The second day of the preliminaries was a different beast. The casual curiosity of the first day was gone, replaced by a sharper, more focused intensity. The herd had been thinned. Of the two hundred-plus competitors who had started, less than sixty-four remained. Every fighter left was, at minimum, a competent Artisan. There were no more easy victories.
My match was scheduled for mid-morning in the Sunstone Arena, a venue known for its open, shadowless design that favored direct combat. My opponent was a duelist named Kaelen from the southern isles, a young man with a reputation for blinding speed and a needle-thin rapier that was said to have never been parried. As I stepped onto the sun-bleached sand, I could see him on the other side, calm and focused, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his blade. He was an Artisan, like me, but his power was a coiled spring of kinetic energy, a stark contrast to my deep, rhythmic hum.
The proctor's signal dropped. Kaelen didn't charge. He simply vanished.
He reappeared at my right flank, his rapier a silver flicker aimed at my ribs. There was no roar of power, just a silent, deadly efficiency. My body, already deep in the Two-Heart Cadence, moved on instinct. It wasn't a dodge; it was a fluid pivot, my shoulder turning just enough for his blade to skim past my tunic.
He was good. Incredibly good. For the next five minutes, he was a phantom, his speed a constant, pressing threat. He forced me onto the defensive, his rapier a relentless series of feints and lunges. I couldn't find a moment of stillness, not a single clean beat to line up a decisive Rhythmic Infusion. I was doing nothing but moving, my Rhythmic Circulation the only thing keeping me in the fight, a flowing river against his storm of strikes.
The crowd was mesmerized. This wasn't a brawl; it was a duel of pure, refined skill. I could hear Cassius Ardane's sharp, analytical commentary from the stands, breaking down our movements for a rapt audience of fellow competitors.
'He's trying to overwhelm my rhythm with sheer speed,' I realized, my mind a cold point of calm in the chaos. 'He thinks I'm just a defensive fighter. He thinks I have only one trick.'
I needed to break his tempo. On his next lunge, I didn't evade. I met it. I let the cadence guide my hand, not for a powerful, shattering blow, but for a series of quick, precise taps. As his blade came in, my fingers, glowing with a soft blue light, danced against the steel. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each touch was a tiny, focused Rhythmic Infusion, not meant to destroy, but to disrupt.
The effect was immediate. The perfect, humming harmony of his Aether-infused blade was thrown into chaos by my resonant pulses. He felt it as a series of jarring, unnatural vibrations that traveled up his arm. His perfect form faltered for a fraction of a second. His rhythm broke.
And that was all I needed.
I flowed forward, no longer the river, but the tide. Before he could recover his stance, I delivered a single, open-palm strike to his chest. It wasn't a blow meant to injure, but to command. The full, focused force of a proper Rhythmic Infusion hit him, and he was thrown back, landing in a heap on the sand, the rapier flying from his grasp.
I stood over him, my hand still glowing. The match was over. The crowd was silent for a moment, processing the sudden, decisive reversal, before erupting into a roar of genuine appreciation. I had won not through power, but through a deeper understanding of it.
I helped Kaelen to his feet, giving him a nod of respect, which he returned with a look of stunned admiration. As I left the arena, my mind was already shifting from the thrill of victory to the cold reality of my other battle.
I found Rolan and Seraphina in a secluded alcove near the estate stables, far from the prying eyes and ears of the colosseum. Rolan looked like he hadn't slept, his face pale and drawn, but his eyes were sharp with a hunter's focus.
"My lord," he began, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "I have a shadow on him. Vane didn't return to his family's estate last night. He went to the Gloom."
The Gloom. The city's underbelly, a maze of dark, narrow streets where the alchemists, black marketeers, and assassins plied their trade.
"He met with a man known as the 'Grave-Wort Alchemist'," Rolan continued. "A dealer in rare and highly illegal substances. My contact saw the exchange. Vane purchased a small, lead-lined box." He reached into his own tunic. "The alchemist's apprentice is in my debt. He was able to… acquire a sample of the same substance for us." He carefully unwrapped a piece of cloth, revealing a small, crystalline shard, the color of a day-old bruise.
He wasn't finished. "There's more. Vane has been busy. He paid a hefty sum to an information broker for details on House Thorne. Specifically, their financial status." He took a breath. "My lord, they're on the verge of bankruptcy. Their lands are mortgaged, their mines are failing. Lady Aria's success in this tournament is the only thing that can save them from ruin. She's fighting for her family's survival."
The pieces of the puzzle slammed together with a sickening finality. A desperate girl, fighting for her family's honor, known for her overwhelming but reckless power. And a cruel, calculating man, purchasing a mysterious substance from the city's most notorious alchemist.
Seraphina reached out and took the shard, her fingers barely touching it. Her face went pale. "My lord," she whispered, her voice trembling. She wasn't sensing the Void. She was sensing something far more tangible. "This… this feels wrong. It feels… thirsty. Like it wants to drink the life out of the Aether around it."
She closed her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I… I think I know what this is. From an old, forbidden text on alchemical poisons I read in the archives. It's called 'Mana-Blight'." She looked up at me, her eyes wide with horror. "It's a rare, parasitic catalyst. When ground into a dust and aerosolized, it doesn't poison a person's body. It infects their mana. It violently destabilizes any channeled Aether, causing it to turn back on the user in a catastrophic backlash."
My blood turned to ice. For a normal mage, it would be dangerous. For an elementalist like Aria, whose entire style was built on unleashing barely-controlled torrents of raw power, it would be a death sentence for her career. The backlash would be immense. It would turn her own wildfire against her, shattering her mana circuits beyond repair.
I looked from the vial to Rolan's grim face, to Seraphina's horrified expression. I had it. All of it. The culprit. The weapon. The motive. The perfect, undeniable proof of a conspiracy.
But it was useless.
Who would believe me? The word of a border lord's third son, a loyal guard, and a maid, against a member of a respected capital house? They'd call it a desperate ploy to eliminate a rival. The tournament officials would bury the accusation in bureaucracy until after the match was over. And Aria herself? The proud, fiery girl who already saw me as an arrogant brawler? She would laugh in my face.
I looked up at the sun, marking its path across the sky. The Round of Thirty-Two would begin tomorrow at noon. The clock was ticking.
I couldn't go to the authorities. I couldn't warn the target.
I was entirely on my own. I had to intervene myself. But how? How do you stop a plot that's designed to make a person destroy themselves in front of thousands of cheering spectators? My hand clenched into a fist, the weight of a future I was trying to save pressing down on me with a crushing, absolute certainty.