The first round of the tournament had concluded without any surprises.
Of course, it hadn't. This phase was for weeding out the weak, the unprepared, the arrogant who thought strength could exist without refinement.
From his elevated position, the Emperor watched the throngs of spectators murmur among themselves, their excitement at the upcoming match palpable. His presence here was unexpected, an event rare enough to send whispers cascading through the crowd like a ripple across a still pond.
Normally, he never bothered with the early stages.
Why waste time?
The question had rung through his mind each year as the tournament commenced. It was beneath him to watch these childish displays.
His attendance alone could shatter the illusion of grandeur these participants carried.
"Gallaghers waste nothing."
It was a mantra his father had drilled into him, and a philosophy he intended to carry to his grave.
Today, however, he made an exception.
Something about this year's crop of contestants had piqued his interest. Or perhaps it was the political tension simmering beneath the surface, a brewing storm of intrigue. Regardless, he was here, and his gaze alone turned the mundane into spectacle.
He settled into his throne with practiced grace, savoring the texture of the finely woven fabric beneath him. Each thread symbolized power, authority, and the centuries-long legacy of his rule. His single eye swept over the arena, piercing through the noise and chaos as though it saw the world in clearer hues than the mortals below.
What awaits us today?
The thought lingered in his mind as he leaned back, fingers steepled in contemplation. From this height, the crowd below seemed insignificant, like ants crawling about their daily lives. He was no mere observer—he was a god among men.
___________
In the waiting room beneath the arena, Morlowe Deligt sat silently in a corner, his posture rigid but his gaze restless. He had spent the last hour watching the victors of the first round trickle in, each one calm and composed, most without so much as a scratch to show for their effort.
The skill on display was undeniable. Among the thirty-two who had advanced, he noted how their techniques had spoken volumes: footwork honed through years of training, reflexes that bordered on precognitive, and blades that struck with unerring precision.
Across the room, Katrina was running her fingers along the edge of her blade, her movements deliberate and delicate. There was an elegance to her actions, as though the sword were an extension of her being.
Morlowe's eyes narrowed. Her match would be the one to watch—if he survived his own.
"Morlowe, Landen," an instructor called out, his voice firm and clipped, pulling him from his thoughts. "You're up. Proceed to the arena."
Morlowe exhaled deeply, rising to his feet.
Landen Zerian, his opponent, walked alongside him with a quiet confidence that set Morlowe's nerves on edge.
One step at a time, they ascended the stairs, the sound of their boots echoing in unison. As they emerged into the arena, the roar of the crowd greeted them, a cacophony of cheers and jeers. The commentator's voice boomed overhead.
"We've reached the second round! Morlowe Deligt and Landen Zerian, two of this year's finest swordsmen. This will surely be an epic batt—"
The commentator's voice faltered mid-sentence.
"G-Gaze upon this! The Emperor himself has graced us with his presence!"
The crowd collectively gasped, and all eyes turned toward the imperial throne.
The Emperor raised a single hand in acknowledgment, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping over the arena. Even seated, his presence was commanding, his very existence a weight upon the air.
Then, slowly, he lowered his hand.
It was as though the heavens themselves had descended. An invisible pressure slammed into the crowd, forcing them to their knees. Gasps turned to groans of pain as even the strongest struggled to stay upright.
Morlowe felt his knees buckle, the weight of the Emperor's power pressing him toward the ground. He stole a glance at Landen, whose usually calm face was contorted in strain.
"This is better," the Emperor said, his voice cold and detached, yet it carried across the arena as though whispered directly into their ears.
And then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the pressure vanished. The crowd gasped in unison, some collapsing entirely, while others scrambled to their feet.
"Do not waste my time. Fight."
The two combatants exchanged a glance.
There was no need for words. As the signal was given, their blades met with a clash that silenced the crowd.
Morlowe's technique was as sharp as ever, each strike aimed to disarm or overwhelm his opponent. But Landen was relentless, his movements fluid and precise, his footwork impeccable. It became a dance of death, one mistake from either side enough to seal their fate.
For what felt like hours but could have only been minutes, the arena rang with the sound of steel on steel.
Finally, with a decisive feint, Morlowe found his opening, delivering a blow that sent Landen's sword clattering to the ground.
The crowd erupted into applause as Morlowe stepped back, panting and clutching his forearm, where a shallow cut bled freely.
"N-not bad," he muttered, glancing toward the stands where Katrina waited. Her cold gaze met his, and she offered the faintest of nods.
But her words, as always, cut deeper than any blade.
"Not good enough," she said, her tone devoid of emotion.
Morlowe didn't respond. He didn't need to.
Her match was next, and it promised to be far bloodier than his.
Katrina ascended the stairs with her usual poise, every step deliberate. Her opponent, Bartolomeo Gerani, stood at the other end of the arena, his disheveled hair and wild eyes making him look more like a beast than a man.
"Today, you will die, Bartolomeo," she said, her voice flat and emotionless.
The boy sneered. "And who's going to kill me? You? Ahahaha!"
"Article 27, Paragraph 9: any act against an Imperial messenger is an act against the Emperor himself," Katrina recited, her voice calm and measured.
Bartolomeo's grin widened. "I was forgiven, wasn't I? Pretty sure the old man himself said it was fine."
Katrina's expression remained unchanged, save for the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"Take your positions!" the referee called out.
"Begin!"
The match lasted mere seconds.
Bartolomeo had barely moved before Katrina appeared behind him, her sword slicing through the air with deadly precision.
His head hit the ground before his body followed, a fountain of crimson staining the sand.
The crowd gasped in unison, but Katrina paid them no mind. She sheathed her blade and walked toward the exit, her white sleeve marred by a single drop of blood.
I got myself dirty.
She thought, her cold eyes flicking toward the crimson stain as she disappeared from view.