Richard was incredibly frustrated with the current situation. Not only had his father forced him to enter this stupid tournament. But one of the judges had also defaced his honor. It didn't matter if anyone else saw the healing magic. Richard knew, and that left a sting in his heart. It was maddening.

What made it all the worse was that he'd had to fight this entire time with a ridiculous restriction in place. Richard hadn't drawn his dagger or used anything more than a near-worthless weapon hardening skill. Not by choice. If Richard had his way, he wouldn't have done something so pointless. His father had imposed that restriction. It was outrageous. It proved nothing, it was nothing, and IT MEANT NOTHING.

Message

While you have failed to demonstrate your proficiency with your secondary class,

I have deemed it prudent to permit you to use your primary class's abilities.

Don't disappoint me again.

Richard heard the distinct gravely tones of his father resonate as if he were right next to him. His father, having used a message spell from wherever he was watching. The magic tickled inside Richards's skull. The tops of his ears, forced by the magic's reaction with his flesh, twitched involuntarily. Richard found the entire experience unpleasant. He never liked the feeling of the spell, especially with his father using it. But that never mattered.

Shaking his head, Richard forced the thoughts on the sensation of the spell out of his mind and focused most of his thoughts on the Message, not on the feeling it left him. His father sounded disappointed, his tone one of grave disappointment. As if Richard winning with that restriction could prove anything other than he shouldn't have participated in this tournament. The entire reason Richard was here was his father's scheming.

Richard didn't care about joining the hero's party. He didn't want to go on some long-winded journey with people he'd never met. But, if duke Valches wanted something, everyone had to jump, including his son. And he wanted something; he always wanted something.

This time, it was a connection with the hero. Richard winning this tournament was his father's last chance at getting that. So Richard had to fight.

Allowed to use his preferred form of fighting, he'd at least get to have some fun while doing it.

Richard grabbed the hilt of his dagger, the familiar feeling comfortable in his hand. It was his favorite weapon, the only one he got to choose for himself. Nothing mattered when Richard held this knife, nothing but the fight. Everything else would melt away, and the world around Richard would gain a unique vibrance when he felt that familiar wood in his hand. Technically, a skill caused this feeling; The Eyes of A Duelist let Richard see the world better as long as he was fighting. But Richard loved it all the same.

The world warped; the unique colors and line the skill let him see filled Richard's mind.

Richard pulled the blade from its as the feeling and sight it settled into place. The action was routine; Richard's muscles remembered it better than his mind. He'd taken this stance so often that it was akin to meditation. It helped clear his mind of any intrusive thoughts just the same.

His heart alight, his body prepared, Richard faced his opponent one more time. Richard didn't care if he won or lost. The only thing he cared about now was enjoying the fight.

After his assault failed, The Noble seemed to still for a second. His face contorted. His emotions were a wild storm that twisted his face from expression to expression. I witnessed shame, frustration, anger, boredom, and other minor emotions cross his face. I didn't know what was happening. So, I watched him, cautious of any other tricks. I saw his ears twitch, an involuntary response I knew well.

The Message spell. Mana doesn't like flesh, but Message is a spell that is one of the few that interacts with the body without significant consequences. The result is that the ears of the receiver twitch, their muscles contracting in impossible ways. There are ways to avoid it. But they all require training most are unwilling to put into any skill that grants knowledge of such utility spells.

I didn't know what The Nobleman heard. I could guess at the contest, although doing so was pointless. Such things hadn't deterred my wandering mind in the past, nor would they today. So I wondered if it could be about the healing he'd received. Or if the contents were unrelated to such things. Whatever it was, I hoped its impact on the second round of our fight would remain minimal.

As if he heard my hopes and chose to smash them. The Nobel drew the dagger at his hip. Unlike my initial perception of the weapon, his dagger was far from bland. The blade was bone white, appearing crafted from the bone of some monster. Across the faces swam shifting patterns, the weapon taking to my opponent's spirit like a living creature. It was sharp, honed to an edge so deadly I had little doubt it would cut right through most, if not all, of my equipment with ease.

