The presence of the Purple Star Dragonrider electrified the Proving Grounds. The brutal matches continued, but the atmosphere was charged with a new intensity. Fighters pushed harder, desperate to impress the legendary commander. The crowd watched with bated breath, their attention constantly flicking towards the imposing figure on the high platform.
Evan, declared the victor of his match, was ushered out of the East Ring by the fight master. "Decent footwork, lad," the scarred man grunted, handing Evan a small pouch containing three silvers – his share of the gate fee. "Lucky Grum got careless. Don't get cocky. Next one might not be so slow." He pointed towards a crowded area near the fighter's entrance. "Rest there if you want another bout. Might get a call."
Evan took the pouch, his meager funds slightly replenished. He found a relatively quiet spot against the cold stone wall, watching the ongoing spectacle. His eyes kept drifting back to the high platform. Commander Cassio observed the matches with detached scrutiny, occasionally leaning down to speak to an aide who scribbled notes. His expression beneath the open visor was stern, unreadable. Had Evan's victory registered? Or had his unorthodox style merely been dismissed as a fluke against a lumbering opponent?
The question burned. He needed to fight again. He needed to win decisively. He needed the Dragonrider's attention.
He approached the fight master again. "I will fight again."
The man looked up from his ledger, surprised. "Eager? Or stupid? Fine. Got a slot in the Crimson-Blue mixed bracket next. Tougher opponents. Entry fee: Two silvers. Opponent: 'Serpent' Sylas. Fast, nasty, uses poisoned needles sometimes. Still in?"
Evan handed over two more silvers, his resolve hardening. "I'm in."
"Sylas! Evan! West Ring! Now!"
'Sylas' was the antithesis of Grum. Lean, wiry, clad in dark, close-fitting leather, he moved with a predator's grace. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned Evan like prey. He carried no visible weapon, but his hands were encased in thin, metallic gloves, the fingertips glinting wickedly.
The referee barked the start. Sylas didn't charge. He flowed forward, silent and swift, his movements a blur. A needle-thin stiletto, seemingly conjured from his sleeve, licked out towards Evan's throat.
Evan reacted instantly. He parried the thrust not with force, but with a sweeping deflection of his forearm against Sylas's wrist, using the man's own momentum to send the strike wide. He pivoted, a low kick aimed at Sylas's knee. Sylas danced back effortlessly, his lips curling in a cruel smile.
"You're quick, birdie," Sylas hissed. "But not quick enough." His attacks became a flurry – feints, low strikes aimed at tendons, the poisoned needle darting in like a serpent's tongue. He used the ring's confines, forcing Evan towards the fence.
Evan relied entirely on Bamboo Sect evasion. He wove, ducked, blocked with precise deflections, never allowing Sylas to land a solid hit. He focused his Innocent Heart Core, his senses heightened, anticipating the subtle shifts in Sylas's muscles before each strike. The poisoned needle grazed his robe twice, leaving faint tears but not touching skin. The crowd gasped at the close calls.
Sylas grew frustrated. His attacks became slightly wilder, leaving a tiny opening. Evan saw it. As Sylas lunged forward for a low stab, Evan dropped suddenly, sweeping his leg in a low arc. His foot connected solidly with Sylas's ankle. The wiry man stumbled, off-balance.
Evan surged upwards. Not to strike, but to grab. His hands shot out, clamping onto Sylas's wrists with vice-like grips honed by Bamboo Aura strength. He twisted sharply, applying leverage against the joints.
SNAP!
A bone cracked. Sylas screamed in agony as the stiletto and a handful of needles clattered to the ground. Evan maintained the pressure, forcing Sylas down onto one knee, his arms locked painfully behind his back.
"Yield," Evan commanded, his voice calm but carrying the weight of his focused will.
Sylas writhed, spitting curses, but the pain was too great. "Yield! I yield!" he gasped.
The referee intervened. "Victor: Evan!"
Another wave of noise rose from the crowd. Less incredulity this time, more genuine surprise and appreciation for the skill displayed against a notoriously dirty fighter. Evan released Sylas, who was quickly dragged away, cradling his broken wrist. Evan retrieved his winnings – another small pouch – and scanned the high platform.
Commander Cassio was watching him. Not a casual glance, but a focused, assessing stare. He leaned down, speaking briefly to his aide. The aide nodded, scribbling furiously. Evan felt a thrill of hope. He had been noticed.
"Evan!" The fight master's voice held a new note of respect. "Commander's aide wants a word. Follow me."
Evan was led to a quieter area beneath the high platform. Cassio's aide, a stern-faced man with close-cropped gray hair and the bearing of a seasoned soldier, stood waiting.
"Evan Young?" the aide asked, his voice clipped.
"Yes."
