Chapter 23: Silent Resolve and Restless Ambition
The crowd's roaring excitement, which had filled the arena during the first few thrilling duels, waned as the next competitors took the field. The matches were between less skilled fighters, and though they fought with effort, they lacked the precision, power, and magnetism of those who had gone before. One man in the crowd, irritated by the slow pace, shouted, "Enough of these warm-ups! Bring us fighters worthy of our gold! Show us why we're here!" Others murmured in agreement, eager for the thrilling clashes they'd witnessed earlier. Still, many spectators filled the lull by reliving the unforgettable opening battles, their voices buzzing with gossip and speculation.
In the waiting area, the atmosphere was tense and mixed. Some contestants shared nervous laughter, while others remained focused, sharpening their weapons or preparing in silence. Among them, Alarcus, the mage, sat apart from the rest, his gaze distant, eyes shadowed by memories that haunted him.
As he observed the current match, the sharp clang of steel against steel drew him back to a memory he couldn't shake—the sound of the ground quaking underfoot, the piercing shrieks of his people, the roar of a towering black creature as it tore through his village. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain present, but the memory felt so real it nearly suffocated him. The creature had been like nothing he had ever seen, a dark, humanoid monstrosity with claws that tore through stone and bodies alike. Even now, he could almost hear the earth tremble beneath it, feel the icy chill that had gripped his heart as he became his village's lone survivor.
Yet as terrible as it was, the memory steeled his resolve. His knuckles whitened, and he forced his breathing to steady. Somewhere out there, perhaps even in this very arena, was the strength he sought—the strength he needed to face such a creature again, to prevent any other village from suffering the same fate. Alarcus's thoughts turned toward Edger and the blade he wielded with almost mythic ease. He'd heard the crowd buzzing about the weapon and its creator—the mysterious Blacksmith of a Thousand Tales. The more he thought about it, the more determined he became. If Edger would not give him answers, he'd follow him back to his home, find the blacksmith himself, and do whatever it took to gain power.
Nearby contestants noticed Alarcus's quiet intensity. One of them, a brash young swordsman, sneered as he leaned over, his voice a low taunt. "The Blacksmith of a Thousand Tales? You really believe in those old rumors? Might as well chase after dragons while you're at it."
Another competitor, sharpening his blade, laughed. "A sword is just a sword. Don't waste your time chasing myths, mage. If you want strength, get it on the battlefield—not from some fairytale blacksmith."
Alarcus barely acknowledged them, though a faint smirk crossed his lips. They didn't understand. He wasn't here for childish tales. His need for power was beyond them, driven by the memory of a creature so deadly it seemed like a nightmare given form. He bit back a retort, letting them believe what they wanted. They didn't know the desperation of survival.
Meanwhile, on the sidelines, Edger, fresh from his own victory, observed Alarcus with a quiet understanding. For a moment, their eyes met, and Edger offered him a small nod, as if recognizing the strength of purpose in Alarcus's gaze. Alarcus felt a surprising calm settle over him; there was something in that silent acknowledgment, as though Edger were telling him without words, You have more strength than you realize.
But calm did not mean complacency. Alarcus's heart still thundered with the weight of his resolve. He thought again of the Blacksmith of a Thousand Tales. He had heard whispers that the legendary figure resided somewhere in Greyhold, hidden away in a duke's city, crafting weapons that only a select few had been privileged to wield. As the next uneventful match dragged on, he listened closely to nearby murmurs in the stands, picking up on bits and pieces of conversation from nobles and merchants.
"They say he's from Greyhold," one noble murmured, watching Edger's sword closely. "A hidden talent in a duke's city, creating weapons that only a handful have ever wielded. But no one knows the true name behind the title."
Alarcus's interest sharpened at this. If the blacksmith truly existed and could craft a weapon to match Edger's, then perhaps he'd have a chance—a real chance—to stand against the monster that had razed his home. The thought bolstered his determination, filling him with a fierce desire to uncover the blacksmith's identity.
In the stands, the crowd continued to stir, their excitement muted but buzzing with tales of the Blacksmith of a Thousand Tales. Reyn, observing from a distance, felt a mixture of pride and trepidation at hearing his work spoken of with such admiration. He'd crafted Edger's sword as a testament to his skill, but fame was a double-edged blade. Fame could bring unwanted attention, draw powerful figures to him for reasons he might not be prepared to face. With each murmur of the title "Blacksmith of a Thousand Tales," Reyn felt a growing resolve to protect his craft, to remain hidden until he was truly ready for whatever came next.
Below, Alarcus's gaze returned to the arena, his mind drifting back to that monstrous creature, to the icy dread that had turned him into a survivor, and to the burning need for vengeance. As he watched, his determination deepened, anchoring itself in that single, searing memory: the earth-shaking footsteps, the glint of dark claws, and the screams of his people. He would find the Blacksmith of a Thousand Tales. And with that strength, he would finally be able to face the darkness that had destroyed everything he held dear.
The first round of matches had finally ended, and the tension in the arena only thickened as the crowd eagerly awaited the next duel. Nobles leaned forward with shining eyes, commoners gripped their seats in anticipation, and even the merchants in the private boxes paused their conversations. Everyone had been waiting for this: the match between Darius, the powerful knight known for his unbreakable defense, and Alaric Valen, a royal knight with a mysterious air and even more mysterious skills.
