Simon couldn't stay still the whole way to the arena, a nervous energy making him pick up the pace every few yards, forcing Corin to call him back more than once to slow down.
"Easy," she said, with an amused half smile. "The arena's not going anywhere. And, just so you don't get the wrong expectations — this is my first time watching these final qualifiers too. Don't expect anything too extreme. The real tournament starts tomorrow, with the serious fighters, the ones actually worth the price of the pricier tickets. This is just the last hurdle before the main bracket."
"Got it, got it," Simon said, not really slowing down. "Low expectations. I'm a master of low expectations by now. It's basically my default state since I got here."
It was the ninth day of Caravans, and the road leading to the arena had already transformed for the occasion — banners in the four guild colors strung from one building to another, garlands of artificial flowers woven around unlit lampposts, small triangular flags hanging from cords stretched above their heads, everything ready and waiting for the real festival hour to strike the next day. Food stalls already set up along the sidewalks offered tastes of what would be the official Festival menu, vendors shouting special prices "just for today, before it starts" at anyone who so much as slowed down in front of their goods. Even so, a day before the real start, the street swarmed with people headed the same direction, all with the same brisk pace and the same excited look Simon felt inside himself too.
"You know," Simon said, as they passed a group of children chasing each other while waving small wooden swords painted in the Ironblade colors, "in my old world, the excitement before a big sporting event had more or less the same feel. Flags, overpriced street food, people arguing over stats nobody will remember in a month."
"See? Some things really are universal," Corin said, with a smile.
The arena turned out bigger than he'd imagined — an amphitheater of wood and stone built right up against the city's inner walls, the stands climbing in concentric circles around a central area of packed earth, bounded by a low stone barrier and, judging by a slight shimmer in the air above it, some kind of invisible magical barrier.
Simon paused for a moment at the threshold, his eyes running along the already partially occupied stands, the dark wood of the support beams creaking faintly under the growing weight of the arriving crowd. "That's got to be at least a thousand people," he said, quickly doing rough math, counting the rows and estimating how many people fit comfortably in each, his fingers moving almost automatically in the air as if he were really doing sums on an invisible sheet. "Maybe more, if they fill it all up." He turned to Corin, with a suddenly calculating expression. "How does one become an event organizer, in this world? Because if the revenue is even remotely proportional to what we paid for three tickets, someone's making a ton of Crowns off this whole thing, and I strongly suspect it's not charity."
"Focus on watching the show, for now," Corin said, chuckling, as she led him up a stone staircase toward the seats marked on their tickets, halfway up the stands, with a decent view of the arena below and far enough from the front rows, where the wealthier crowd sat on padded cushions instead of the plain wooden planks reserved for the rest of the audience. "Maybe someday you can found your own entertainment empire. But first learn to survive one of these as a spectator, without commenting on other people's profit margins too loudly."
They sat down, and Simon looked around for another moment, absorbing the atmosphere — vendors moving between the rows offering cold drinks and meat skewers, children perched on their parents' shoulders for a better view, a group of Beastmen not far off chanting a rhythmic song in support of someone, probably one of the arriving competitors.
After a few minutes, a man in an elegant tunic with the city's crest embroidered on the chest climbed onto a small raised platform at the center of the arena, raising his arms to draw the attention of the now nearly full crowd.
"Citizens of Cajin!" he shouted, his voice amplified in a way Simon couldn't explain — probably magic, he thought, some spell designed specifically to be heard all the way to the last row. "Welcome to the last qualifying match before the great Combat Tournament! Today's winner will claim the final open spot in the main bracket, which begins tomorrow!"
The crowd roared in response, a wave of applause and shouts that made the stands vibrate slightly beneath Simon's feet.
"On one side," the announcer continued, gesturing theatrically toward an opening on the left side of the arena, "representing the Bounty Hunters' Guild, a hunter who's tracked bounties all the way past the borders of Desert Bay — Vorn Ashclaw!"
A Beastman emerged from the opening, massive build, reddish-brown fur cropped short on the arms to not hinder movement, two curved blades crossed on his back. He raised a fist to the crowd, receiving a roar of approval in return from the section where the chanting group of Beastmen sat.
"And on the other side," the announcer went on, turning toward the opposite opening, "representing the Ironblade Guild, a fighter who came from afar to make a name in this city — Thal Nightweaver!"