The Nobel looked more assured of himself with both weapons in his hands. He'd dropped the confident smile that I now thought felt like a show for the crowd. He'd replaced it with one of satisfaction and joy. His stance looked more assured, and the openings from before had vanished. His eyes, filled with pride, looked excited. I'd failed to notice the empty light of boredom until it faded from my opponent's eyes like mist in the noon-day sun. I felt it; he wanted this fight. He wasn't serious before, which cost him something I couldn't see. At this moment, he desired a challenge, the thrill of combat, which was better for both of us.

He appeared ready. So I took the initiative to restart our match. I rushed forward and swung my spear at his head like a halberd. He raised his sword in between my weapon and his head. His spirit flared as my weapon impacted his, and I felt the long blade steal the momentum from my strike. My weapons stopped in place without the feeling of an impact traveling up the shaft to my arms. The Nobleman spun around my spear, using that stolen momentum to move behind me in a blur of motion.

AS he finished his rotation, The Nobleman sliced at my back. The air parted around the edge of his knife. The weapon in my opponent's hand, combined with his strike's speed, could split my spine. I couldn't deflect his attack; my spear wouldn't make it. I couldn't dodge, not entirely; my feet couldn't move to step away before his strike landed on my back. With no other option, I threw myself to the ground. I felt the wind blast past above me. I hadn't taken a hit, but I couldn't stay still. I rolled away from my opponent, narrowly avoiding a strike from The Noble's sword.

I used my hands to push myself off the stone, out of my roll, launching myself into a flip to turn toward my opponent. As I landed, I took count of the feeling of his skill. To me, it felt the same as Redirect Momentum. If that assumption proved correct, He'd be able to use any attack he blocked to assail me from the other side. It was troublesome, but it helped confirm my thoughts that he's some form of Duelist. I hoped it was a base form at tier two. A tier three class would be troublesome.

I would need to test the waters to see.

I swung my spear at his head, the strike a replica of the previous. I saw him raise his sword, and I could feel that same flare of spirit around his body. When my attack landed, I felt all the force leave my weapon, my arms stopping without any vibration. The Nobel spun past my spear, like before. But I turned counter to him, aiming my elbow where I suspected he'd go.

I felt my elbow make contact with the young man's face. I felt something break. I'd assume it was his nose. And I'm almost positive I felt his teeth shift before my elbow skidded across off his head. It was the type of blow that left one angry and insulted. It did nothing to stop him in the long term; all it could do was hinder his breathing and induce pain. But I felt no pity for him. He'd almost entirely done it to himself, having spun directly into my secondary attack.

I continued to turn, bringing the tip of my spear around my body to point at him. And as I did, I saw the damage the blow had done to his face.

His nose was broken, the tip pointing at a wrong angle. I would have found it almost comical if not for the persistent blood flow coming out of his nose. He looked angry, but I saw that same light of excitement in his eyes. I could only think he was enjoying this despite the pain.

Seeing he wanted to continue this, I pushed him harder. I upped the force and speed of my attacks. He seemed to have fun fighting, so I'd let him enjoy this before he lost.

I stabbed at him, my spear ripping through the air. He deflected it with his knife, the white blade grinding against the shaft of my weapon. The Noble hadn't stolen anything from this attack. He let it continue past him while he stepped into my chest. I saw his sword coming toward my stomach, the tip poised to run me through. I couldn't block or deflect with my spear. It was still on the other side of my opponent. I had to dodge.

I pulled myself sideways, using my spear as leverage to yank myself out of the path of his attack. Or at least I tried to. I was cautious of snapping my spear, so I hadn't pulled hard enough to get all of me out the way. The Nobleman's blade caught the stomach of my coat, cutting through it, and skidding across the leather beneath.

I'd need to stitch that closed. I planned to replace it, but I was unaware of how long it would take. So this one would require repairs. And while it was no more than an annoyance, I did want to take it out on the young man who'd caused it.

I was close to my opponent, so I lifted my leg and kicked my leg out toward my opponent's chest. First, the bottom of my boot made firm contact with my opponent's chest. I had only just started the motion of my kick. I felt his spirit flare, trying to protect his chest, but I continued to extend my leg. Second, the ornamental armour he wore crumpled a tiny bit inwards. I was right to believe it inadequate for a fight. It had failed to withstand the force of my blow, enough to shield him. Finally, when my knee finished unbending, The Noble's feet left the ground. The strength of my kick lifted him from the stone floor, sending him flying backward nearly to the edge of the platform. But still a few steps away.

But I wasn't done with him.