Darius stepped into the arena first, his presence commanding immediate silence. Clad in heavy armor that bore the emblem of his house, he was known for his defensive prowess and his formidable strength, which allowed him to hold his ground against even the mightiest of foes. Across from him, Alaric entered, wearing the standard royal knight's armor and holding a dwarven sword that glinted under the midday sun. The crowd murmured as they noticed how ordinary Alaric's appearance seemed compared to the tales they'd heard of his skill.
"They say he's bested captains twice his age," a noblewoman whispered.
A grizzled veteran beside her chuckled. "Young and cocky—hope he doesn't bite off more than he can chew against Darius."
The bell rang, and the duel began. Alaric didn't hesitate; he lunged forward, his sword shifting mid-swing into a massive axe. He swung it downward with all his strength, aiming to break through Darius's guard in one powerful strike.
Darius blocked the blow with his shield, his feet digging into the ground as he absorbed the force. "You'll have to do better than that," he said, voice gruff but laced with a hint of respect.
Alaric smirked, pulling back only to shift his weapon again. The axe shimmered and reformed into a slender rapier, catching the crowd's attention.
"Look! His weapon—it changed again!" a young boy shouted from the stands, wide-eyed with wonder.
A seasoned knight beside him nodded approvingly. "That's the dwarven craftsmanship—only the best of the best can handle a weapon like that. It's said to respond to the wielder's will, but it takes great skill to master."
With his rapier, Alaric launched a flurry of quick strikes, aiming for Darius's joints and weaker points in his armor. But Darius moved with practiced patience, blocking each thrust with a calm precision that made it seem as though he could anticipate every move. Frustration flickered across Alaric's face, but he didn't back down. Instead, he switched the rapier into a longsword, engaging in heavy, sweeping strikes that forced Darius to take a step back.
In the stands, the murmurs grew louder. "He's a natural, isn't he?" a merchant said, watching Alaric's movements. "Quick to adapt and doesn't waste a second thinking about his next form. Just… switches on instinct."
"And yet," a nobleman countered, "he's no match for Darius's endurance. The knight is barely breaking a sweat, while Alaric's already switching weapons like he's unsure."
Alaric, however, was beginning to notice something himself. The more he fought, the more he realized that while he could shift the dwarven weapon into any form he desired, he lacked the same level of mastery over each one. He felt nimble with the rapier, strong with the longsword, but it was when he held the weapon as a spear that something clicked. It was as though the spear itself responded to his grip, becoming an extension of his own body.
Alaric grinned, feeling a surge of confidence. He lunged forward, the spear flashing as he struck with pinpoint accuracy, each thrust coming faster and harder than the last.
Darius's eyes widened just slightly as he recognized the change. "Found your weapon, have you?" he muttered, barely dodging the latest strike.
"Seems that way!" Alaric replied, his voice alive with excitement.
The audience buzzed with excitement as they noticed the shift. "Look at him go! It's like he's a completely different fighter with the spear!" one of the onlookers remarked.
Another spectator, clearly a spear fighter himself, leaned forward, fascinated. "He's a natural. Most knights dismiss the spear for swords or axes, but in his hands… it's art!"
Now, the fight became something else entirely. Alaric moved with a rhythm and flow he hadn't felt in ages. Every strike felt precise, every thrust aimed to strike true, as he drove Darius back, bit by bit, each clash of metal ringing out through the silent arena.
Darius gritted his teeth, clearly impressed. He swung his massive sword, aiming to knock Alaric off-balance, but Alaric twisted, pivoting on his heel and countering with a quick jab that barely missed Darius's side. Their movements became faster, each clash more intense, as they began to push each other to their limits.
For a moment, Darius grinned, his gruff demeanor giving way to something almost youthful. "It's been a while since I've had to fight this hard," he said with genuine respect.
"Glad to give you a challenge," Alaric replied, his voice breathless but filled with exhilaration. He hadn't felt this alive in years.
Back in the stands, the crowd was captivated. Nobles and commoners alike cheered each strike, shouting encouragement to their favorites.
"Come on, Darius! Hold strong!"
"Don't let him push you around, Alaric!"
As the fight drew on, Alaric's skill with the spear only seemed to increase. Every feint became sharper, every thrust quicker. Darius found himself on the defensive, his shield raised, blocking a series of quick jabs. Alaric pressed on, his spear moving with lightning speed, weaving through Darius's defenses until he found his opening.
With one final, powerful thrust, Alaric drove the spear just close enough to Darius's torso to make him stumble backward, losing his footing for the first time. Alaric stopped, breathing hard, spear pointed at Darius's chest in a gesture of victory. The crowd erupted, cheering Alaric's name.
Darius, regaining his balance, chuckled and nodded. "Looks like you got me this time, lad. Well fought."
Alaric gave him a respectful bow, lowering his weapon. "An honor, Sir Darius."
As Alaric walked back toward the waiting area, the spectators buzzed with excitement. Many were convinced that they had just seen a rising star in the young royal knight, and whispers of Alaric's prowess rippled through the arena.
"He's got something special, that one. Did you see how he adapted?" a man in the stands said, shaking his head in admiration.
"Not just a knight, is he? Whoever trained him knew what they were doing," another replied with a knowing smile.
In the crowd, Reyn watched quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips. Alaric had proven himself a formidable fighter and a quick learner. Perhaps there was more to this mysterious "knight" than met the eye. The audience remained in high spirits, their excitement for the tournament rekindled by Alaric's unexpected victory and the promise of even greater battles to come.