Paragon of Destruction

As he waited for his next fight, Arran considered the situation.

He had believed that he was a rarity among the recruits, vastly stronger than any of the others. Yet now, he understood that he had been misled by his own arrogance. Despite his strength, it seemed there were still other recruits who could match him, if not defeat him outright.

Aside from taking his pride down a notch or two, it also meant he needed to rethink the dangers that lay ahead.

If there were other recruits as strong as he was, then Amaya and the others likely didn't value him as much as he had believed. And that, he hoped, might also mean that he was less of a target than he had feared.

Zehava had said neither Amaya nor Stoneheart would allow the other to have him, but then, she had been trying to influence him. If he was merely a reasonably strong recruit, he doubted whether any of them would care enough to take action — unless, of course, they had a good opportunity.

With the protection of one of them, perhaps he would be shielded from attacks by the other two. And if he managed to win the tournament, they would be certain to try their best to win his allegiance.

On the other hand, he would not be able to rely just on his own strength for protection, and that worried him. If mere recruits were this strong, then the novices themselves were bound to be truly horrifying.

He had believed he would be able to match them, but now, he was starting to think his pride had gotten the better of him.

Still, he decided that the best thing to do now was to abandon his old plan, and try to win the tournament, instead. For better or worse, he had already shown his strength, and there was little point in holding back.

"Ghostblade! You're up next!"

Arran looked up and saw that his next opponent would be a young woman. Short and slender, she did not have the appearance of a fighter, but he knew that appearance meant little.

When they faced each other in the arena, Arran began the fight cautiously, still wary from his last experience.

This time, however, there were no surprises. Although the young woman was exceptionally skilled with the sword, she wasn't a Body Refiner, and he defeated her in short order.

Relieved that this fight, at least, had gone as he intended, he returned to the waiting chamber.

With many fighters already eliminated, it did not take long before Arran was sent out to face his next opponent. Once more, his opponent turned out to be a normal but skilled fighter, and the fight posed little challenge to Arran.

Still, the first fight had left Arran too wary to let his attention slip even the slightest bit, and in the fourth fight his caution paid off.

This time, his opponent was a gaunt man with pale skin and dark eyes, and when the man attacked Arran instantly knew it was another Body Refiner.

Before the announcer even finished his call to start the fight, Arran's opponent launched a fierce attack, striking ferociously as he rushed forward without any regard for his own defense. It was clear that the man intended to catch Arran off guard and overwhelm him before he could respond.

Had Arran's first opponent not used a similar tactic, the man might have succeeded. Yet his first fight was still fresh in Arran's mind, and in the waiting chamber, he had carefully considered the mistakes that had brought him to the edge of defeat.

Now that he faced a similar attack, he was as well-prepared as he could be. The moment he saw his opponent rush forward, he knew what was happening and quickly sidestepped the attack, at the same time striking a forceful blow at his enemy's undefended midriff.

The gaunt man's momentum carried his body into the blade even as Arran struck with all his strength, and in a single blow, the fight was over.

Had the blade been sharp, it would have cleaved the man's body in two. As it was, the man merely doubled over and fell to the ground, writhing in anguish and clutching his belly.

With a quick check on his defeated opponent Arran saw the man that although the man was hurt, he was not seriously injured. Satisfied, he returned to the waiting chamber.

By now, the chamber was mostly empty. Just ten fighters remained, counting Arran, and after the next two fights the final round, whittling the last eight down to four.

Although Arran was confident in his power, he still felt tense. The fighters who had made it this far would all be strong, and now that he had decided to try to win the tournament, he could not afford to underestimate what would be his last opponent at the northern arena.

As he waited for his final fight, he looked at the fighters who were still left in the chamber, wondering which of them would be his next opponent.

All of them were Arran's age or older, with many bearing visible scars that suggested their lives had been filled with combat. Idly, he wondered how their experiences compared to his own.

When it was finally Arran's turn to fight again, his opponent turned out to be one of the least conspicuous among the remaining fighters. Slender and slightly shorter than Arran, with short black hair and an unscarred face, he looked more like a scribe or bookkeeper than a warrior.

As they walked onto the arena floor and faced each other, Arran closely observed the man, trying to get a measure of his opponent. Yet there was little he could read from the man's face or body — he seemed entirely relaxed, patiently waiting for the announcer to start the fight.

The only useful thing Arran saw was that the man held his sword in his right hand, while leaving the left empty. From that, Arran suspected that he would be a mage.

There was no time for further speculation, because right then, the announcer's voice called out, "Begin!"

In a calm movement, Arran's opponent raised his left hand, forming a bright ball of flame that he launched at Arran. This was something that Arran had expected — suspecting his opponent was a mage, he had already prepared himself to put up a Force Shield in an instant.

Yet right as the fireball hit his Force shield, Arran suddenly felt the ground explode beneath his feet. It was only by sheer luck that he managed to jump aside in time to avoid most of the force, but even as he struggled to regain his balance, he saw his opponent moving toward him in a flash.

He quickly raised his sword, ready to parry his opponent's attack, but it was already too late — a stab of pain surged through his wrist as his opponent struck, and he felt his sword slipping from his grasp.

Before he could react, his opponent struck again, and there was nothing Arran could do as the blade came to a halt beside his neck, stopping just a hair short of actually hitting him.

"You lose," the man said, his face showing no sign of excitement or exertion.

Shocked, Arran nodded. There was no need to announce that he conceded — his defeat was plain for all to see.

The man turned around and began to walk back toward the waiting chamber, while Arran stared at him in astonishment.

The fight had lasted only a few seconds, yet he had been utterly defeated, without even the slightest chance to resist.

Only as he made his way to the arena's exit did the shock of his defeat fade, and as it did, Arran could not help but let out a cheerless laugh.

He had lost, without even getting the chance to fight in the final stage outside the city. All his worries about showing his true strength had been for naught — as it turned out, his true strength was nowhere near enough.