I ran after him, and when his feet made contact with the ground, I hurled my spear at his head like a javelin. It didn't have the weight needed to do more than cut him, but it was just a distraction. I acted as the shadow of my weapon, right behind it throughout its flight. I was low to the ground; any blow I landed with this would be to his chest or abdomen. Even if it hadn't proven adequate protection, both were armored, but I felt confident it wouldn't matter.

The Nobleman's face contorted into shock. But the young man's surprise at the abandonment of my spear wasn't enough to stop him from protecting his face. He lifted both his weapons, making an X with the flats of both blades in front of his head. The tip of my spear impacted the center of his guard. The weight proved insufficient to push his dagger or sword aside. Instead, his guard managed to redirect my spear to the side. It wasn't all for naught, as the tip still cut along the side of his face and split his ear. Still, that was only an extra benefit.

My opponent had kept his eyes focused on my weapon, and he'd failed to take note of my approach. By the time he noticed his mistake, it was too late. My fist thundered forward, the air screaming at its passage. I hadn't dared use this force with my spear; it wouldn't have survived. My bones, flesh, and muscles were a different story. I had to imagine they'd all take this blow far better than the metal I was about to strike.

My knuckles slammed into his chest, the metal deforming further from the blow. It would be getting hard to breathe in there if I was right. My opponent's feet lost traction, his boots scraping across the stone. He skidded backward a step before stopping.

I wasn't willing to allow him the chance to recover from my attack, so I gave chase. Rushing in, I aimed a round kick at his side, the air blasting out of my body's way.

Guarding with his sword, the noble used my kick to propel himself into another spin. He wasn't dumb. I could not claim that from his actions. If he'd spun toward my back as he had before, I'd have landed another blow; instead, my opponent only used the spin to build momentum before attempting to drive his knife into my chest. No matter how much I wished to push my assault, I had to step back to evade this attack.

Undeterred, he continued the motion, bringing his sword down into an overhead blow. I could have evaded again, but all that would do was allow him to continue pushing me back. And I wasn't keen on allowing that. Without dodging, my only option was to guard against his slash. I lifted my arms over my head and took the blow across my limbs. His strike tore the sleeves of my coat to ribbons before cutting a deep groove into the bracers beneath. If he'd landed this same attack with his knife, I was sure he'd have drawn an excessive amount of blood, if not cut to my bones.

Despite the damage I'd taken, I hadn't succeeded in holding us in place. The strength of my opponent's attack sent my boots sliding backward. I felt a blow to my pride as I did so. Almost all the power of his swing had come from my kick. From that, one could argue this damage was self-inflicted. But I didn't have the time to care about that.

The young man rushed forward, closing the distance between us with a thrust at my stomach. It appeared he shared my sentiment about not giving the other rest at this point in our fight. I leaned sideways, avoiding disembowelment by a thin margin, but failing to prevent the attack from leaving another cut across my clothing. It was growing annoying that I couldn't end this with force. But that would defeat the point of holding back so far.

I stepped toward him, putting myself just at his guard. It wasn't optimal, but he was taller than me, so it would have to do. I slammed both hands forward, one toward his head, the other aimed at his stomach. Only seeing one, he raised both his weapons to protect his face. The energy of my fist vanished on contact with the flats of my opponent's blades. But, before he could use the stolen momentum, my other hand slammed into his stomach. This time the metal held, but the impact still sent him stumbling backward, winded. With no air in his proverbial sails, his guard fell. It was An unfortunate move considering it left his broken nose open to another punch. And that's what I aimed to do.

My fist covered the short distance to his face with ease. My hand slammed into his nose with a shockwave of air, the already broken bone crumbling further. Discombobulated, he stumbled, only a step away from the edge. I pressed my advantage and leaped after the stumbling noble. My shoulder contacted his chest, pushing him right onto the edge before the young man regained his composure. But I felt it was too late. I pulled my arm back, and with enough force to launch him to the far wall, I slammed my fist into his abdomen.

That should have been the end of it. My attack held more than enough strength to send The Noble off the ledge. But instead, my fist felt one impact, then another. I saw a shimmer of magically refracted light behind him. I wouldn't have used nearly as much force if I'd known or been more observant. As it stood, my fist crushed the armour like it was paper goods, the metal deformed inwards, pushing his organs aside. For a moment, he was held afloat, stuck between my hand, and the barrier behind him. Then he fell to the ground as blood poured from his mouth and nose. His weapons clattered on the stone platform, the strength in his hand failing to hold them any longer.

