Yokudo lay on the cold arena floor, his sword slipping from his grasp. His chest heaved, his muscles burned, and his vision blurred. Callum Graves stood before him, barely winded, adjusting his stance with a smirk. The noble boy's sword gleamed under the tournament lights, as if mocking Yokudo's efforts.
The crowd erupted. Some cheered for Callum; others murmured in disbelief at how close Yokudo had come to winning.
Yokudo clenched his fists. I had him. His final strike should have ended it, but Callum had deflected at the last moment, turning the fight in his favor.
Callum stepped closer, lowering his sword. "You're strong," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But strength alone isn't enough."
Yokudo's body screamed in protest as he tried to rise, but his legs gave out. He had fought with everything—his skill, his instincts, his willpower. And yet, in the final moment, he had lost.
Rajiv and the others watched from the stands. Rajiv's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He had seen how Yokudo fought, how he refused to give in. And still, it hadn't been enough.
As the officials approached to confirm the result, Callum looked at Yokudo with a strange expression. "You fought well," he said. "Better than most." Then, as if it were an afterthought, he added, "But did you really think you could defeat a noble?"
Yokudo's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat.
Rajiv, too, stiffened. A noble?
The realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. This wasn't just another opponent. This was someone from the ruling class—the very people they had come here to fight against.
Callum turned and walked away, his identity no longer hidden.
The second round was over. But for Rajiv and the others, a new battle had just begun.