As the dust settled and Lloyd stood tall, two figures of immense stature and influence observed with keen interest: Emperor Marcus and Nicolas Wixton. From his high vantage point above the arena, the Emperor's piercing black eyes had observed the spectacle with an intensity that seemed to cut through the chaos. He had seen countless battles and strategies unfold, yet such a display of arcane power was something he had never anticipated. His face, a usual bastion of stoicism, betrayed some emotions, as the gears of his tactical mind began turning and grinding. After all, a man who could defy the natural order of combat with such ease was either a powerful ally or a formidable threat. The Gruzian throne had historically been built upon the ability to recognize and harness such power, which Marcus was no stranger to.
Yet, there was something about Lloyd that piqued his interest beyond that, which was his conviction, the purpose behind his actions. Marcus was a ruler who had made pacts and decisions that weighed heavily upon his soul, and he recognized a similar burden in Christopher's demeanor. Yet he remained silent, his gaze instead lingering on the young man, contemplating his next move in what had become an intricate game of power and prophecy.
Beside him stood Gregory, his right-hand man and strategist, whose cold-blooded reputation preceded. After being tasked with securing Alexander to their side, he had approached the assignment with his usual blend of ruthless efficiency and strategic acumen, only to see it unravel in mere instants. As he had watched Lloyd defy the very laws of nature and alter the course of the duel, Gregory's usually impassive face had tightened ever so slightly, a subtle indication of the storm brewing within his mind. He was a man who prided himself on his ability to anticipate and manipulate events, to turn any situation to his advantage. But the intervention of a magician of such magnitude was a challenge to the carefully laid plans he had devised, especially after the United's episode. Beneath his cold exterior, there was a flicker of admiration for the sheer audacity and skill displayed.
In this world, power was the ultimate currency, and he had just seen a demonstration that could definitely tilt the scales of Gruzia's perpetual intricate game of politics and warfare. In the grand scheme of things, he knew that individuals like Christopher were rare and significant pieces on the chessboard. The question now was how to position himself and the empire in relation to this new and formidable player.
Could he be coerced, controlled, or allied with? Or was he a wildcard that needed to be neutralized before he could upset the delicate balance of power? Either way, his plan had not yet entirely collapsed…
On the other side of the coliseum, meanwhile, stood Nicolas Wixton, his blue eyes reflecting the tumultuous scene below like stormy twin oceans. His towering figure leaned forward slightly against the viewing glass, an unconscious gesture of intrigue and calculation. Throughout his life, he had relied on his ability to discern opportunities and nascent threats, and what he had just witnessed was undeniably a variable that could change the playing field, prompting his sharp jawline to firmly set. A man who could manipulate the elements with such ease was more than a mere merchant or wizard; he was a game changer which, in the cutthroat world of Gruzian politics and commerce, could either mean a valuable asset or a dangerous adversary. His eyes then flickered with a conniving glint as he watched DeLoris declare Christopher's defeat. It was a predictable response from a man clinging to the vestiges of tradition and order. But Nicolas knew that the true outcome of this event was not about winning or losing a fight… No, it was about the emergence of a new player on the grand chessboard of Gruzia.
As the crowd's reactions evolved from shock to a myriad of whispers and conjectures, both Emperor Marcus and Nicolas Wixton remained focused on the prize, with each, in their own ways, assessing, planning, and envisioning the role he might play in the near future. Emperor Marcus, the ruler who had seen his empire through tumult and triumph, and Nicolas Wixton, the merchant prince who had risen to prominence through schemes and strength, both understood that the events of this day were just the beginning.
In the meantime, Michael DeLoris, with a demeanor that brooked no dissent, raised his voice once more to impose order upon the now frenzied Sanguis. His eyes, ablaze with the authority of his position, swept across the arena, pausing momentarily on the still figure of Rudy Kask, still stunned a minute later.
"Let it be known that both Alexander and this... merchant, are to be arrested immediately. This blatant disruption of our sacred event cannot and will not be tolerated."
DeLoris' severe declaration resonated through the coliseum, its gravity finally silencing the crowd. Guards, which were clad in the heavy armor of the Gruzian elite, then began to converge upon the fighting grounds, their movements precise and unyielding as the spectators watched with a mix of fear and anticipation. This was no longer just a spectacle in the Sanguis; it was a moment that would ripple through Gruzian lore.
But despite this escalation, Rudy remained still, a shadow of the warrior he had just been. He had finally realized that he, one of the most feared and respected mercenaries in Gruzia, had been effortlessly bested, which was a terrifying blow to his reputation. Even his eyes, which had once glinted with the confidence of countless victories, flickered with the understanding of his vulnerability. In the harsh world of mercenary combat, to show weakness was to invite defeat, and he had just been exposed in the most public and humiliating way possible.
As the guards approached Alexander and Christopher, the crowd held its breath. Alexander, a bodyguard of legends, and Christopher, the enigmatic magic merchant that had defied all odds, were about to be devoured by Gruzia's justice.
At the same time, and removed from the cacophony and angst of the Sanguis' stands, was the Red Circle's Don, who watched with predatory interest. His presence, always shrouded in an aura of menace and authority, was accentuated by the opulent yet discreet luxury of his surroundings. The Don, a man whose name was whispered with a mixture of fear and respect, rarely showed surprise or discomposure and yet, a flicker of astonishment had crossed his face as he had observed Christopher Lloyd. Even the cigar he had been leisurely smoking slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor and leaving a trail of smoldering ash on the rich carpet. His sharp eyes, accustomed to assessing and exploiting weaknesses, could scarcely believe what they had just witnessed. This 'merchant', a figure who had until now been of little consequence, had just shattered his image with an act of power defying comprehension.
As the Don noticed the swift reaction from the guards rushing to arrest the duo, a cold smile curled at the corner of his lips. This was no ordinary response to a breach of conduct at the Sanguis, which suggested that there were deeper currents at play, machinations that perhaps even he, with his extensive network of information and influence, had not foreseen.
Rising from his seat, he then approached the viewing glass of his suite, his gaze still locked on the unfolding scene below. His mind, always calculating, began to weave a tapestry of possibilities and strategies around Christopher, since he could be an invaluable asset or a formidable obstacle in the shadowy game he played.
"Hmmm… But what if…"