I was positive I'd done near-deadly damage to his organs. The dent in his armour was too deep for that not to be the case.

I felt my rage boil in my stomach. The cheating meant nothing to me. I'd come to expect it, and working around it was something I was more than willing to do. The target of my anger was myself. I knew better than to use so much force in what amounted to a friendly match. I'd like to imagine I would have acted differently, perhaps held back on that final punch, if I'd spotted the barrier, but such thoughts meant nothing now. It was pointless to speak of what I would have done while looking down on someone I'd just given potentially severe organ damage.

Hurrying the best I could, I started attempting to remove his chest piece, hopeful that someone had already called for a proper healer to deal with what I'd done.

That is when the screaming started.

Agonizing wails pierced the ears of everyone in the arena. The young noble in front of me was screaming out in pain. His howls echoed throughout the space, making everyone look around in a panic, trying to find the source. He was unbearably loud, his voice cracking, his vocal chord undoubtedly taking damage from the force behind his voice. There was no doubt everyone in the circular space could hear him, as he'd drowned out every sound except himself.

I'd jumped away from The Youn Man when he started screaming. My caution about an attack overtook my concern for the wounded party. I first looked at his weapons, giving them a cursory glance to confirm they weren't cursed in some fashion. But nothing flowed from them to him or anyone else, nor did any energy remain in them after he'd dropped them. They were inert chunks of material right now. Continuing my search, I turned my sight upon the audience. I could see many of them from my position and the panic on their faces. But I also saw their eyes gather together. One by one, the audience's eyes settled on the injured man and someone else. I followed their gaze, tracing a path from them to what they all saw, and what I found left me disgusted.

I gaped at the judges' table and the imbecile causing this situation.

It was the same one who'd healed my opponent before. He'd forgone any form of secrecy this time and used a spell with a glowing bright white magic circle. I felt anger boil in my gut at how unbearably stupid his actions were. The kid on the ground couldn't heal as he was, not like this. Healing magic was too inaccurate, and it wouldn't care about the metal plating still pushing aside his organs. It would just flood him with mana and try and grow new flesh in whatever configuration the physical constraint allowed. The only time you'd do something so dumb is to torture a man. But from what I saw, the idiot at the table didn't know that or didn't care.

Since I'd found the cause of the screaming, I let my caution fade and rushed back to The Nobleman's side. If I had time, I might have been able to remove his armour, and at least stop the pain. But I didn't have time. I could already see blistering flesh trying to grow around the edges of the metal plating; given a few more minutes, his flesh would fuse with the metal, the magic too unreliable at guessing what was and wasn't supposed to be here.

I felt a weight settles in my gut. I had to win. That was a fact in my mind. And clearly, the judges weren't going to declare a victory in this state, not to me. So I felt my resolve settles on a singular idea. One I would do my utmost to avoid

With a steady hand, I picked up The Nobleman's knife. The sharp blade felt heavy in my hand, but I still wielded it deftly to try and cut his armour off of him. But as I worked, I only made the situation worse. My cuts around the straps failed to remove the equipment and only furthered the damage to his flesh. Eventually, I gave up on freeing him. That wouldn't stop his pain at this point. Besides, his damaged and regrowing body was starting to fuse with the strap, preventing me from doing anything to them.

If I continued, I'd as likely kill him to get him out of the armor as I would help him.

My last hope was that he was still aware enough to understand hand signs. I had little doubt he knew at least the basics. So I stepped sideways to place myself in line with his face.

"Surrender" I formed the simple gesture in front of the man's eyes. I hoped he would understand. And I hope d further he was aware enough to obey. "Surrender" I commanded again. This time, the light of recognition sparked in his clouded eyes. "Surrender" I commanded one more time. And this time, that light turned to a grim resignation mixed with determination.

The Noble nodded his head, then with all the pain he'd been screaming with so far, he howled out, "I SU-SU-SURRENDER," But no response came from anyone in the arena. "I GIVE UP." His pain-filled cry echoed across the stands for all to hear. But no answer came. "STOP THE FIGHT, Please." He begged, his screams turning to pained whimpers. However, no announcement followed his yelling. The entire arena remained silent. Even the dull whispers from the crowd had faded away.

