Keros winced as the physician applied salve to the livid bruises covering his battered body. The aches from yesterday's brutal bout with Baldrick were worse than ever after the euphoria of victory had worn off.
"You're quite fortunate to have escaped more serious injury," chided the doctor. "Not many could endure such a thrashing and live to tell about it. Take more care in the future."
Keros simply nodded, resolving to train harder and utilize his atman abilities more judiciously going forward. Arrogance had nearly cost him everything. He would need to unlock far greater power to prevail in this tournament of titans.
After dressing his wounds, Keros made his way carefully to the competitors' gallery overlooking the sands where the next match was set to begin. Entering, he noticed significantly more empty seats than before - it seemed some had already been eliminated or decided to withdraw after witnessing the fierce competition.
The announcer's voice boomed out the next pairing: Sir Balthazar of Albion versus the enigmatic exile Jorath. Cries of "Traitor!" and "Butcher!" erupted from a section of Albion citizens upon hearing Jorath's name. Clearly he had a sinister reputation in their lands.
Balthazar cut an imposing figure encased in plate armor that gleamed in the sun. He drew a greatsword nearly as long as a man is tall and pointed it dramatically at his opponent while egging on the crowd. In contrast, Jorath moved silently to take his position, long scarlet cloak trailing behind him.
At the signal, Balthazar charged forward attempting to use his size and strength to quickly overpower the more nimble Jorath. But Jorath adeptly spun away from the crashing greatsword. Before Balthazar could raise his heavy weapon again, Jorath's curved blade found a gap in his armor and left a deep wound along his side.
Howling in pain and rage, Balthazar swept his sword around in a wide horizontal arc that Jorath had to frantically duck under. Pressing his counterattack, Jorath managed a series of rapid slashes to Balthazar's arms and legs, slowing the bigger man down further. Despite bleeding freely from numerous wounds, Balthazar refused to yield.
The two fighters traded a few more clashes of blades, but the outcome was already determined. With clinical precision, Jorath feinted low before bringing his scythe up in a vicious uppercut that knocked Balthazar's helmet cleanly off.
The crowd gasped as Balthazar fell to his knees, the razor-sharp scythe tip poised directly at his exposed throat. "Yield or savor death's embrace!" Jorath commanded. Face twisted in anguish, Balthazar reluctantly croaked out "I yield this day to you" before crumpling motionless to the arena floor.
Jorath flicked the blood from his scythe and swept away without a backward glance at his conquered foe or the shocked onlookers.
Up in the imperial box, High Priestess Avita watched Jorath depart as the victor from atop her curved marble throne. These contests could advance her own knowledge just as they tested the combatants. Avita observed every match in order to expand her own powers - for she trusted no one and doubted all.
Returning her gaze to the sands, Avita pondered Keros' next opponent. According to her schemes, he should be paired against a warrior from Surya kingdom next to increase tensions with Queen Surya. An unfortunate accident in such a heated contest could provoke the right outrage at the perfect time.
As rounds progressed and fighters fell, Avita sat back and waited patiently for the propitious matchup. Five years of meticulous planning reached fruition at last. Soon not just the tournament, but balance of power across kingdoms would be in upheaval. Chaos bred opportunity for those bold enough to seize it. And Avita had come too far to let anything stand in her way now...
Keros watched the exile depart, uneasy feelings stirring. Jorath possessed skills far beyond any warriors from his homeland. The competition here was clearly on a level beyond anything he had ever experienced. Any illusions about quick and easy victories were long gone.
******
After Jorath's shocking victory, the next match called Viktor, son of Ragon the Wolf versus Orym the Swift. Viktor's first true test had come. Avita watched closely, curious to assess this vaunted northerner.
Orym proved speedy and elusive as his name implied, darting around the arena in constant motion and creating distance for piercing arrows from his bow. But Viktor weathered the ranged attacks behind his shield until Orym emptied his quiver.
