The morning air was crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of dew and distant fires. He inhaled deeply, letting the cool breeze fill his lungs, grounding him in the mont.
From the courtyard below, the sounds of the waking world reached him,clanking weapons, hurried footsteps, voices talking in hushed but urgent tones. Fighters preparing for their matches.
Eventually, there was a knock on the door.
"Co in," Gon said without looking away from the window.
The door squeaked open, and a firm voice followed.
"The tournant is about to start, Lord Gon," the guard announced.
Gon let out a long, weary sigh as he pushed himself up from the floor.
Slowly, he reached for his sword, his fingers wrapping tightly around the worn handle, the familiar weight grounding him.
He stood there for a mont, staring at the weapon in his hand. The dim light in the room glinted off the steel, casting faint reflections on the walls.
Taking a deep breath, he finally turned toward the door.
His steps were slow but certain, his boots pressing lightly against the wooden floor with each movent.
The faint creak of the boards beneath his weight was the only sound in the quiet room.
With one last glance over his shoulder, he gripped his sword tighter and stepped forward, pushing the door open.
Cool air rushed to greet him, brushing against his face like a whisper.
He stepped out to find the seats even fuller than usual.
Rows upon rows of spectators filled the arena, their voices blending into a low, restless hum.
The air buzzed with anticipation, a heavy energy pressing down on the battlefield like an invisible weight.
More people always turned up to watch the final matches.
It was the mont they had all been waiting for—the clash of the strongest, the fight that would decide everything.
So leaned forward in their seats, eyes gleaming with excitent, while others whispered among themselves, placing last-minute bets on who would win.
Besides, many of the townsfolk had learned that the young heir had made it to the final this year.
Word had spread quickly through the streets, from the bustling markets to the quiet alleyways, carried by excited whispers and eager chatter.
So called him a prodigy, destined for greatness, while others remained skeptical, waiting to see if he could truly withstand the pressure of the final battle.
Now, they had all gathered to witness it for themselves.
The arena was packed tighter than ever, with townspeople squeezing into every available space, their eyes fixed on the battlefield.
rchants had abandoned their stalls, blacksmiths had left their forges, and even the elderly, who rarely ventured far from their hos, had made the journey to see how the tournant would end.
Would the young heir rise to claim victory, proving himself worthy of his lineage? Or would he falter at the very last mont, falling just short of glory?
The question hung in the air, unspoken yet powerful.
And as Gon stepped forward, he could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him.
While so had co to witness his triumph, others were there for a different reason entirely.
Rumors had spread about the young heir fainting in a previous match, whispered from ear to ear like wildfire.
So said it was from exhaustion, others claid it was fear, and a few even suggested that he simply wasn’t strong enough to handle the pressure of the tournant.
Now, those who had heard the tale watched him closely, their eyes filled with curiosity and doubt.
Would he stand firm until the very end, proving the rumors wrong? Or would he collapse once more, right at the height of the battle?
"LADIES AND GENTLEN!" The announcer’s voice bood across the arena, carrying over the restless murmurs of the crowd. The mont had finally arrived. "TODAY IS THE FINAL ROUND IN THE DUCHY STAGE OF THE TOURNANT OF MAGES!"
A wave of excitent rippled through the spectators.
Cheers erupted, loud and full of energy, as the eager audience prepared to witness the battle that would decide everything.
The banners of various noble houses fluttered in the wind, held high by those who had co to support their champions.
So spectators clapped, others stomped their feet against the stone stands, and a few simply watched in silence, their eyes locked on the battlefield with anticipation.
The announcer turned his head slowly, his gaze sweeping across the massive arena. From the lowest seats to the highest rows, every inch was packed with people, their faces alight with anticipation.
He could see it in their eyes, the hunger, the excitent, the unshakable desire to witness sothing unforgettable.
So leaned forward, their hands gripping the edges of their seats, eager for the clash to begin.
Others murmured to their neighbors, exchanging hurried predictions and last-minute bets.
A few simply watched in silence, their sharp eyes studying.
"ONLY EIGHT MAGES REMAIN AT THIS STAGE OF THE TOURNANT!" The announcer declared, his voice ringing through the arena. "LOXI, RENO, SERA, DINA, ERLO, BUHRAMA, GON, AND MILO!"
He let the nas hang in the air for a mont, giving the crowd ti to react.
A wave of noise swept across the spectators as cheers erupted for their favorites. So shouted nas in support, while others groaned in frustration, already debating the outco.
"AND OUT OF THESE EIGHT, ONLY FOUR WILL REMAIN AT THE END!"
The audience stirred, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of predictions and argunts.
So pointed eagerly at the competitors, sharing their thoughts with those beside them.
"That Milo boy," one of the spectators muttered to his friend, nodding toward the battlefield. "He’s the best of the bunch. He’ll surely stay."
"I agree," another chid in, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. "Did you see how he absolutely handled that girl last ti? I’ll tell ya it looked like it was close but to It seed like he could’ve beaten her much earlier, and he was just drawing it out for his own pleasure."
The small group of onlookers nodded in agreent, their voices carrying an edge of admiration.
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