I glanced at the judges and felt my anger redouble. None of them looked at the stage. Not even the man causing this suffering. They looked in every direction that they could to avoid looking at the stage or making eye contact with the clearly worried and confused audience.

In an instant, I felt my heart sink. I had wanted to avoid it, but someone would die today.

Richard tried to think past the pain to recall what had brought about his current predicament. He rewound through the match, looking for what went wrong. He thought about the dent in his armor that prevented him from breathing correctly and was pressing on his painfully. But that wasn't it; that wasn't what went wrong. So he thought about the series of blows that dented his armour throughout the match. But again, that didn't feel correct to his pain-filled mind. So he thought about that thrown spear that distracted him. He considered what would have happened if he'd dodged it or if he'd watched the masked man better. Still, these thoughts felt wrong.

He eliminated every possible issue almost as quickly as he could think of them. These weren't the problem. The only cause for this entire situation was that Richard had participated in this tournament at all. And further, still, this pain wouldn't be happening if his father hadn't paid the judge to guarantee Richard won the finals.

Another of dad's schemes had come to bite Richard in the ass. And ruin not only his day but the public image of Richard. Whenever he complained about these plots to his father, the old bastard always responded the same way. He'd say it's the Valches way; schemes were how they got to where they were. But Richard never bought it. If that was the case, why was Richard in agony right now. Still, his father had said it so many times it almost echoed in Richard's mind whenever he wanted to complain.

While Richard was thinking like this, the masked man got his attention with a distinct yet straightforward gesture, the explorer's hand sign for surrender.

Richard had studied hand signs; most nobles did, even if they never used them. The ones who use it the most are usually explorers these days.

Richard had wanted to be an explorer himself. Of course, his dad had forbidden it. But he'd made sure to know some of the procedures, just in case. And he'd gone a step above in studying hand signs and monster biology.

Richard's thoughts raced through his head at the symbol. It took another prompt from the masked man before Richard cleared the cloud from his mind enough to agree. He didn't have a reason to decline at this point. After all, the judge was only healing him to keep him conscious, so he didn't lose. And it was that very same healing that was causing the agonizing pain in his stomach. Still, it took a third and final reiteration of the sign for Richard to open his mouth.

"I SU-SU-SURRENDER," Richard Used as much air as he could get into his impaired lungs to shout out. A moment passed, and the pain continued, So Richard opened his mouth again. "I GIVE UP." He yelled again, but the pain continued. "STOP THE FIGHT, Please," Richard begged. But the agony wouldn't stop. He wanted to keep yelling. But, he couldn't muster the effort to open his mouth again. All Richard could get to come from his throat was a pained whimper, like a dog.

Richard couldn't do anything. he couldn't move, and he couldn't cry out anymore. All he could do was wait for the pain to stop and the darkness of unconsciousness to take him. But it didn't happen. Instead, Richard felt the masked man stand from the position at his side.

When Richard looked up, he saw the man holding the dagger he'd dropped earlier. The black gloves on his hand stretched a little at how tight he was grasping the hilt.

Richard could only assume the masked man was about to kill him. He didn't blame the man. Richard actually welcomed the sweet oblivion death would offer in his current state. If Richard had been in the other's position, he would have done the same. It was a kindness and a necessity to win.

Looking at his soon-to-be killer, Richard cursed his father, condemned him for putting him in this win-or-die situation, cursed him for his planning and scheming, and cursed for all of the dreams he'd forbade Richard from pursuing. This was his fault, like everything else.

Richard watched the masked man move. The knife cut through the air swiftly, the force behind it astounding. Richard traced the knife's path and gasped when the masked man's swing reached its final position, and the blade left his hand. He followed it in wonder as it flew through the air towards the neck of its victim.

Richard could only thank the masked man in his mind as it did. Then his consciousness faded to black.

Draet was not pleased with the course of his week. Being a regular contestant at the arena, Draet found out about this paid event earlier than most. He'd gone to sign up for a standard fight against a captured monster or a friendly duel, only to find that there were none of those. That put a little bit of a damper on Draets week as fighting here was his primary source of income. So he'd been happy to hear that there would still be an event, just one with an atypical grand prize. So Draet planned to join in the tournament instead. He didn't care about the grand prize, but he was sure he could put on a good show and earn some money from the usual system of paying the fighters a cut of the bets. That wasn't the case.

