The Polis Proving Grounds were not hard to find. Located in the city's northern district, a stark contrast to the Merchant Quarter's refined opulence, they occupied a vast, open area enclosed by high, weathered stone walls. The air here tasted different – dust, iron, sweat, and the faint, coppery tang of old blood. Thunderous roars and the clash of weapons echoed from within, a constant, brutal symphony.
Evan paid the single copper entry fee at a heavily guarded gate, stepping into an arena of controlled chaos. Tiered stone benches rose steeply around a central sunken pit – the main fighting area. Smaller, fenced-off sparring rings dotted the periphery. The stands were perhaps half-full, a rough crowd consisting mostly of off-duty soldiers, hardened mercenaries, opportunistic gamblers, and thrill-seekers. They cheered, jeered, and placed bets with reckless abandon.
In the main pit, two combatants circled each other. One, a mountain of a man clad in battered plate armor, wielded a massive warhammer. The other, lean and quick, used twin daggers, darting in and out, seeking gaps in the heavy defense. The fight was savage, brutal, and utterly captivating to the bloodthirsty crowd. Evan watched, his stomach churning, the reality of Sharon's warning hitting home. This wasn't sparring; this was potentially lethal entertainment.
A stocky man with a scarred face and a ledger bustled up to Evan. "New meat? Looking to fight, lad? Or just here to gawk and lose coin?" His voice was a gravelly rasp.
Evan forced his voice steady. "I wish to fight."
The fight master eyed him skeptically, taking in the simple robe, the lack of armor or visible weapons. "Hah! What discipline? Mage? You look too soft for a warrior. Got any gear?"
"Zither Magic," Evan stated, meeting the man's gaze. "I require no weapon."
"Lute Magus?" The fight master snorted. "Rare breed. Usually only see 'em in fancy courts, not the Pit. Fine. Rules are simple: No killing blows intended. Accidents happen. Yield ends the fight. Winner takes a third of the gate for their tier. Loser gets nothing but bruises... or worse. Name?"
"Evan."
"Right. Crimson-Rank bracket, I presume?" the man sneered, jotting down the name. "Got a slot in an hour. Opponent: 'Boulder' Grum. Likes crushing soft things. Entry fee: One silver. Pay up front."
Evan handed over another precious silver coin, his reserves dwindling alarmingly. He was committed now.
The hour passed in a blur of anxiety and grim observation. Evan watched other fights: swift knife-fighters, a burly axeman, a Green-Rank Earth Mage who used rock fists. The violence was raw, efficient, and often ended with broken bones or unconsciousness. He focused on his breathing, centering himself, reaching for the calm core Quentin's melodies had instilled. He couldn't access the Sovereigns' power, but the Innocent Heart Core's focus, the Bamboo Sect's evasion techniques drilled into muscle memory – these were his weapons.
"Evan! To the East Ring! Facing 'Boulder' Grum!" The fight master's shout cut through the din.
Evan walked towards the designated ring, a smaller fenced area near the main pit. A path cleared through the crowd, marked by jeers and laughter. "Look at the stick!" "Grum's gonna snap him like a twig!" "Bet he doesn't last ten breaths!"
In the ring, waiting, stood Grum. He was aptly named – easily seven feet tall, shoulders like slabs of granite, arms thick with corded muscle. He wore only thick leather trousers and heavy gauntlets. No armor was needed; his sheer mass was intimidating enough. He cracked his knuckles, a cruel grin splitting his face as he saw Evan approach.
"Pretty little bird," Grum rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "Come sing for me before I pluck your feathers."
Evan stepped into the ring, the gate clanging shut behind him. He stood still, hands loose at his sides, facing the giant. The noise of the crowd faded into a distant roar. His world narrowed to the ring, the opponent, and the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Fear was there, cold and sharp, but beneath it flowed the deep, resonant current of the Innocent Heart Core – calm, focused, waiting.
The referee, a grizzled veteran missing an ear, barked: "Begin!"
Grum charged. No finesse, no technique – just overwhelming force. He covered the distance in three lumbering strides, a massive, gauntleted fist aimed like a battering ram at Evan's head.
