"NOW, WITHOUT WASTING TI, LET THE SECOND ROUND OF THE TOURNANT BEGIN!" the announcer yelled, his voice ringing out like a war horn across the courtyard.
The crowd erupted in response. Cheers and whistles filled the air, a wave of excitent crashing over the arena.
The first fight was between Loxi and another fighter nad Chris.
Loxi was the bald-headed fighter with a striking red goatee, his defining feature against his otherwise smooth scalp.
Strapped to his back was a long sword, its polished blade reflecting the morning sunlight as he reached for the hilt with practiced ease.
His grip on the sword was firm but relaxed, a telltale sign of experience.
Loxi smirked as he faced off against Chris, his red goatee twitching slightly with amusent.
He rested his long sword against his shoulder, watching his opponent with an air of quiet confidence.
Chris, on the other hand, looked far less composed.
He was a round-faced kid, his wide eyes darting nervously across the arena as if searching for an escape route.
His stance was unsteady, his fists clenched tightly—not out of strategy, but out of sheer anxiety.
The way he swallowed hard, shifting his weight from foot to foot, made it painfully obvious that he did not want to be there.
The contrast between the two fighters was almost laughable.
Loxi, calm and in control, radiated the aura of a seasoned warrior, while Chris looked as though he had stumbled into the tournant by accident.
His shirt clung tightly to his body, stretched over his soft fra, and it didn’t quite reach down far enough to cover his flabby belly.
He was already out of breath, his cheeks flushed from either nerves or exhaustion.
He had probably been forced into this tournant by an overbearing father—one who had finally grown tired of his son’s soft upbringing and decided that a brutal, public beating would "toughen him up."
Such things were common in the empire.
Lords and wealthy rchants often threw their sons into tournants, hoping the experience would forge them into warriors. More often than not, it ended with their sons beaten bloody and humiliated in front of hundreds.
The crowd was restless, murmuring with excitent as Loxi stood across from Chris, his fiery sword held lazily in one hand.
He twirled it absentmindedly, the flas trailing in the air like fireflies, yet despite the weapon’s deadly nature, his grip was loose, almost lazy.
Chris stood stiffly on the other side, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. He was fresh, his morale still charged from his earlier victory, but standing before Loxi, he could feel his confidence begin to waver.
Chris swallowed hard, trying to push down the gnawing sense of unease creeping up his spine.
He could hear the crowd, their voices rising in anticipation, but they felt distant, like an indistinct roar in his ears. His fists clenched at his sides, and he fought to steady himself.
Loxi, anwhile, eyed him with clear amusent, his lips twitching into a smirk. To him, Chris wasn’t a challenger. He wasn’t even a threat. He was a toy, sothing to be played with until it broke.
"Well now, look at this," Loxi mused, his voice smooth and dripping with mockery. He spun his sword lazily in one hand, the flas licking hungrily at the air, as if eager to taste flesh. "A brave little warrior."
Loxi took a slow step forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone. His red goatee twitched as his smirk deepened, and his sharp eyes glead like a predator sizing up its prey.
"But I’m not so sure you’re ready for this."
Chris swallowed hard, but he didn’t step back.
His throat was dry, his palms slick with sweat, but he locked his legs in place, refusing to let them betray his nerves.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out the murmurs of the crowd.
Focus. Focus. Just like the last fight.
Chris squeezed his fingers around the worn handle of his axe, feeling the familiar grooves of the wood dig into his palm.
The weight of it was both a comfort and a burden, its solid heft grounding him in reality while also reminding him how small it was compared to Loxi’s flaming sword.
He adjusted his grip, trying to steady the tremor in his fingers, and took a slow, deliberate breath.
Chris set his jaw and lifted his chin, forcing himself to et Loxi’s gaze.
Loxi tilted his head, his smirk widening as he paced slowly in a small circle, his movents deliberate, unhurried.
"You look like you’ve got a few tricks up your sleeve," he mused, his voice smooth and almost lazy, as if speaking to no one in particular.
Chris tensed but said nothing, his grip tightening on the handle of his axe.
His stomach churned, but he forced himself to keep his breathing steady.
Loxi exhaled dramatically, shaking his head as he gave Chris a slow, deliberate once-over, his sharp gaze traveling from his feet to his head with an exaggerated air of scrutiny. "But... hmm..." he humd, tapping his chin with one finger as if deep in thought. "I’m not convinced yet."
His gaze finally landed on Chris’s axe, and for a mont, his smirk faltered—just slightly, just enough to make it seem as if he had actually considered the weapon for a fraction of a second.
But then he let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head again.
"That battle axe?" He lifted a brow, his voice laced with mock incredulity. "I’ve seen forks with more flair."
More laughter from the crowd. The words stung, but Chris swallowed hard and held his ground.
Chris clenched his jaw, his muscles rigid with barely restrained frustration.
He could feel the blood rushing to his face, a mix of embarrassnt and anger clawing at his insides.
But he said nothing. He wouldn’t give Loxi the satisfaction.
Loxi, however, was still watching him, his smirk unwavering.
"Nothing to say?" Loxi mused, tilting his head slightly, his red goatee twitching with amusent. "Good. I prefer my fights without all the whining."
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