic, but that after he died, Niko himself was cast out as his father’s old apprentice, and his partner took the building, as well as the estate, leaving next-to-nothing for Niko himself. The Healmage was always reluctant to share his side of the story, so Phaedon didn’t ask further. Still, the injustice of it all irritated him. It was likely more complicated than it seemed, but Niko probably wanted the clinic back, too.

  Despite that, Niko shook his head. “This isn’t about that. I’m just ... trying to do something good for once in my life.”

  Phaedon frowned. “The hells you talking about? Do you even know how many people you’ve helped? All those poor folk that you’ve treated, sometimes for free. I know you’ve always been critical of yourself, but there has to be a limit. What’s this about, Niko? What are you really doing here?”

  Niko hesitated for a moment then forced himself to smile. “Thanks, Phaedon, but it’s really nothing. I just ... need some extra funds is all. It’s a little hard to keep a clinic open nowadays, you know?”

  The Healmage began limping past him, probably heading to his waiting room. Phaedon wanted to call out to him, but he didn’t. He knew that look.

  It was the look of someone who so desperately wanted to turn away from something they didn’t want to acknowledge, the look of someone running.

  The young man shook his head. This was no time to worry about someone else. His own fight would start in a few minutes, and he couldn’t afford to lose.

  Phaedon waited there, leaning against the wall, almost counting the minutes passing by. He looked at his own arms, the scars of training riddling them. Lower tier Heal magic tended to leave scars like these, especially on deeper wounds. He’d heard that higher-leveled Healmages could get rid of scars entirely, but he was grateful to have them; they reminded him of how far he’d come.

  He took a deep breath as the announcer’s voice was carried with the wind, riling up the crowd for yet another fight—his own.

  This time, it would be different. All his hard work wouldn’t betray him. Even though he lost previous festivals, he never stopped trying to improve himself. That was how he got as far as he did, and so long as he kept going, he’d eventually make it to where he needed to be.

  “Give it up for our next fighter! Will this returning contestant finally snatch victory? Ladies and gentlemen: Phaedon!”

  The dark corridor was illuminated as the gate opened, and he stepped out, feeling the heat of the festival wash over him. The familiar scent of stone and sweat welcomed him.

  The man named Gaeus was already standing at the center of the arena. Phaedon remembered him of course—a Shieldmage accosting two petty thieves in an alleyway. The heir handed him his ass back then, so it made sense that he’d hold a grudge.

  Something was off, however. In the free-for-all, Gaeus went about shirtless, showing off the ugly tattoos that covered his entire body. Now, he was armoured. And it wasn’t just any armor: it was Wyvernscale of a design and build he didn’t recognize. His weapons were giant gauntlets, likely made of the same material.

  Gaeus laughed as Phaedon stepped up. “Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this, I am. Been meanin’ to plow your skull in ever since that day.”

  “That so?” Phaedon spat back. “Good luck. You couldn’t even beat me with your spells on.”

  The large man only showed a devilish grin. Phaedon furrowed his brows.

  “Fighters, to your positions!”

  They waited for the match to start, readied in the designated red circles in the arena. Phaedon unsheathed his blade and fell into a natural stance. He’d been given formal combat training, but his current fighting style was more-or-less self-taught—a mix between traditional Krysanthian styles and street fighting.

  Gaeus placed a helmet over his head. Considering Phaedon defeated him by breaking his jaw last time, it was a sensible precaution.

  No problem.

  “Begin!”

  Gaeus moved in.

  He lunged forward with a heavy step, the stone beneath his boots cracking as his gauntleted fist shot out into a straight. It was fast—faster than a man his size should’ve been able to throw—but thankfully predictable. Phaedon had already shifted aside, the blow grazing past his ribs with enough force to stir the air.

  He slashed low, aiming for the gap in defenses around his opponent’s knee. The blade rang sharply as Gaeus shifted, Phaedon’s blade striking the armor and skidding off, sparks bursting where steel met scale. The recoil ran up his arm, an unpleasant vibration that rang through to his skull.

  Wyvernscale was tough—much tougher than most steel armor. If he wanted to win, there were two targets he could hit. First was the identification bracelet that Gaeus wore, but that would be easier said than done. Even if he was required to wear the bracelet over his gauntlets, he would naturally be protecting that one spot more fiercely than anywhere else. So, Phaedon needed to strike at the gaps of the armor near his joints.

  Gaeus laughed, a deep barking sound muffled by his helmet. He swung again, wider this time, trying to catch Phaedon’s retreat. The latter ducked under the arc and drove his shoulder into Gaeus’ side, following up with a quick cut at the gap under his armpit. A perfect strike—even if his blade was dull, a hit there would—

  There was a loud ringing sound.

  “—?!”

  Phaedon jumped back, evading a punch from Gaeus.

  “What’s wrong, ya bastard?!” Gaeus sneered at him. “Getting’ scared?”

  The young heir croaked. He knew he hit the gap. It was nowhere near a miss. So, what was that sound? Why didn’t it go through?

  Phaedon recovered his stance, and Gaeus’ fist came down like a hammer. He raised his longsword sideways, letting the gauntlet crash into its flat to slide off. The blade cracked from the impact. He released it and quickly lunged to grab one of the nearby swords strewn across the arena. Phaedon pivoted on his heel, using the force to spin behind Gaeus and drive an elbow into the back of his helmet.

  The blow landed—but it felt like striking stone.

  Gaeus staggered half a step, and Phaedon thrust his blade into the gap in his shoulder.

  Yet another clink. Phaedon focused his eyes, and he saw a soft blue glow emanating from underneath the armor.

  A magic shield?

  The large man whipped around, catching Phaedon square in the chest with a backhand. The impact sent Phaedon and his blade skidding across the arena floor, breath torn from his lungs.

  The crowd roared in excitement. They likely all assumed that Phaedon had just missed and was repelled by the superior wyvernscale, but Phaedon knew. He glared at Gaeus as he stood back up.

  Gaeus was using spells, casting Shield magic to protect the gaps in his armor. But how was the identification bracelet not picking up on that?

  It didn’t take long for him to put the pieces together in his head.

  “That shitty old man—!” he growled.

  It was the armor—that wyvernscale armor of a design that he’d never seen before. It was likely a prototype build, one that could conceal traces of mana the wearer produced. Since the bracelet was worn on its exterior, it wouldn’t be able to pick up on Gaeus casting spells.

  The only person who could come up with such an armor was his father. He couldn’t pay the festival’s organizers to prevent Phaedon from joining, but nothing was stopping him from arming one of his opponents.

  What now? Would he put a stop to the match and reveal Gaeus’ cheating? No, that wouldn’t work. If the armor was already here, then that meant it passed inspection. The Guild was meticulous to a fault. Anything overt would have been caught immediately. Whatever this new armor was, it was built well enough to fool even the Guild.

  If he called out the cheating, they might have done another check, and if they found nothing again, they’d assume Phaedon was lying to save his own ass from being beaten. He had no guarantee that Lysandros didn’t take extra countermeasures for if Phaedon took that risk.

  So, this was his father’s plan all along. Crafty little ...

  Phaedon jumped back just in time to dodge a gauntlet crashing upon the earth, sending bits and pieces of it into air. He grabbed another nearby blade and readied it.

  Gaeus was still gleefully laughing. “This is fuckin’ amazing! I ain’t never felt so powerful before! So untouchable! With this, the festival’s mine to win!”

  Phaedon wiped a trickle of blood from the side of his mouth and took a deep breath as he readied himself.

  “Just my luck ...”

  No way around it.

  Gaeus was blatantly cheating, and Phaedon was going to have to defeat him anyway.