Rowan Mercer understood what he had taken the moment the knowledge settled.
The Ward family's spirit-binding art had not originated with them. It had been stolen generations ago, ripped from its creator under threat of death. In exchange for his life, the man had handed over the complete technique and sworn never to pass it on intact to his descendants.
That was why Iron Front's version was incomplete.
That was why Ben Ward's was not.
Long before modern factions existed, practitioners had formed contracts with spirits. Some bound the remnants of human souls. Others partnered with beasts that had accumulated power over decades or centuries. A few competitors in this very tournament relied on such companions.
Spirit binding changed the rules. It didn't ask permission.
The complete version went even further. Spirits weren't just controlled. They could be consumed. Broken down and absorbed, permanently reinforcing the user.
That was what Ben had tried to do.
And now Rowan had it all.
As Ben lay pinned beneath his foot, Rowan's attention shifted to the edge of the arena.
The old man had stepped down from the stands.
Ben Ward's grandfather.
Rowan released his grip and straightened, already reaching into his pocket. A coin slid across his fingers, catching the light.
Ben knew fragments. Hearsay. Secondhand stories.
The old man would know everything.
"If you're going to step in," Rowan thought coolly, "you might as well be useful."
From Rowan's perspective, there was no moral dilemma. Ben had crossed the line long ago. Anyone who protected him shared responsibility. Enemy was enemy. The label didn't change the outcome.
The old man took another step forward.
Then a column of golden light crashed down between them.
A figure stood there, calm and unmoving.
The referee froze.
The crowd fell silent.
Alex Ward's breath caught in his throat.
The mountain's master had arrived.
He'd been watching another match when he felt the surge of killing intent erupt from this arena. He hadn't needed more than that.
The old man stopped immediately. The dark energy around him receded as if pulled back by an invisible hand. His expression shifted, smoothing into something deferential.
"Master," he said quickly. "I only came to concede on my grandson's behalf. He's clearly outmatched. There's no need to continue."
The words were polite. The fear underneath them was not subtle.
Rowan watched closely.
This was not respect. This was survival instinct.
The master said nothing.
So Rowan did.
"Well, that's disappointing," Rowan said loudly. "I thought the Ward family head might have more backbone."
The old man's smile twitched.
"What's wrong?" Rowan continued, voice carrying across the arena. "You stormed down here like you were ready to tear the place apart. Now you're suddenly calm?"
He tilted his head, mock curiosity clear on his face.
"Let me guess. You only bark when you think you can get away with it."
The crowd stirred.
Rowan smiled wider.
"Honestly, I was hoping to trade a few moves with you. If your grandson's this bad, I wanted to see whether the rot went any deeper."
It was blatant provocation.
Deliberate.
If the old man struck, the master would intervene. If the master struck him down, Rowan could move freely. Even if nothing happened here, retaliation afterward would suit Rowan just fine.
Any outcome worked.
The old man's jaw tightened. His eyes burned with humiliation and rage.
But he didn't move.
Instead, he laughed stiffly. "You're bold," he said. "I admire that. When this tournament is over, you should visit us. I'll make sure you're properly received."
Rowan clicked his tongue softly. "Shame. Guess you're tougher on kids than on equals."
The master finally spoke.
"The concession stands," he said evenly. "This match is over."
With a flick of his sleeve, golden light wrapped around Ben Ward and lifted him off the ground. He was deposited unceremoniously at his grandfather's feet.
"Take him and leave."
The old man bowed stiffly and turned away, but the look he threw back at Rowan was raw hatred.
Rowan didn't bother hiding his smile.
As the two disappeared from the arena, the master studied Rowan for a long moment.
Then he noticed it.
That faint curve at the corner of Rowan's mouth.
Not nervous.
Not relieved.
Satisfied.
For the first time in years, a surprising thought crossed the old man's mind.
Perhaps the one in danger here… isn't the boy.
The crowd erupted once the tension broke.
"He really did it."
"Went straight at the Ward family."
"That took guts."
Most of the spectators weren't from major factions. They were independents. Small families. People who'd spent years swallowing their anger whenever the Ward name came up.
Watching someone stand their ground, and win, felt cathartic.
Rowan ignored the noise and walked out of the arena at an easy pace.
"If they don't come for me," he thought calmly, "I'll come for them."
Either way, this wasn't over.