Evan Clarke barely heard the crowd as Rowan Mercer stepped into the arena.
Rowan's words from earlier kept looping in his head, refusing to settle. How could Rowan possibly know about the old catastrophe? About the things even the most senior investigators treated as forbidden ground? Either Rowan was bluffing with frightening confidence, or he was standing on information no one else should have.
Neither option was comforting.
"You look distracted," Alex Ward said quietly, a cigarette hanging loose between his fingers. "What did he say to you?"
Evan didn't hide it. He repeated Rowan's words exactly, not adding or subtracting a single thing.
Alex's expression tightened. "So he went straight for the throat."
Another handler frowned. "That kid's not ordinary. We pulled updated intel after you warned us. It just came in."
Alex forwarded the file.
Evan skimmed it, his face shifting as line after line contradicted what he thought he knew. The Rowan Mercer described in the report barely resembled the one now walking confidently into the semifinals.
"If this is accurate," Evan said slowly, "then he wasn't exaggerating. But that still doesn't explain how he knows what he claims to know."
"That's the problem," Alex replied. "We're not even sure he's the same person anymore. Same name, same records, completely different behavior. If he's an impostor, then all bets are off."
Evan nodded once. "We watch. Carefully. If he really knows the truth, then… things can be negotiated."
The announcement echoed across the grounds.
"Semifinal match. Rowan Mercer versus Marcus Hale's senior disciple."
The stands were packed.
This was what everyone had been waiting for. Traditional lightning techniques versus Rowan's raw, unorthodox control. Discipline against instinct. Legacy against anomaly.
Marcus Hale's disciple stepped forward and bowed respectfully, golden light spreading across his body like a living shield.
"Mr. Mercer," he said calmly. "I won't hold back."
"Good," Rowan replied, returning the gesture. "You shouldn't."
The match began violently.
Dark lightning surged outward, filling the arena in overlapping arcs. The attack came from every direction, relentless and precise, designed to grind an opponent down through sustained pressure rather than a single decisive blow.
Rowan didn't counterattack.
He endured.
Minute after minute passed. The lightning never stopped. The ground cracked, barriers screamed under the strain, and the crowd slowly realized something was wrong.
Rowan wasn't retreating.
He wasn't even struggling.
Half an hour later, Marcus Hale's disciple stood breathing hard, hands trembling, every reserve exhausted. Rowan stood across from him, unmarked.
"I concede," the disciple said quietly, lowering his head.
The arena erupted.
Confusion spread first, then debate, then disbelief.
Rowan raised a hand and spoke loudly, his tone relaxed. "His control is exceptional. I spent the entire match defending. If I had any less endurance, I would've gone down long before he did."
The explanation worked.
People latched onto it immediately.
"So it wasn't ineffective, just outlasted."
"That makes sense."
"No one wins a fight on empty."
The tension eased.
Only a handful of observers didn't buy it.
The Grand Master watched silently. Victor Windmere watched with sharpened focus. Evan Clarke felt a chill run through his spine.
Rowan hadn't been pushed at all.
As the crowd dispersed, an older man leaned heavily on his cane near the edge of the stands, his eyes fixed on Rowan with naked hostility.
"Pack up," the man said coldly. "We're leaving the mountain."
"Yes, sir."
"Things are about to get messy here," he continued. "And I don't intend to be caught in the middle."
One of his subordinates hesitated. "What about the Codex?"
The man's lips curled. "That boy won't keep it for long."
"And the Bellamy Consortium?"
"They won't intervene. I confirmed it."
The man smiled thinly. "Good. Then we don't need to kill him. Break him. Cripple him. Make sure he never stands on a stage again."
Someone else murmured, "And if investigators trace it back to us?"
"They won't," the man said calmly. "Too many players will move once he's isolated. In a world like this, strength isn't everything."
He tapped his cane once against the stone.
"Power needs a backing. Money. People. Influence. Lone talents don't last."
As they turned away, his final words lingered in the air.
"You can fight ten men. Maybe a hundred. But you can't fight the system."
Above the arena, Rowan Mercer looked out over the dispersing crowd, expression unreadable.
If they thought he was alone, they were already dead wrong.
...
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