“The next match is between Harald and Silas. Competitors, please make your way onto the stage.” The moustachioed official said in a loud booming voice after the second match of the day ended. Harald mechanically started walking towards the platform, still thinking of the previous fights. Glancing to where William was seated he noted that the man's shoulder was already starting to look less mangled.

Not an idiot then, only insane for using such a method to achieve victory. Thankfully the second fight had been fairly normal, a guy with an axe who occasionally spat some embers going up against a guy with a spear that had somehow managed to halt the former’s use of the skill. No horrifying gambles, just two men going at each other with weapons to see who was better. It helped calm him to see that not all people in this tournament were crazy enough about winning that they'd sacrifice their bodies for a chance at victory.

He still wasn't completely calm though, he noted as he suddenly found himself standing in the circle facing Silas. A 20-something man holding of all things, a bow in his hands, his only other weapon being a short-sword strapped to his hip. The man was cockily seizing him up, disregard clearly visible on his face. Why? Did the man know him from way back when he'd still been a nobody, without the sword, without the skill, without the armour? It was possible. Harald didn't really hear the shout to begin, more like felt it vibrate in his bones as his body went on complete autopilot, thoughts still occupied with identifying his adversary.

Drawing his sword his body sprang forward, his killing intent was unsheathed and pointed directly at Silas who in opposition to his own movement, seemed completely frozen in time. The sword drew a graceful arch aimed at decapitating its foe, but was stopped at the last second before it could have done so by a white string coming from up above. Harald regained control of his body, watched as sweat visibly built up on the loser's face, how his pupils dilated, how the realization set in.

There were a lot of things that Harald had learned in the past few weeks. However one of his greatest lessons should be more aptly referred to as a disillusionment. A disillusionment regarding the length of battles. As William had shown earlier, some fights finished before they began simply due to a plan that one of the fighters had hatched, or due to a skill that the other had no counter too.

The match was called to an end and Harald sheathed his sword and woodenly walked off the stage. He ignored the shouts of coming from Silas and went to go stand next to the group of fighters who were still in the tournament, and who were now eyeing him warily. An odd bunch really. Now that he truly looked at them, he recognized some of the faces. Like the hateful face of Sylas, stuck onto a warrior's body, glaring hatefully at him. His brother? Harald dubbed him Silas.

A grudge had formed. What was the man's number? Harald looked up. He couldn't believe it, his name was actually Silas. He was also number twelve, and therefore Ino's problem.

A hand suddenly clapped him on the shoulder causing him to twitch. “Good job.” Ino said from his left. Harald gave him a brief nod, but his companion kept talking.

“You were all like, stare of death, and dash and schwing. I was almost expecting a head to actually fly once your sword made contact with his neck. Beautiful sword by the way, what skill did you use to freeze him like that? Did Lock teach it to you?” Ino said in rapid progression, excitement and something else Harald couldn't identify on his face.

His thoughts swam and he eventually said the first thing that came to mind. “I didn't use any skill, I think he was just a pussy.” Were his words, seemingly arising from a part of him that had a love for false bravado.

“Shut the fuck up you stupid cunt!” Somebody suddenly said from behind him, Harald turned around and saw that Silas had apparently gotten close enough to the both of them to listen in on their conversation. He was clenching his fists, rage visible in his squinted eyes and blotchy face. “You think I don't remember how much of a weakling you are? You must have cheated somehow.” He said more quietly as he slowly approached. “Admit it to the proctor and fuck off, if you do I won't beat you within an inch of your life.” He said and grabbed forward with his hands, likely in an attempt to lift Harald up by his cuirass in a threatening manner.

Harald... let him, only for the man to be thrown back the moment his hands so much as brushed his leather armour. He span around, a brown blur, black hair flying, before awkwardly landing on the ground.

“No fighting, if you have a problem, settle it in the ring.” A bored voice boomed, Harald looked at the origin and saw the Curador, a serious older gentleman dressed in pristine robes looking at them contemptuously. Harald gave the man a nod, and turned to watch the next fight. He was curious how Lock's actual cousin would hold up.

“This isn't over, I'll get you and your gay fucking butt-buddy!” He heard Silas shout from behind him. Apparently he knew how to time his aggression however as he left to sulk after his threat.

“Did he just call me a poofter?” He heard Ino mutter next to him.

“Was he wrong?” Harald teased, finally feeling as if he was coming to terms with the current situation.

Ino's hand slapping his butt brought him right back into awkwardness though.

