For a moment, the intensity in his eyes softened. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"With that money... in Sindra, I could build something. Start a business. Something stable. Something real. A life beyond fighting..."
"No... no. What am I thinking?" He lowered his gaze to the sword again, the steel gleaming like a reminder. "First, I win. Then... maybe." For more chapters visit novel·fiɾe·net
A soft knock pulled Nolan from his thoughts. He pushed himself up, walked over, and opened the door. Cynthia stood there, holding a tray.
"Oh... it’s you," Nolan said with a faint smile.
"Yes. Here—take your meal," Cynthia replied, her voice gentle. On the tray was a simple serving of eggs and bread.
"Wow... such an amazing combo," Nolan chuckled, accepting it from her.
Cynthia gave a small smile, then turned and slipped away without another word. Nolan set the tray down, ate quietly, and soon stretched out on his bed. Sleep came quickly, carrying him into the night.
Morning broke with a golden haze over the city. By the time Nolan, Celia, Linda, and Lyra left their lodging, the streets were already packed. People surged toward the coliseum like a tidal wave, their voices buzzing with anticipation.
Lyra peeled off to join the crowd of spectators while Nolan, Celia, and Linda followed the line reserved for participants. The path forked—one way for the watchers, another for the fighters. The air around the competitor’s entrance thrummed with energy, blades clinking, armor shifting, voices muttering with nerves and bravado.
When it was Nolan’s turn, a knight stepped forward and held out his hand. "Invitation letter."
Nolan handed it over. The knight inspected it briefly before giving a curt nod and letting him through. Celia and Linda trailed close behind, their eyes sweeping over the sea of fighters already gathered inside.
"Wow..." Celia whispered. The waiting hall was enormous, and already close to four hundred participants filled the space, each preparing in their own way—stretching, sharpening weapons, or staring silently at the sand beneath their boots.
"This... this is huge," she said again, her voice tight with nerves.
Nolan noticed her hands trembling slightly. "Celia," he said gently. "Give me your hand."
She blinked at him, then hesitantly placed her hand in his. Nolan’s grip was steady, warm.
"If you ever feel nervous, just hold onto me," he said. "I’ll be here."
Celia’s face lit up pink, her lips parting as if to say something—but all she managed was a small nod.
Before the moment could linger, a familiar voice cut in.
"Hey, isn’t it the guy I met yesterday?"
Nolan turned. "Tharion."
The two clasped hands firmly.
"Looking sharp as ever, man," Tharion grinned.
"Same as you," Nolan said with a small smile.
"I can’t wait to step into that arena," Tharion said, eyes gleaming. "And did you hear? The Prince of Sindra is here. Prince Alaric—the man’s not just royalty, he’s one of the greatest adventurers alive."
Nolan’s expression darkened for a moment, though he quickly forced a smile back onto his face. "Yeah. Him."
"And not only him," Tharion added eagerly, "but the Hero himself is here too. Can you believe it? The recent hero. I’d give anything to show him my talent... maybe even join his party."
Nolan’s stomach twisted. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he leaned closer.
"Be careful, Tharion. Anything can happen in that arena. You think it’s just a contest of strength, but it’s not. Some of the people here... they came to kill. To hurt. They’ll hide behind excuses, claim it was all in the fight. And they’ll get away with it."
Tharion blinked, caught off guard. "Huh?"
Nolan realized what he’d just said aloud. He forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound dark. Guess my thoughts slipped out."
But Tharion’s smile faded into something harder, more determined. "No, you’re right. I might joke around, but I’m not weak. I know I’ll win. You’ll see."
Nolan’s jaw tightened, his voice low but firm. "I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’m the one who’s going to win this... no matter what."
Before his thoughts could go further, a sharp gust of air whirled through the waiting grounds. A man stepped forward, holding a strange wind-compression device that carried his voice like thunder across the massive chamber.
"Participants!" his voice boomed, commanding silence. "All five hundred of you who registered have now entered. This is it—no turning back."
The crowd of fighters quieted, the air heavy with anticipation.
"When your name is called," the man continued, "you will come here and pass through this gate into the arena. There are two paths—one for the first fighter, one for the second. Don’t mix them up."
He raised the device again. "Are you ready?"
A roar answered him, hundreds of voices crashing together. "YES!"
"I said, are you ready?!"
This time the response shook the very walls—"YES!!!"
The man nodded, satisfied. "Good. Then let’s begin. For the opening match—Veltra and Asta! Step forward. The rest of you, take your seats in the stands reserved for participants. There are five hundred seats waiting for you to watch... and to study your opponents. Remember, when your name is called, return here and face your fate."
The air thrummed with excitement as murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some fighters stretched their arms and cracked their knuckles. Others whispered strategies. And others—like Nolan—simply stared ahead, silent, their resolve carved in stone.
"Master, I’m ready for this," Celia said, gripping her bow with steady hands.
"Master, I’m ready too," Linda added firmly.
Nolan nodded, his expression calm. "Good... because I’m ready as well."
Just then, a shadow fell over them. Kyrion. His eyes locked on Nolan as he strode closer, his presence radiating hostility.
"Hey, you," Kyrion growled. "Prepare yourself, because when we meet in that arena, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life."
Nolan raised a brow, smirking. "Kyrion... you."
Kyrion stopped short, confusion flickering across his face. "How do you know my name?"
Nolan gestured toward his chest. "Your shirt. You’ve got a jacket on, sure—but underneath, your shirt literally says ’My name is Kyrion.’"
A few fighters nearby glanced over, then snickered.
Nolan chuckled. "Only a loser would wear their own name like that."
Laughter broke out—several participants laughed outright, and even Nolan couldn’t hold back.
Kyrion’s face turned red as he clenched his fists. "Don’t you dare insult this shirt! My grandmother made it for me!"
That only made the laughter louder. Nolan doubled over, shaking his head. "Hahaha! Oh, that’s priceless..."
Kyrion’s filled with rage. "Pray they don’t put us against each other. Because if they do... I’ll kill you," he said.