"The Commander observed your matches. Your style... is unorthodox. He offers a challenge. Face one of his garrison trainees in the main pit. Show him what you're truly capable of. Win... and he will consider your petition." The aide gestured towards the large central fighting area. A young man, perhaps Evan's age, was already stepping into the pit. He wore the polished blue and silver armor of the Polis garrison. He carried a standard infantry sword and shield. His expression was confident, professional. He radiated the controlled power of a Green-Rank Warrior.
Evan understood. Cassio wasn't interested in victories against pit fighters. He wanted to see Evan tested against disciplined military training. This was the real trial. He nodded silently. "I accept."
The crowd roared as Evan stepped into the main pit, facing the garrison soldier. The soldier saluted crisply. "Cadet Theron. Green-Rank, Third Tier."
Evan returned the gesture as best he could. "Evan."
The referee signaled the start. Theron didn't rush. He adopted a solid stance, shield forward, sword held ready. He advanced steadily, his movements economical, his eyes watchful. He probed with his shield, testing Evan's reactions, then flicked out a lightning-fast thrust with his sword.
Evan deflected the blade with a sweeping forearm block, the impact jarring his bones. Theron pressed, shield bashing forward, trying to drive Evan back and off-balance. Evan sidestepped, avoiding the shield charge, but Theron's sword followed instantly, a diagonal cut aimed at his shoulder. Evan leaned back, the blade whistling past his chest. He countered with a low kick aimed at Theron's lead leg. Theron shifted his weight, taking the kick solidly on his greaved shin, barely flinching. He slammed his shield rim down towards Evan's foot.
Evan barely pulled his foot back in time. Theron was relentless, a machine of disciplined aggression. Shield bashes, controlled sword thrusts, leg sweeps – he used the full repertoire of trained infantry combat. Evan was forced entirely onto the defensive, relying purely on evasion and deflection. He couldn't find an opening; Theron left none. Bamboo Aura flared around Evan's limbs, enhancing his speed and deflection power, but it was draining rapidly against the constant assault. The crowd roared, sensing the tide turning against the newcomer.
Theron saw Evan tiring. He feinted a shield bash, then lunged forward with a powerful, committed thrust aimed straight at Evan's center. It was designed to force a choice: try a risky dodge or commit to a block that would leave Evan wide open for the shield follow-up.
Evan saw the trap. He couldn't evade cleanly. He couldn't block without exposing himself. Instinct, desperation, and the deep well of the Innocent Heart Core surged. He didn't evade or block the thrust. He stepped into it.
His hands moved in a blur. His left hand slapped down onto the flat of Theron's thrusting blade near the hilt, diverting its path inches past his ribs. Simultaneously, his right hand chopped viciously upwards onto Theron's exposed sword wrist. It was the same nerve strike he'd used on Sylas, amplified by Bamboo Aura and desperate strength.
CRACK!
Theron cried out, his grip on the sword failing instantly. The blade clattered to the ground. Before he could raise his shield defensively, Evan followed through. He pivoted, his body coiling like a spring, and drove his shoulder into Theron's chest, right below the shield rim.
THUMP!
The impact, enhanced by momentum and Bamboo Aura, lifted the armored cadet off his feet. He flew backwards, landing hard on his back, his shield skittering away, gasping for breath, clearly stunned and unable to rise immediately.
Silence. Utter silence. Even the crowd was stunned. Evan stood panting, his hands stinging, his shoulder throbbing, over the fallen garrison soldier. He looked up towards the high platform.
Commander Cassio was standing. He wasn't applauding. He wasn't smiling. But his gaze was fixed intently on Evan. He gave a single, slow, deliberate nod. His aide immediately stepped to the edge of the platform.
"The victor is recognized!" the aide announced, his voice cutting through the silence. "Cadet Evan Young! The Commander grants you audience! Present yourself immediately!"
Relief, exhaustion, and a fierce surge of triumph flooded Evan. He had done it. He had carved a path through the brutality of the Pit and earned the Dragonrider's attention. He turned towards the steps leading up to the platform, ready to face Cassio and claim his chance.
As he took the first step, a ripple tore through the air behind him. Not a sound, but a tearing sensation in reality itself. Space seemed to fold, then rupture violently near the center of the pit. A jagged, purple-black rift ripped open the air, disgorging a figure that landed with a heavy thud on the packed earth, crouched low.
Taller than Evan, powerfully built, clad in worn, dark leathers that couldn't hide the explosive power beneath. Wild, untamed purple hair. Eyes like chips of amethyst ice, scanning the scene instantly before locking onto Evan with intense focus.
The crowd gasped, recoiling. Guards surged forward, weapons drawn. Cassio's hand snapped up, halting them, his own gaze narrowing intensely on the newcomer.
Evan froze mid-step. His breath caught in his throat. Disbelief warred with overwhelming joy. The exhaustion, the triumph over Theron, the looming audience with Cassio – all forgotten in an instant. The name tore from his lips, raw and filled with pure elation.
"Zander!"