Alexander began to realize the arena had filled completely, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder all the way to the edges of the field, banners in different colors fluttering above scattered platforms — each one marking a different region: pale blue for the northern folk, dark green for the western people, scorched gold for the east, and dusty brown flapping above the south’s crowd, the loudest and most crowded of them all. It was clear these four regions hadn’t gathered here today by chance — the seating and arrangement felt deliberate, as though someone wanted to remind everyone that this world, vast as it was, had never truly united except on occasions like this one.
The noise around him kept building, while his eyes stayed locked on the King and his mask, trying to make sense of that silent man who hadn’t moved an inch since sitting down.
Then he began hearing a voice calling for silence.
A man in a red robe, his hair white — not from age, since he looked to be in his thirties, maybe a little older — with a pale face and green eyes, a group of Templars standing behind him in solemn silence, helmets on.
"My lords... my lords..." the man called out, loud enough for everyone to hear.
And it worked.
"Thank you, all of you... today, my lords, marks the opening of the most important entry ever written in our books... a day when south and north, west and east, gather in one place without division. I raise my hand now to King Desmond the Fourth and his son Gabriel. They have prepared this place for us, and for all of you..."
The King gestured with his hand from a distance, barely bothering to move, a small gesture that would have gone unnoticed if not for the thousands watching him — as though telling the man to hurry through the long opening remarks. His eyes never shifted behind the mask, and he showed no reaction at all to the crowd that had just chanted his name with manufactured enthusiasm, as though this whole celebration meant nothing more to him than a yearly formality to get through with the least effort possible.
As for his son Gabriel, seated beside him with that delicate, feminine calm, he wore nothing but a faint smile directed at the crowd — a smile clearly well-practiced to look friendly without carrying any real warmth behind it — while his ring-covered fingers fidgeted with the edge of his cloak, showing no visible interest in anything being said around him.
The man in the red robe cleared his throat.
"Now then... let’s begin explaining this year’s opening rules... the competition will consist of three rounds. In each round, one competitor faces another, and the winner advances to the next round. But there’s one small change this year... by the word and will of Prince Gabriel, son of King Desmond the Fourth... he wishes for the first round to be fought without magic. Swords only. The second round is where magic comes into play."
Alexander noticed some of the southerners objecting — most of them clearly unhappy with this decision.
Scattered voices began rising from that particular side, angry and uncoordinated shouts, some crying out in direct protest, others muttering words Alexander couldn’t quite catch, though their meaning was obvious from the tone. Among the crowd, he spotted a man in an earth-colored cloak embroidered with gold thread, standing on a small platform reserved for his region’s representatives, his face flushed with anger as he exchanged sharp glances with two others beside him — one from the east, wearing a scorched yellow sash, shaking his head in clear refusal without saying a word, as though the silent agreement between them spoke louder than any speech could.
Even the western representative, a heavily built man with a carefully trimmed beard, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes shifting between the royal platform and the protesting crowd, as though weighing in his mind the political cost his region might pay if its sons kept relying on magic alone without proper mastery of the blade.
(Rule changed by a prince who looks like a girl, with practically a single hand gesture... this is exactly like back in my world — the rules always bend in favor of whoever holds power, no matter the place or the era. And I’d bet these ministers know it perfectly well, but none of them dares say more than an angry mutter.)
The voices rose further for a few moments, threatening to spill into something bigger than mere grumbling, especially as some southern representatives began stepping toward the front of their platform, hands moving agitatedly through the air as though addressing the King directly despite the impossibility of him hearing them from that distance. But one of the Templars standing behind the man in the red robe took a single step forward, without a word, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword with a calm that carried more than enough threat to silence any raised voice.
The objections gradually died down — not because anyone was convinced, but because they realized there was no use continuing in the face of swords that needed nothing more than a single signal to be drawn. The southern representatives returned to their places in stifled silence, though their eyes stayed fixed on the royal platform with a resentment they made no real effort to hide.
The man in the red robe raised his hands, trying to restore order among the crowd.
"I understand this is a sudden change for some of you, but trust in our prince’s wisdom... the sword first reveals a true fighter’s spirit, before magic steps in and masks someone’s weakness — or their false strength. That’s fairness itself, not injustice."
(Pretty words wrapped around an arbitrary decision. But it looks like no one here can object any further than this without losing their head — or at least their standing before the King.)
Alexander looked toward Prince Gabriel again, trying to figure out whether banning magic in the first round came from genuine wisdom, as the man in red claimed, or was simply the whim of a spoiled young prince wanting to leave his own mark on an event he’d had no real hand in organizing. The prince’s expression gave nothing away; he kept that same calm smile, as though the anger of entire regions amounted to nothing more than a minor detail in one long ceremonial day.
The arena finally settled, though some grumbling still lingered here and there, refusing to fully fade — scattered whispers, particularly among the southern and eastern ranks, as though a small seed of resentment had just been planted, one that would grow later, somewhere else, at some time not yet arrived.
The man in the red robe returned to his formal tone, gesturing toward a small wooden box carried by one of the knights, engraved with fine cross symbols.
"And now, it’s time for the drawing... every name written here will be drawn at random to determine today’s matches. Let God’s will decide who faces whom."
The knight began drawing slips one after another, reading each name aloud, the sound echoing off the arena walls, while Alexander’s breath quickened without him realizing it, his eyes scanning the waiting faces around him, trying to guess who his first opponent might be.
Several names passed by, some met with enthusiastic applause from noble families standing close to the royal platform — names everyone already seemed to know, wrapped in an aura of expectation — while others passed in silence that caught no one’s attention, simple names from small villages with no colored banners flying for them. Then, amid the fading noise, he heard his own.
"Alexander, son of William... facing Hendro, son of the south."
Alexander knew nothing about this name — no face to attach to it, no story preceding it, just a passing word among thousands of others spoken in that arena. But he noticed, from the corner of his eye, that one of the angry southern representatives from moments ago suddenly smiled at the sound of that name — the smile of a man who knew his region’s first competitor carried something worth being proud of, as though hearing the name Hendro alone was enough to soothe some of his anger over the first-round decision.
(Hendro... ordinary name, probably an ordinary opponent. But it seems the southerners know something about him that I don’t. Well, let’s see if my first duel in this world is going to be as easy as I’m hoping.)
He searched the crowd with his eyes for any sign pointing to this person’s identity, but before he found anything, he felt a heavy stare settle on him from the other side of the arena.
He turned slightly and found that same noble young man he’d seen earlier, holding his polished sword, standing among a group of friends, watching him with a half-mocking smile — as though he knew something Alexander didn’t yet, or was simply enjoying the sight of a village boy preparing for his first real test in front of this massive crowd.
(That face again... seems like he finds my being here quite the joke. Fine. Let him laugh for now.)
Alexander didn’t pay that look much mind, but he filed it away in his memory, right next to the name Hendro, which had begun echoing in his head like a faint warning bell, and right beside the image of that rigid white mask up on the distant platform, and the prince’s calm smile that hadn’t shifted an inch through all the muted political turmoil around him — announcing that the moment he’d been waiting for through an entire exhausting week of training was finally about to begin.