A Dark Elf emerged from the shadow of the opening, and indeed seemed almost to carry it with him — a dark cloak that seemed to absorb the afternoon light instead of reflecting it, pale face framed by black hair pulled tightly back, a thin, curved sword gripped in one hand, its blade catching almost bluish reflections.
"A Dark Elf in a human tournament," Simon murmured, surprised. "Didn't expect that."
"Not common, but not impossible to find either," Corin said, her eyes already fixed on the two contenders with professional attention. "Some leave their own community to seek fortune elsewhere, especially the younger ones, tired of the tensions with Estrella. Making a name for yourself in a Cajin tournament is a respectable way to do it, if you have the talent to back it up."
The two fighters took their positions at opposite ends of the packed-earth arena, the announcer quickly retreating toward the edge as a tension-charged silence fell over the crowd.
A gong rang out, deep and metallic.
Vorn moved first, a surprisingly quick lunge for his bulk, the two curved blades drawn in a single fluid motion. Thal answered by sliding sideways with unnatural grace, his sword rising just in time to deflect the first blow with a sharp clang of metal on metal.
"Vorn's using Minor Physical Enhancement," Corin said, voice low but focused, eyes never leaving the center of the arena. "Look at his arm muscles, slightly more defined than a moment ago. A generic skill, nothing exceptional, but it gives him that extra edge of speed he needs to keep pace with an elf."
Simon nodded, desperately trying to follow everything at once — the two fighters' lightning-fast movements, Corin's commentary, the crowd roaring at every exchange of blows.
Vorn pressed with a series of quick slashes, the curved blades hissing through the air in low, fast arcs, forcing Thal to retreat a couple of steps toward the edge of the arena. But just as he seemed about to be overwhelmed, the Dark Elf literally dissolved into a veil of dark shadow, his silhouette becoming for an instant transparent and blurred.
"Shadow Veil," Corin said, almost excited. "Lunar magic, low-mid tier. Makes him much harder to hit precisely for a short moment."
Vorn growled, his slashes passing through what seemed to be Thal's body without meeting resistance, as if he were striking only air and shadow. Then, just as quickly, the elf's silhouette solidified again, but behind the Bounty Hunter, the sword snapping into a sideways lunge.
Vorn managed to turn just in time, deflecting the blow with the flat of one of his blades, but the tip of Thal's sword still left a thin gash along his forearm, dark blood immediately starting to flow.
The crowd roared again, half in encouragement for Vorn, half in open admiration for the elf's move.
"Nice hit," Corin said, almost through her teeth, the tension of the fight seeming to infect her despite her attempt to stay analytical.
Vorn, wounded but far from out of the fight, roared and charged again, this time with a rawer, less calculated fury, the two blades spinning in a hard-to-predict whirl. Thal retreated, parrying two blows with his thin sword, the metal vibrating under the brute force of each impact.
"He's pushing Vorn onto the defensive," Simon observed, surprising himself at how well he was managing to follow the logic of the fight after just a few minutes.
"Exactly," Corin said, a hint of pride in her voice, as if Simon's observation were somehow her own achievement. "Thal's using speed and magic to make up for what he lacks in raw strength. It's a smart approach, but risky — if Vorn manages to corner him somewhere with no room for the Shadow Veil, the difference in physical strength could hit hard."
As if he'd heard those words, Vorn seemed to change tactics, pushing Thal with a series of calculated blows toward the curved edge of the arena, progressively reducing the elf's room to maneuver. Thal parried, retreated, parried again, his breathing visibly growing more labored.
For a long, tense moment, it seemed Vorn's strategy was working — Thal now with his back nearly against the stone barrier, no more room to slide sideways. The Bounty Hunter pressed even harder, the two blades tracing arcs ever tighter, ever faster, forcing the elf to parry with minimal, millimeter-precise movements, any mistake potentially meaning the end of the fight in a single instant.
"Watch his legs," Corin said, pointing with a quick nod. "Thal's shifting his weight, looking for an opening. He's not just defending to survive — he's waiting for the right moment."
Simon leaned slightly forward in his seat, eyes following every tiny movement of the elf's feet, trying to spot what Corin seemed to see so clearly. One of Vorn's strikes came closer than expected, the blade literally grazing Thal's cheek, tearing a small superficial cut that immediately began bleeding along his pale cheekbone.