Not only was this not the case, but the nobles had also added an entry fee for the contestant. The regular fighters chose not to enter with an entrance fee and none of the usual betting pay. Draet included. It just wasn't worth it for any of them.

The issue was that Draet still needed cash. So he asked around with the arena staff if they knew of a way he could make some money while this was going on. He didn't expect much, but it would at least get him by till the arena had another of its regular shows.

So, Draet had gotten a job from management to keep the judges honest. It was an odd job. Usually, that wasn't a concern. The arena had a good reputation that they had strived to maintain. They didn't rig fights, and they always made sure the fighters got their pay.

This event was different, the nobles had strong-armed the owner into letting them judge the fights, and the owner had little doubt that they would try something at some point, and he'd been right.

While things hadn't been perfect, the most that had happened was a few fights going on past the point the judges should have declared a victor. But the victory had still gone to the correct individual. Still, Draet kept an eye out, especially today during the semi-final and finals.

Still, in the back of his head, he hoped he could sit back in one of the private viewing areas, enjoy the supplied food, and see some noble brats beat each other over the head. And, for the most part, that was what happened. Even the final fight was going fine for a while, at least by this event's standards.

That was until Draet noticed the rich git get up from a blow that should have knocked him out. Draet couldn't see who'd cast the magic, but he knew the signs. He'd felt it enough times to know someone had healed the bastard.

Draet had wanted to end the fight right then. That was a clear violation of the rules and a mark against the arena's reputation. Unfortunately, a quick talk with the arena staff had stopped him from acting.

They didn't have enough evidence. And there was no way anyone would confess to that kind of cheating. So Draet would have to wait. And hopefully, he'd get a chance to do what the owner paid him to.

Draet sat with a scowl on his face watching the rest of the match. While the show was more impressive than before, Draet was too pissed to enjoy it. And then he saw the shimmer of the barrier. Draet moved out of the room toward the judges' table before seeing the rich git fall.

To Draet, it didn't matter if he could prove the noble brat was cheating. He'd seen that impact and the wound it left. This fight was ending now.

The screaming started while draet was walking along the stone hallway.

Draet Rushed out into the light near some audience members and took in the scene before him. He saw the screaming Richard on the ground. To any observer, it was clear the man was in agony. Draet could understand why. The dent in his armour was brutal, worse than Draet had initially thought when he left his viewing area. Draet had seen similar blows before, and they took a practiced hand to fix. But what made it worse was what Draet saw at the judge's stand.

Healing magic is a halfway measure for use only in battle. That is a rule Draet learned early on and followed to a T. You closed wounds with a healing spell to stabilize someone for a proper healer to use spirit to nit them back together. You never used healing magic on an injury that you couldn't see, and you never used it if there was something in the way of the wound closing. Draet had thought everyone knew that.

But that apparently wasn't true.

One of the judges was clearly healing the man Draet now recalled was named Richard. It wasn't like before. Draet hadn't seen anything that time. This magic was as blatant as possible, the magic circle visible to anyone who looked.

Draet saw the masked man rushing towards Richard with the noble's weapons in hand in the corner of his eye. But he ignored that. No matter what the masked man was about to do, Draet wouldn't make it in time to stop him, So he began Moving towards the judges' stand, aiming to stop the healing that seemed to torture the man below.

Moments after Draet started moving toward the judges; he heard Richard's first cry of surrender. It wasn't a pleasant sound, pained, desperate, and lacking any of the decorum Draet would like. That should have been the end, but Draet could see the judges looking away. Another cry came out—this was shorter but no less painful to hear. But not one of the rich asshats in the judges' seats listened. A final cry rang through Draeast head, the desperate plea for the fight to end, for someone to save the man below. Draets vision turned red when he saw the judges' blatant disregard for the cry for help.

By this point, Draet was sprinting at the judges. He had every intention of punching a man in the head for this atrocity. He didn't care if they were high born. Draet wouldn't let this stand.

When he was only a few steps from the judge's stand, Draet saw more movement in the corner of his eye. The masked man had risen from the side of the young noble with a knife in his hand. Draet could see a spark of fear in the eyes of some audience members. They thought he was about to kill the now whimpering noble. It'd be A merciful death for a cheating bastard, in Draets eyes.

