The curtains parted.
Sunlight spilt into the corridor, and the noise hit like a wave. The previous fight was apparently amazing and the crowd had the sa hype carrying on. Chants, cheers and stomping feet shook the stone beneath him. The air was thick with dust and anticipation, the sll of sweat and steel riding on it.
Lucian Draeve stepped out first, shoulders squared, waving to the crowd like he was already the victor. His dark jacket fluttered in the breeze, and the gold trim along its edges caught the light just enough to draw attention. The man knew how to make an entrance.
Roy followed a few steps behind, hands in his pockets, expression flat. He scanned the arena with the slow disinterest of soone checking the weather.
Above them, the announcer’s voice bood.
“Ladies and gentlen, make so noise for the next match in the Tournant of Richt! On one side, heir to the prestigious Draeve Foundation, undefeated in his last twelve official duels: Lucian Draeve!”
The crowd roared. Lucian gave a smooth, practised nod.
“And on the other side…” A pause. Papers rustled audibly over the loudspeaker. “We have… Roy.” Another pause. “…and he is from… Wawawa? How the fuc... wrote this?”
A ripple of confusion spread through the stands. Roy stared at the comntators with awe. What the hell did he say I was from?
Wawawa? That sounds like so toddler noise or so idiot trying to belittle soone by making so noise.
“That’s unusual,” the announcer went on, clearly leaning into it. “Normally, we have a background of the contender, but so moron went and ssed with this poor guy’s sheet and wrote absolute bullshit.”
A few chuckles scattered through the audience. Lucian smirked, rolling his neck. Roy just stood there, a bit pissed with the person and his now ruined reputation.
The bell rang.
Lucian wasted no ti, dashing forward with a burst of speed that sent a swirl of dust in his wake. His soul art flared into existence, distorting the air around his fists with a shimr, like heat haze. Each movent bent the pull of the world in subtle, dangerous ways.
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The first strike ca in low, a hook that pulled at Roy’s footing, as if the ground itself wanted to swallow his legs. Roy stepped aside, his body barely shifting. The punch skimd past.
Lucian didn’t hesitate, chaining into an overhead swing. The gravity around his arm spiked, turning the motion into a hamr blow. Roy leaned back, the fist whistling past his nose.
A third attack followed: a sweeping kick. Roy hopped back, landing just outside the warped gravity zone, dust kicking from his boots.
Lucian was fast. Controlled. His rhythm was sharp, his movents clean. Every step shifted weight in unnatural ways, so blows heavier than they should be, others feather-light until the last instant. A competent fighter. Probably trained for years.
But to the crowd? It looked like Lucian was swinging at shadows.
Roy’s dodges were minimal, almost lazy. A tilt of the head, a shift of the shoulder, a single step back. Each ti, Lucian’s attacks cut empty air. The cheers in the stands began to soften into murmurs, then into snickers.
“He’s just dancing around him.”
“Is that really all Lucian’s got?”
Roy heard it. Lucian heard it too.
The Draeve heir’s smile tightened. He switched tactics, flooding the space between them with bursts of gravity that bent dust motes midair. The arena floor groaned under sudden weight shifts, his strikes coming from unpredictable angles.
Roy ducked under one, pivoted past another, and side-stepped a third.
His timing's good… But he telegraphs just enough in his stance. Needs to shorten his wind-up.
Lucian lunged again, palm open this ti. The gravity pulled at Roy’s chest like a magnet trying to rip him forward. He twisted out of range, letting the pull slide past.
It kept going like that. One minute. Two. Five. Lucian attacked; Roy evaded. The audience’s interest shifted from impressed to confused to impatient.
Roy sighed inwardly. If I keep this up, he’s going to look like a fool. And he’s paying .
Lucian ca in with a heavy, gravity-infused shoulder charge; this ti, Roy didn’t move.
The impact hit like a boulder, lifting him clean off his feet. The warped gravity hurled him across the boundary line in a single arc. He hit the dust outside with a roll and ca to a casual stop on his back, staring at the sky.
The bell rang.
“Lucian Draeve wins by ring-out!” The announcer bood.
Lucian threw his arms up, the crowd roaring again, though the cheer had a few threads of doubt woven into it.
Roy stood, brushed the dust from his jacket, and walked back into the tunnels without a word. Easy money.
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