The crowd collectively held its breath for an instant, then roared again when Thal answered with a quick lunge that forced Vorn to step back for the first time since he'd begun his offensive.
"See?" Corin said, almost under her breath. "Even wounded, he hasn't lost his focus. That's what separates a good fighter from a mediocre one — the ability to stay calculating even with blood flowing."
Vorn, perhaps sensing his initial momentum fading, roared and charged once more with all his remaining strength, the two blades rising for a double strike meant to leave no escape.
It was in that instant, with Vorn fully committed to the attack, his body thrown forward with no immediate possibility of retreat, that Thal made his move.
The Dark Elf smiled, a cold, calculated expression, and his free hand lit up with a pale silvery glow.
"Lunar Claw," Corin whispered.
The lunar energy quickly condensed into a sharp blade of shadow around Thal's fingers, and in the instant Vorn lunged for the final strike, the elf ducked under the blow with a lightning-fast movement, literally sliding beneath the Bounty Hunter's extended arm, and struck with the lunar claw straight at his exposed side.
Vorn stiffened, a grunt of pain escaping his throat, his knees suddenly buckling as he dropped one of the two curved blades onto the packed ground with a sharp thud.
An instant later he was on the ground, motionless, his surviving weapon still gripped in his fist but useless, defeated.
The gong sounded again, and the announcer hurried to the center of the arena, raising Thal's arm in a sign of victory as the crowd erupted into a deafening roar that literally shook the stands.
Simon stayed open-mouthed for a long moment, unable to say anything, his eyes still fixed on the scene — Vorn being helped up by a couple of healers who'd rushed over quickly, one of them pressing a cloth against his wounded side while the other supported his weight, and Thal raising his sword to the sky as the crowd kept cheering, his dark cloak still seeming to move slightly more than it should, as if a residue of the spell hadn't fully dissolved yet.
"Shit," he said finally, the word coming out flat, almost automatic, unable to find anything more elaborate to say.
"Nice performance," Corin said, still watching the arena, a satisfied smile on her lips, as the crowd around them slowly began to settle, some already getting up to leave, others staying to animatedly discuss the just-witnessed fight with their neighbors. "Not bad for mere qualifiers."
Simon turned to her, his mind still buzzing from everything he'd just seen — the speed, the precision, that moment when the entire outcome of the fight flipped in a handful of seconds. "So," he said, after a moment, trying to reorganize his thoughts, "between the two, who was stronger? And more importantly — would he have been stronger than Fenrik?"
Corin looked at him, an expression suddenly turning more serious at the mention of that name, as if even just saying it carried a different weight than anything else they'd discussed so far. "Thal is good," she said, slowly, choosing her words more carefully than usual. "Really good, for just the qualifiers. He has talent, technique, a cool head under pressure — all things you can't improvise. But Fenrik..." She shook her head, her gaze drifting for an instant toward the now-empty center of the arena, as if she were thinking back to something specific. "Fenrik entered the main tournament only once, years ago. And he won it. Not the qualifiers — the entire tournament, against fighters who had years more experience than him, people who'd trained a lifetime to get that far. He swept everyone aside without anyone ever managing to gain even a temporary advantage over him."
Simon swallowed, thinking back to the kick that had sent him flying against a wall with the same ease you'd swat away an annoying fly — an almost distracted, almost bored gesture, from someone who evidently hadn't even had to try. If that was Fenrik's baseline when he barely cared about the outcome, what must it have been like to watch him fight for real, with genuine intent to win?
"Great," he said, with a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Exactly what I wanted to hear, the day before I have to watch the real tournament."
"He's not in the guild anymore, if that makes you feel better," Corin said, standing up along with the rest of the crowd slowly starting to flow toward the exits. "He hasn't competed in years. Does other things, now — more solitary work, less public."
"Yeah, I noticed," Simon said, following her down the stone staircase, his hand instinctively going to his side where, even days later, he still felt a ghost of pain every time he thought about that kick. "I had the pleasure of personally getting acquainted with his solitary work style."
Corin shot him a sideways glance, a mix of understanding and poorly hidden amusement, but didn't add anything else, letting the memory hang there, suspended between them, as they walked together toward the arena exit, the crowd pouring around them like a flood tide headed toward the streets still decorated for the following day's festival.