It was finally the day of the event.

The day the Dai Jo was supposed to take place.

Due to the ongoing economic struggles gripping Ashmere, not many of its people could afford the journey to Thornwall.

The road itself was not particularly long, but coin had a way of making short distances feel impossible.

That said, a stubborn few had made the effort regardless, squeezing what they could from near-empty pockets just to bear witness.

As for Adrian, he and his party had arrived just in time for the event to begin.

It had not come without cost.

Before setting out, he had quietly gotten his hands on the family treasury and staked a portion of it on himself.

A single, clean wager.

One million cens, placed on a twelve-year-old against a grown man who had not lost a fight in years.

The odds the bookmakers had offered were almost insulting in how generous they were. He had taken them without hesitation.

His mother had chosen to stay behind. The journey, therefore, consisted only of himself, his sister, the butler, and Liora.

The venue was the city’s public training ground, a wide circular field bordered by stone tiers that climbed up on all sides like a coliseum stripped of its grandeur.

By the time they arrived, the seats were already filled to capacity.

The noise was constant, a rolling wave of conversation, speculation, and laughter that pressed in from every direction.

Adrian sat in the narrow corridor just beneath the stands, on a small wooden chair that creaked beneath even his light frame.

From here, he had a clear line of sight to the arena through the open passage ahead.

He studied it for a moment, then let his gaze settle on nothing in particular.

A deadpan look crossed his face.

’Is this not a bit excessive for a duel between two counties?’

He thought it, but said nothing aloud.

Then again, given that the people of Thornwall had packed into the stands specifically to watch their lord humiliate a child, it was only reasonable that Victor had dressed the occasion up accordingly.

Entertainment was entertainment.

’I have practiced my skills as thoroughly as I could. Whether they hold up will depend entirely on what he throws at me.’

Liora stood across from him, leaning against the stone wall with her arms folded.

She had been watching him since they arrived, tracking the stillness in his expression the way she always did, searching for the cracks she never quite found.

"My lord," she began.

"If you are about to talk me out of this, do not bother."

She closed her mouth. Then opened it again.

"I was not going to."

Adrian glanced at her briefly, then stood.

Without a word, he reached out and placed his hand on top of her head for a moment, the gesture unhurried and easy.

"You do not need to worry. I cannot lose to the likes of him. Or do you doubt your lord that much?"

Something stirred behind her ribs.

She did not fully understand what it was, only that it was warm, and unwelcome, and entirely inconvenient.

Her cheeks colored faintly.

She looked away before he could notice.

Before she could form an answer, a voice carried through from the arena, sharp and amplified by some enchantment built into the stone.

"Let the contestants come out." 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

Adrian turned toward the passage.

In the arena, Victor had already made his entrance.

The reception he received was immediate and thunderous, a wall of cheers that shook the dust from the underside of the stands.

Even a handful of voices from the Ashmere section joined in, which was precisely the kind of thing Adrian had expected and chose not to dwell on.

He straightened, tucked one hand into his pocket, and moved toward the passage.

Then a hand closed around his arm.

"Please wait."

Liora’s voice had lost its usual edge.

She stood behind him, her grip firm, the worry on her face only half-concealed behind the pride she was still trying to maintain.

"My lord." She stopped. Swallowed. "Be careful."

Adrian looked at her for a moment, then allowed himself a small smile.

"I will."

He turned and walked toward the light.

Behind him, he heard her mutter something under her breath, low and frustrated, the sound of someone thoroughly annoyed at themselves.

He did not catch the words. He suspected he was not meant to.

...

He stepped into the arena, and the noise that had been shaking the walls dropped away like a cloth pulled from a table.

Silence settled over the stands with the kind of speed that only happened when a crowd decided, collectively, that what they were looking at was funny.

A child had walked out.

A small, unremarkable child in plain clothes, no weapon at his hip, no armor on his frame, no insignia beyond the family name that half the kingdom had already written off.

He walked with both hands relaxed at his sides, his pace unhurried, his expression carrying all the urgency of a man taking a stroll after a quiet evening meal.

A few cheers broke through from somewhere in the Ashmere section. Thin ones.

Adrian did not look for them.

Victor stood at the far end of the arena, one hand resting on the pommel of the red blade sheathed at his hip.

He was dressed immaculately, as always, every detail of his appearance communicating the same thing: that he had already decided how this ended before it began.

He studied Adrian as he approached. Then, slowly, he began to laugh.

It was not a short laugh.

It built, genuine and unhurried, carrying across the arena without any need for amplification.

The crowd picked it up quickly, and within seconds the stands had joined in, filling the space with the comfortable mockery of people who were absolutely certain of what they were about to watch.

"I must admit," Victor said, loud enough for the nearest tiers to hear, "I expected the Vane boy to send a champion. Someone with at least the appearance of competence."

He tilted his head, looking Adrian over from top to bottom with the expression of a man inspecting something he had stepped in.

"No weapon. No armor. Not even a change of clothes." A slow exhale left him, half amusement and half contempt. "Is this your way of surrendering with style?"

The laughter swelled again.

Adrian stopped at a comfortable distance and said nothing.

His eyes had already moved to the system panel that materialized beside him, quiet and unhurried, visible only to himself.

’Appraise.’

The data assembled itself in clean lines.

[Name: Victor Gremont.

Class: C-Rank Fighter.

Caster Rank: Second Circle.]

Adrian read it once, then read it again.

C-Rank Fighter.

A respectable foundation, and one that explained the confidence.

A second-circle caster on top of that meant his skills carried real force behind them.

The crowd was still laughing. Victor had turned slightly toward the stands, performing for them, comfortable in the assumption that the child across from him posed no meaningful variable.

Adrian watched him.

He catalogued the stance.

The relaxed shoulder.

The way Victor’s weight sat just slightly too far back on his right heel, the posture of a man who had won so many times that the habit of caution had quietly left him.

His skills were real. His confidence was not unfounded.

But there was something else present in every line of the man, in the performance for the crowd, in the laughter, in the elaborate disdain.

Adrian let out a slow, silent breath through his nose.

’There it is.’

One flaw. Clean and visible, plain as anything, sitting right at the surface for anyone who cared to look.

Pride.

...

[A/n] Don’t forget to send powerstones.