But that wasn't what he did. The masked man threw the dagger with a powerful flick of his arm. Some wouldn't have had time to see where it was going, and they'd just feel relief that it wasn't meant for the tortured soul in front of him. Draet, on the other hand, could trace the knife's path with his eyes and see who the masked man was trying to hit.

It was heading straight for the judge casting the healing magic. The masked man had the same thought as Draet, but he'd taken a far deadlier approach to the problem.

No matter how angry he was, Draet didn't like letting people die in front of him. He wanted the bastard in front of him to pay for what he was doing, but Draet didn't see this as something worth the man's life. But he only had two options for preventing any unnecessary death today.

Draet could take the knife himself. It'd stop it from killing anyone, as Draet was confident he could block it without dying. But Draet could sum up his feeling on that particular course of action in two words.

Fuck that.

Draet's other option was to tackle the target and get them out of the way. Something Draet was more than willing to do as it allowed him the opportunity to land his own form of retribution on the man.

With a loud Crash, the hulking frame of Draet smashed into the judges' stand. His charge knocked one judge to the side, his wooden chair crumbling under Draet's feet. But he kept going, forcing his shoulder in the side of the one casting the healing magic. Draet knew he wasn't safe yet. He was still in the knife's path, so he kept running, throwing the rest of the judges to the ground as he passed them.

AT the end of the stand, Draet stopped. He heard shouting from several judges, each more than willing to express their undue indignation to Draet. But he didn't bother saying anything to them. The only response he bothered to give any of them was a quick jutted thumb in the direction of the knife.

They went silent for a moment before looking where he was pointing. Then they all went pale as ghosts. Not that Draet blamed them. The masked man's throw had buried the knife deep into the stone behind the table. It didn't take a keen eye to spot that it had cut straight through where one of them was sitting not moments before. And Draet could tell they all saw that as well.

Once he was sure his pointed thumb had placated them and they wouldn't interfere with him, Draet turned out to the audience and shouted.

"CURSED MASK WINS."

"CURSED MASK WINS." A red-skinned varten declared for everyone to hear.

Within seconds the announcer repeated those words and started doing his best to guide the crowd back to a semblance of normalcy. But I didn't stick around for that. The instant I'd heard the call of my victory moved swiftly to exit the area. I didn't bother to fetch my spear; I wasn't going to stick around to deal with the fallout of this situation.

I passed dozens of arena staff rushing out to help the injured noble as I left. They were better suited to this than I, so I had little doubt he'd recover. That thought set my mind at ease as I walked the halls toward an enclosed waiting area with a single wooden bench down the middle.

I had not expected anyone to intervene with the nobles' in charge of judging. I'd been cynical about it, as I hadn't seen anything occur to tell me otherwise. That's why I'd thrown the knife. If nothing else, it would stop the young nobles from suffering. But I hadn't only been wrong about someone interfering with the judges; that red-skinned varten had also saved me from killing one of them. I didn't care that he had stopped me. In fact, I felt the outcome was better for his interference.

The only thing I had left to do was wait and see if they'd honor the vartens declaration. I could only hope that would be the case. But with how badly things had gone, I wasn't even sure they'd honor this tournament, let alone my victory. No matter the outcome, I had to wait.

A clock on the wall ticked incessantly. My worrying mind made the seconds go by slower than they should have. I could see only a few minutes had passed, but I felt like it was hours. I'd have to find another path forward if this fell through. And I frankly didn't have the energy for that these days.

Someone entered the waiting room after a perceived eternity that the clock said was fifteen minutes.

"Well, that was quite the incident, but before we talk about that, I'd like to congratulate you." The girl in front of me said, her voice high pitched and sweet sounding. "If things had gone according to plan, we'd have met out on the stage. But I didn't think that was the greatest idea with how things are." She chuckled at the words, but it felt slightly forced.

"What exactly is this?" I wove my mana into the glowing words to communicate, making sure not to let it leave my control. I felt I knew the answer, but it was better to ask.

It took her a moment to read the words. Perhaps she hadn't acclimated to the language yet, or maybe my writing was difficult to read; I didn't know yet.

"Well, it's about your prize. You are the champion of this tournament, and as a reward, you get to join my party if you want." The Hero said before sticking out her hand. "I look forward to working with you." She said with a familiar twinkle in her eye.