Evan didn't try to block. He flowed. Years of Bamboo Sect evasion training took over. He pivoted on the ball of his foot, his body swaying like bamboo in a gale. Grum's fist whistled past his ear, the displaced air ruffling his hair. Evan continued the motion, his hand snapping out not to strike, but to deflect Grum's extended forearm downwards with a sharp, precise chop to the nerve cluster just above the elbow.
"Argh!" Grum bellowed in surprise and pain, his arm momentarily numb. His forward momentum carried him past Evan, stumbling off-balance.
The crowd roared, shocked by the swift evasion. "Lucky dodge!" "Get him, Grum!"
Grum recovered quickly, turning with surprising speed for his size. Anger darkened his face. He swung again, a wide, sweeping backhand meant to cave in ribs. Evan ducked low, the heavy gauntlet passing overhead. He surged upwards inside Grum's guard, his shoulder driving into the giant's exposed midsection. It felt like hitting solid rock, but Evan used the impact to push off, springing backwards out of immediate reach.
"Stop dancing, fly!" Grum roared, frustrated. He lunged again, trying to grab Evan in a crushing bear hug.
Evan danced away again, light and precise. He didn't attack; he evaded, deflected, disrupted. He used Grum's own size and momentum against him, guiding his rushes past, tripping him subtly with a foot hooked behind an ankle, constantly tapping nerve points on arms and shoulders – not enough to disable, but enough to sting, frustrate, and drain stamina.
The crowd's jeers turned to murmurs of surprise, then scattered cheers. This wasn't the expected crushing. This was something else – a display of agility and precision against brute force. Minutes passed. Grum grew increasingly enraged, his breathing labored, his attacks growing wilder, less coordinated. Sweat poured down his face. Evan remained untouched, a calm center in the storm of the giant's fury, his movements economical, his breathing steady.
Grum made a final, desperate charge, aiming to tackle Evan to the ground. Evan saw it coming. He didn't dodge sideways this time. He dropped into a low crouch, planting one hand on the ground for balance. As Grum's massive form loomed over him, Evan kicked upwards with both feet, driving his heels into Grum's chest with all the Bamboo Aura-enhanced strength he could muster.
THUMP!
The impact was solid. Grum grunted, the wind knocked out of him. He staggered back, eyes wide with shock, clutching his chest. Evan rolled smoothly backwards and came up in a ready stance.
Grum tried to step forward, wheezing. His foot caught on nothing. His eyes rolled back. Like a felled tree, the massive man toppled forward, crashing face-first onto the packed earth of the ring, unconscious.
Silence. Utter, stunned silence descended over the East Ring. Then, a wave of incredulous noise erupted – cheers, boos, shouts of disbelief.
The referee rushed forward, checking Grum. He raised Evan's arm. "Victor: Evan!"
Evan stood in the center of the ring, breathing heavily but unharmed. The mask in his robe felt suddenly unnecessary. He had won. Not with overwhelming power, but with skill, patience, and the disciplined strength cultivated in the Emerald Canopy. He looked towards the stands, scanning the faces. Would the Dragonrider be there? Had he seen?
His answer came not from the stands, but from the air itself.
A shadow swept over the entire Proving Grounds. The raucous noise died instantly, replaced by a hush of awe and fear. Looking up, Evan saw it.
A dragon. Not a Riding Lizard, not a lesser Draconic breed, but a True Dragon. Its scales were a deep, velvety purple, shimmering with an internal light like trapped starlight. Its wingspan blotted out the sun for a moment. It circled once, a low, resonant thrum vibrating in Evan's chest, then descended with surprising grace towards a reserved platform high on the arena's western wall. A figure sat astride its neck, clad in gleaming, purple-hued armor etched with constellations, a visor hiding his face. The Royal Star Drake folded its immense wings, settling onto the platform with a soft thud that shook the ground. The rider dismounted, removing his helm.
Commander Cassio, the Purple Star Dragonrider, had arrived. His gaze, sharp as a honed blade, swept the silent Proving Grounds, lingering for a moment on the East Ring where Evan stood over the fallen giant. Evan felt that gaze like a physical weight, cold, assessing, and utterly imperious.