-/-

Lock watched Ino slap Harald's ass to the jeers of the crowd, who'd been following the little spat between his pupil and some no-name in hopes of seeing some violence. He wondered for a short moment, horrified at the possibility of Ino being gay..

Mostly because if it was indeed true, the responsibility of fathering the next generation of the Trydan's main family would fall entirely on his shoulders.

Also because he'd shared public baths with Ino.

Had there been ulterior motives involved?

But no, immediately after the cheek clapping, a physical awkwardness developed between the two boys, and they sort of shuffled away from each other, Ino bringing up a hand to rub at the back of his head sheepishly. Then he froze. He'd used the hand which just previously had done something else. He squatted down and started rubbing it off into the grass of the field below. The crowd's jeers, transformed into laughter.

A hand slowly rose to envelop Lock's face. It was his own. He used his pointer and thumb to rub at his temples, and his palm to block out the view. This was too embarrassing to watch.

“What's going on?” Kamin asked in a confused voice, causing her fiancée to sigh.

“The organizers apparently found two jesters to provide some entertainment between the matches. The crowd is laughing at their shenanigans.” Lock explained softly, daring a peek into the arena. His two idiots were just standing around awkwardly now, blushing, and looking away from each other.

His cousin was indignantly standing up on stage, likely mad at having his thunder stolen. He was facing some slip of a girl wielding two daggers who was dressed like a peasant.

An interesting match-up, Lock thought as the two organizers finally turned away from the spectacle provided to start the match. His cousin naturally did the only thing he really knew how to do at the beginning of any fight, he drew his sword, which was almost as tall as him, hefted it upwards, sprang forward, and brought it down onto the girl with a shout.

The girl, a, Melinda, simply side-stepped, giving her enemy a wary look. Likely thinking that there must be some trap involved in slamming your sword into the ground and leaving yourself wide-open. She dodged backwards. Her foe followed, swing after swing, miss after miss, he chased her around the arena in a play that was almost as hilarious as what had happened previously.

Lock commented on the fight with a dead voice as he watched the disaster unfold before his eyes. “He swings, she dodges, doesn't take the opening, circles around. He shouts something, probably about how she should fight him like a man, then swings again. She dodges. She's laughing at him now.”

“That sounds dumb.” Kamin commented, and Lock couldn't help but agree. However... His cousin wasn't a complete idiot, he'd had the dream of swinging around a big sword since his childhood, he must have devised some tactics against the obvious counter to that particular fighting style.

Looking around the platform he tried to find something, anything that would indicate a greater plan about to unfold. The only thing he found were some drops of blood on the ground, and some chipped pieces of stone that came from his cousin incessantly swinging around his sword.

Something he wouldn't be able to do much longer if his laboured movements were any indication. His facial expression however, showed none of the bitterness that should have been inherent in the current scenario.

Instead his eyes were roaming the platform as he made some half-hearted swings to keep his opponent on the run. Seemingly liking what he saw, he stopped. Melinda did so as well, breathing harshly, clutching her daggers and examining her adversary. An adversary who raised his sword up high, as if he was about to take a great leap forward that would put all of China to shame, before smirking, and forming a word with his lips. Suddenly every piece of gravel, every stone that had been loosened up on the platform levitated several inches upwards, before, as much as stones could, aggressively turning towards Melinda and shooting towards her.

The girls' eyes widened. She made to jump backwards. But the stones were too fast. They enveloped her feet and she visibly tried to escape their grasp. But she was stuck, and by the wild shaking of her head, bringing her shoulder-length orange hair into disarray, she knew it. Her enemy did as well. He sprang forward and brought down the sword on the girl's head.

Only there was no girl, but an orange cat with white spots trying to stand up amidst the gravel. Lock's cousin tried to raise his sword from where he’d slammed it down, but couldn't, it seemed stuck. He quickly abandoned it, let it drop to the ground, stepped forward, extended a booted leg backwards, and punted the cat as hard as he could across the arena. Thankfully the feline was enveloped in a white cocoon in the last second, or else it would have likely disintegrated into a shower of blood and guts. Instead it splatted and stuck onto the the barrier right in front of Lock. Who meet the cat's wide green eyes with his own, before extending a hand and lightly tapping the barrier. Which promptly let go off the cocoon the cat was enveloped in, and dropped it to the ground which was about 20 feet away.

The cocoon dissipated, the cat landed on its feet and ran towards the exit of the arena, yowling for all that it's lungs were worth. “Mreoooowwwww!!!” The orange blur quickly disappeared.

“There's cat here?” Kamin suddenly asked.

Lock sighed, hoping that Ino would be able to win his fight.