The archer was forced to draw his short swords for close combat. But here Viktor dominated, locking up Orym's dual blades with his longsword in a contest of brute strength. After an extended grapple, Viktor disarmed his opponent with a shield bash before placing his sword edge against Orym's neck, allowing him to yield.
Viktor sheathed his weapons and turned to meet King Bjorn's piercing gaze. He had won, but the collective impressed from the crowd said it all. It was clear that Viktor would prove formidable in this tournament, and possibly beyond. Avita smiled cunningly from of the Imperial box of Valexus, beginning to see why she'd been so drawn to him in the first place. King Bjorn from his throne seem amused by the Son of his friend.
King Bjorn said gruffly to his advisor, "The boy shows promise. Soon our time will come to strike fear in the hearts of these soft lowland kingdoms." The advisor replied "Yes my lord, what shall we do with him?" King Bjorn looked at Viktor thoughtfully for a moment before replying, "He can go with the noble Valexian armsmen. He may prove influential in times of war." Little did anyone know that these two words would set off a chain of events that Avita had waited her entire life for. She smiled to herself and refocused her attention on the tournament as they left for their next battle.
The time for their conquest grew near. With this reminder of the northern clans' might, Viktor left to prepare for the greater challenges ahead.
Keros watched the display with a mix of wariness and envy. Viktor possessed the easy confidence of those born to power. While Keros scrambled desperately to elevate himself, everything had been handed to the smug northerner.
Still, he could not deny Viktor's obvious talent. Keros vowed to grow strong enough to cross blades with him on even terms. For now, he must focus on navigating the tournament round by round. Glory awaited those with the will to seize it.
The day passed in a blur of clashing arms for Keros. From his place in the gallery, he watched matches with new insight. The lessons of past battles were becoming clear. Brute force alone would not be enough - he needed finesse, unpredictability and an ironclad focus. Respect for his opponents had only grown after witnessing the skill and determination on display.
When the official declared the fighting done for the evening, Keros let out a deep breath he seemed to have held all day. He had not been selected yet, spared momentarily to continue his crash education. But his time would come on the morrow.
He could feel destiny awaiting him under the colosseum sands bathed in sunlight where the taste of death hung in the air. Ignoring protesting muscles, Keros headed to the mess hall for a much-needed meal. Glory went not to the strong, but to those with the will to claim it.
That evening in the crowded mess hall, Keros kept his eyes down, focusing on the bland stew and hard bread that passed for sustenance. He had no desire to interact with the other competitors tonight. The empty seats around him signaled their wary attitude toward the newcomer in return.
Suddenly, a figure plopped down on the bench across from him with an enthusiastic "You must be Keros!"
Glancing up irritably at the unwelcome intrusion, Keros was taken aback to see it was the scrawny street girl who had slipped into the colosseum during the opening ceremonies. She seemed no older than Lena.
"I'm Nina!" she continued, apparently oblivious to his standoffish demeanor. "That was some show you put on yesterday. I ain't never seen anything like it! You've got more lives than a cat." She laughed merrily at her own wit.
"What do you want?" Keros asked brusquely. "Shouldn't you be off picking pockets or something?"
Nina dismissed his rudeness with a wave of her hand. "Lighten up! You looked lonely as a cloud over here. Us kids gotta stick together amongst all these brute warriors."
Despite himself, Keros almost cracked a smile at the girl's audacity. She reminded him a bit of his siblings' carefree energy. Before he could reply, Nina's hands shot out quick as a striking snake to swipe his half-eaten bread.
"Thanks for the grub!" she called out, already scampering away on bare feet towards the exasperated cooks.
Keros watched her disappear into the bustling crowds of the eating hall and let out an amused huff. The brief encounter had lifted his spirits some. He supposed there were benefits to having an ally, however small and peculiar.
His muscles groaned in protest as Keros settled down that night on the cramped wooden sleeping pallet. Thoughts of the day's battles replayed through his mind. He had survived one round, but the road ahead only grew more treacherous. What new challenges awaited on the morrow? Sleep proved elusive amidst the raucous hall.