"Fiona Barlow, Leo Fang, Connor Greene, and Jason Tate."
The announcer's voice echoed across the arena.
Rowan Mercer's attention settled immediately. This was the group assigned to his arena, and Fiona Barlow's name stood out. He'd already felt the weight of her raw output earlier. Now he wanted to see whether she had anything beyond sheer capacity.
Across the seating area, Evan Clarke stood with a young man who looked like he'd memorized half the field by heart.
"Of all people, it had to be them?" the young man muttered. "That's bad luck. Fiona's going to be swarmed."
Rowan glanced over, then stepped closer with Marcus Hale.
"You seem to know the lineup," Rowan said casually. "What's special about the other three?"
Marcus nodded along. "Yeah. Are they strong?"
The young man recognized them at once. "White Cloud Institute, right? And you must be Rowan Mercer. I'm Felix Storm. I keep track of competitors."
He spoke quickly, eager to explain.
"Those three call themselves the 'Harbor Trio.' They grew up together, trained together, and got expelled together. Not villains, exactly. Just reckless. The problem is that they fight as a unit. Their coordination is tight, and their combined techniques are meant for group combat."
Felix hesitated, then added, "Individually, they're manageable. Together, they're trouble."
Rowan nodded. "Good to know."
Felix's interest was practical. His family's organization had only recently gained influence, and he'd been sent here to build connections and assess talent. Marcus was a known quantity. Rowan, less so, but anyone who stood beside Marcus at an event like this was worth remembering.
Down in the arena, the Harbor Trio were already grinning.
"Well, that's fate for you," one of them laughed. "No rigging here."
"Guess someone's about to have a bad afternoon."
They swaggered into position, clearly pleased with themselves.
The referee stepped forward and announced the rules in a flat, practiced tone.
"Loss of consciousness or voluntary surrender results in elimination. Killing your opponent results in immediate disqualification and further penalties. The last person standing advances. Begin."
Rowan leaned forward, interested.
Then the match ended.
The moment the trio got a clear look at Fiona Barlow's face, their bravado evaporated. They bowed awkwardly, muttered hurried apologies, and surrendered on the spot.
Rowan blinked, then let out a quiet breath through his nose.
"So they know her," he murmured.
And apparently feared her.
Disappointing, but not useless. The reaction alone said plenty.
Fortunately, the other arenas were far more informative.
Through his divided awareness, Rowan followed the action elsewhere.
One arena featured a composed young man named Liam Reed, facing three opponents at once. Reed relied on a luminous defensive field that clung tightly to his body, shrugging off blows that would've shattered bone. Compared to cruder reinforcement methods, this approach was cleaner, deeper, and far more efficient.
Rowan's interest sharpened.
Another arena ended almost instantly. A woman named Sasha Storm warped space itself, stepping past attacks and striking from impossible angles. The victory was decisive, but the ability itself wasn't something Rowan felt the need to pursue.
The final arena offered a different kind of spectacle.
A competitor named Blair Snow neutralized her opponents by draining their internal reserves directly, leaving them barely able to stand. Effective, but limited by proximity and timing. Useful in the right context. Dangerous in the wrong one.
Most of the field, Rowan noted, was inexperienced. Enthusiastic, but unrefined. That was expected. Open competitions always attracted hopefuls who mistook participation for readiness.
The second wave of matches proved more interesting.
One competitor used a resonant breathing technique, expelling focused bursts of force with sharp vocalizations that disrupted consciousness directly. Another fought entirely through controlled projectiles, guiding metal blades through the air with precision rather than brute strength.
Rowan watched closely.
The projectile method caught his attention. Not because of scale, but because of principle. The control wasn't electromagnetic. It was something subtler, rooted in internal regulation rather than external force.
If he could combine that method with his own approach, the result would be devastating.
Not flashy.
Just final.
Rowan leaned back slightly, eyes thoughtful.
This competition wasn't about winning for him.
It was about cataloging what was possible.
And so far, it hadn't disappointed.