The day of the Round of Sixteen was a blur of calculated violence. The tournament had entered its brutal, efficient phase, with matches running concurrently across half a dozen arenas, each one a self-contained story of victory and defeat. My own match, held in the early afternoon, was a brief, almost anticlimactic affair.
My opponent was a heavily armored knight from the heartlands, an Artisan whose Path was built on impenetrable defense. He was a fortress of steel and Aether, and he clearly expected me to exhaust myself against his shield. He was prepared for a long, grinding battle of attrition.
I gave him no such satisfaction.
The moment the proctor's signal dropped, I moved. I didn't circle, I didn't test his defenses. I flowed forward, my Two-Heart Cadence a silent, powerful engine driving me. He raised his massive tower shield, bracing for an impact that never came. I flowed around him, a river parting around a stone, and delivered a single, precise Rhythmic Infusion to the unarmored joint behind his knee.
The sound was a dull, sickening thump. His leg buckled, his perfect stance collapsing. Before he could even register the attack, I was behind him, and a second, identical strike to his other knee sent him crashing to the sand, his armor clattering like a fallen pot. He was not seriously injured, but he was immobilized. The match was over in less than thirty seconds.
I walked out of the arena to a murmur of stunned, appreciative whispers. The crowd had seen my control in the first round, my precision in the second. Now they had seen my speed and lethal efficiency. The legend of the 'Dragon of the West' was beginning to take root.
But I felt no triumph. My mind was a thousand miles away, tangled in a web of poison and conspiracy. I found Rolan waiting for me in the designated competitor's pavilion, his face a grim mask that told me everything I needed to know before he even spoke.
"Walk with me," I said, my voice low. We left the noisy pavilion, finding a quiet, secluded colonnade that overlooked a small, peaceful garden, far from the prying eyes and ears of the crowd.
"Report," I commanded, my voice stripped of its usual charm.
Rolan's own voice was a tight, strained whisper. "He's dead, my lord."
A cold, heavy certainty settled in my gut. I had expected it, but hearing the words was like a physical blow. "How?"
"It was… clean. Too clean," Rolan said, his eyes darting around nervously. "The official report from the Marquis's office is that he took his own life in his cell. Overcome with shame and the certainty of his exile."
'Shame?' I thought, a bitter, humorless laugh almost escaping me. 'A man like that doesn't feel shame.' "You don't believe that," I stated.
"No, my lord," Rolan shook his head, his loyalty overriding his fear of speaking such treasonous thoughts. "I have a contact in the Imperial Guard, a man from my village. He was on the detail that found the body. He said there were no signs of a struggle, no wounds. Vane was just… dead in his cot. But my friend said his face was peaceful. Too peaceful. And there was a faint, sweet smell in the air, like burnt almonds. A scent he recognized from his time in the Eastern campaigns. A fast-acting, untraceable poison."
I closed my eyes, the pieces clicking together with a sickening finality. Viktor hadn't been captured. He had been contained. And once his purpose was served, once he had confessed to a simple, believable story of a personal grudge, he had been disposed of. Silenced.
'They didn't save him. They sacrificed him,' I realized. This wasn't just a conspiracy of ambitious nobles. This was a true cult. They treated their own agents as disposable pawns, sacrifices to protect the greater secrecy of their organization. The ruthlessness, the sheer, cold-blooded efficiency of it, was terrifying. My intervention had saved Aria, but it had also triggered the cult's protocols. They had cauterized the wound, leaving me with a dead end and the chilling knowledge that they were watching. They had reach even within the Marquis's secure holding cells.
"Did your contact find anything else?" I asked, my voice low.
"Only one thing," Rolan said. "The guards who were on duty for Vane's watch rotation… they were all reassigned this morning, sent to a remote outpost on the northern border. Effective immediately. A promotion, they called it."
A purge. A cleanup. The trail was not just cold; it had been systematically erased. I had won the battle, but the enemy had effortlessly won the war, disappearing back into the shadows as if they had never been there at all.
"Good work, Rolan," I said, my voice heavy. "Stay sharp. They know someone is hunting them now."
He gave a grim nod and disappeared back into the crowd, a loyal ghost in my private war. I stood there for a long time, the roar of the tournament a distant, meaningless noise. The victory in the arena felt hollow, a child's game compared to the real, deadly match I was now playing.
When I returned to the Ashworth estate that evening, a sealed letter was waiting for me. It bore my father's seal, the snarling grey wolf. I broke it with a sense of trepidation.
The letter was written in my father's familiar, sharp, pragmatic script.
Lancelot,
News of your actions travels faster than the royal couriers. You have created a storm. I commend you for your victory in saving Lady Thorne. You upheld the honor of our house by exposing a coward's plot. You acted as a true son of Ashworth.
A rare, almost unheard-of praise. I felt a small, unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest. But the letter continued.
However, do not mistake a moral victory for a political one. House Vane is an old and powerful capital family with deep connections. By exposing their son, you have made them a declared and bitter enemy. They will not forget this slight. The capital is a viper's nest, and you have just kicked it. Your duel with Elias was a game. This is not.
You have proven your strength. Now, you must prove your cunning. Win this tournament. Your victory is no longer just a matter of ambition; it is a political necessity. It is a statement that House Ashworth cannot be intimidated. Show them the strength of the West. Do not fail.
Your Father,
Count Theron Ashworth
I folded the letter, the parchment crinkling in my tight grip. The pressure had just been amplified a hundredfold. My enemies were no longer just the secret cultists hiding in the shadows. They were now the public, powerful nobles who moved in the light.
I walked to the window and looked out at the distant, gleaming spires of the colosseum. The Quarterfinals were tomorrow. My path to victory was now fraught with a new, more tangible danger. And I had the distinct, chilling feeling that I was being watched.