Alexander was still standing near the edge of the arena, the smell of blood mixed with churned dirt still clinging to his nose, while the crowd’s noise around him gradually shifted from the roar of shock to a murmur of anticipation for whatever came next. His eyes were still tracking the fading whispers about Richard’s opponent withdrawing, when he felt a strange presence approaching from the side — calm footsteps carrying no urgency at all, as though whoever it belonged to feared nothing in this crowded place. Even amid the packed bodies, he moved through as though the crowd itself unconsciously stepped aside for him.
Alexander turned and found a man with jet-black hair, dressed entirely in elegant black clothing that stood in strange contrast to the bright colors most of the crowd wore. He was handsome in a quiet way that didn’t demand attention loudly, but through a silent confidence, the kind that belonged to someone used to being noticed without ever trying. A faint chill drifted through the packed bodies at that time of day, but the man showed no sign of feeling it at all, as though his body were used to far harsher environments than a crowded arena on competition day.
The man stopped at a close distance, looked at Alexander with a faint smile, and said in a calm voice:
"That sword in your hand was terrifying."
Alexander looked at him warily, trying to recall whether he’d seen this face before, in the crowd or in the village, but nothing in his memory gave him an answer.
"Do I know you?"
"Just an admirer... nothing more."
(An admirer? Never seen an admirer approach this calmly before, like he knows exactly where he’s standing and exactly what he wants to say. Even his admiration feels a little too calculated.)
The stranger smiled a bit wider, then tilted his head toward the arena, still empty of any new duel.
"Seems your next opponent is that noble boy... from a Strength Blessing family. I hear his right hand carries the largest amount of magic in his generation."
Alexander felt a faint tension slip into his chest at that piece of information, but he tried not to let it show on his face.
(The largest amount of magic in his generation? Why would this stranger tell me this specific detail, as though he wants to see how I’ll react to it? Who exactly goes around collecting details like this about nobles no commoner even knows?)
Then the stranger’s gaze shifted directly to Alexander’s left hand, the one covered by the leather glove his mother had made, and it wasn’t a passing glance — it was fixed, deliberate, as though searching for something specific beneath that black leather.
"What are you hiding under that glove... a disfigured hand?"
Alexander went still for a moment, feeling something like cold creep up his spine — not clear fear, but an instinctive caution he didn’t yet understand the source of.
(Why is he asking specifically about my left hand? Out of everything a stranger could ask, he picks this exact question. And how did he even know there was something worth asking about under this glove in the first place? No one stares at an ordinary glove with this kind of focus unless they already know something’s worth hiding under it.)
Alexander tried to answer with manufactured indifference, looking away from the man’s eyes toward the empty arena ahead.
"Just an old injury. Nothing worth mentioning."
The stranger didn’t seem convinced by that answer, but he didn’t push further, letting it dissolve in the air between them with practiced ease, as though he knew perfectly well that the time hadn’t come yet to push this conversation any further.
Alexander looked at him with sudden sharpness, his curiosity beginning to outweigh his caution.
"How do you even know all this? About Richard’s hand, and about... all these details ordinary people wouldn’t know?"
The stranger smiled calmly, as though the question hadn’t surprised him at all — as though he’d been waiting for it since the conversation began.
"Because I’m a former war hero, boy."
Alexander studied him more closely after that sentence, trying to find any trace suggesting its truth; no visible scars, no physical mark like the ones he’d seen on his father’s or brother’s bodies — just that strange calm that could be hiding anything behind it.
(A war hero? Maybe. But which war exactly? And why would a former war hero stand here, talking to some unknown village boy about his left hand as though he already knew it?)
Rather than pursue that line of thought, the stranger glanced toward the crowd surrounding them, and his tone shifted slightly, growing colder, closer to a man discussing something self-evident that required little emotion.
"All of this... this noise, these banners, this excitement you see in people’s eyes, is genuinely meaningless. The winner of this competition won’t be honored for long, the way everyone assumes. He’ll be used to fight wars that never needed to happen — wars decided by others sitting in distant palaces, while whoever wins here today gets pushed to the front lines, just another name added to the list of heroes who died for decisions they never had a say in."
Alexander listened to those words in silence, something in them ringing far too true, deeper than the idle chatter of a passing admirer, as though the man were speaking from an experience he’d actually lived through, not some theory he’d heard secondhand.
(Who the hell are you? No ordinary admirer talks with this kind of bitterness about a competition that hasn’t even ended yet, and no ordinary war hero cares this much about the hand of some village boy he’s never met before.)
Before Alexander could ask anything further, the announcer’s voice rose from the middle of the arena, its echo cutting clearly through the crowd’s noise, announcing the start of the next duel.
"Alexander, son of William... facing Richard!"
Alexander felt a sudden jolt in his chest at the sound of his own name, trying to push the image of that stranger and his unsettling questions aside, and reclaim the cold focus he’d needed in his first duel.
(No time to think about this man now... Richard’s waiting for me, and he’s not Hendro. I need to forget all this strange talk, even if just for a few moments.)
Alexander looked at the stranger one last time, trying to read something more in his calm features, but found nothing except that same enigmatic smile — steady, unbothered by the duel’s announcement, as though it meant nothing to him at all.
"Seems the time has come," the stranger said calmly. "Good luck... you’ll need it more than you think."
Alexander turned slowly toward the arena, his sense of caution still with him, now mixed with a heavy curiosity toward that stranger who’d appeared out of nowhere, asking specifically about his left hand, speaking of future wars as though he already knew details that hadn’t been announced yet, then claiming to be a former war hero in a tone carrying no pride, no boasting — something closer to an old fatigue that had never fully healed.
(I’ll remember your face, stranger... something tells me this won’t be the last time we meet.)
And as he walked toward the center of the arena, where Richard was already waiting for him with a calm smile and a polished sword gleaming under the noon sun, Alexander tried to push all those questions aside, to reclaim the inner silence he needed before every duel — but the echo of that last sentence stayed lodged somewhere in his mind: you’ll need it more than you think.
Alexander didn’t turn back to see that the stranger had already vanished among the rows of the crowd, without a trace, as though he’d never been there at all, leaving behind a single question hanging in the air — one Alexander would find no answer to.