By the third day, the tournant had crossed a line.
Everyone still standing had teeth. No one was holding back anymore. Matches ended fast or ended violently, and the crowd could feel it. This wasn’t a showcase. It was a pressure test.
Evan Clarke was the one who shattered expectations.
Gone was the slippery opportunist who scraped by on tricks. When he stepped onto the platform this ti, he went straight through his opponent. Lightning tore across the arena in three decisive strikes, and the match was over before most people finished blinking.
Silence followed.
Then noise. A lot of it.
The man Evan had beaten was no minor contender. He was considered one of the most dangerous specialists of his generation, soone many had quietly pegged as champion material. And Evan had erased him.
Just like that.
The narrative around Evan changed instantly. No one cared anymore about rumors, origins, or where his techniques ca from. The conversation turned to a single question.
Could Evan Clarke beco the next Grand Master?
Rowan rcer noticed the shift imdiately.
That kind of perception swing didn’t happen without reason. Evan wasn’t just powerful. He was sharp. Adaptive. He knew exactly when to hide and when to strike. That made him valuable.
If Rowan wanted what Evan carried, negotiation would be easier than coercion.
The rest of the matches played out with similar intensity.
Amagiri Rōen dismantled Yanagi Shōma’s elaborate formations through superior spatial control. Fiona Barlow scraped out a narrow win in a brutal exchange that left both fighters bloodied. Kanzaki Mio advanced cleanly. Marcus Hale was forced deeper than expected to secure his victory.
Takeda Akira ended his bout decisively.
Yanagi Fuyuka did not.
Rowan watched, but only with half his attention.
His real focus was on the crowd.
He already understood most of the competitors. What caught his eye were the spectators who didn’t quite fit. People who stayed alert even while pretending to relax. Eyes that tracked exits instead of fighters.
The night before, at the bonfire, Rowan had casually collected nas. Tonight, he followed the threads.
Too many of them converged here.
"So what are you all planning," he thought, "to gather this many assets in one place?"
After midnight, when the mountain finally went quiet, Rowan slipped out of his quarters.
The trail led down the slope, past the old stone steps, into the aging streets beneath the mountain. His tracking spell settled, a thin golden arrow pointing toward a weathered hotel wedged between shuttered shops.
"Found you."
Rowan entered unseen.
In one of the upper rooms slept an elderly artificer with a long reputation for cruelty, and his apprentice, a thickset man with borrowed confidence and dull instincts. Rowan didn’t bother speaking.
The floor iced over. Space folded. Both n dropped into a mirrored pocket reality before either could react.
The older man woke instantly, reflexively drawing on his power, but Rowan struck first. One precise blow to the back of the skull ended the struggle. The apprentice followed seconds later.
"Underwhelming," Rowan said.
Their minds offered little resistance.
Compared to the Grand Master’s sealed consciousness, this was effortless.
Rowan took his ti. He erased the mory of the attack, returned them to their beds, and vanished before dawn.
When he reached the mountain again, his expression had changed.
So the quiet acolyte was the leader.
The mories confird it. The soft-spoken attendant who had spent years blending into the background was the acting head of the Void Syndicate. And the tournant had never been the real objective.
Their target was Tobias Jinmont.
A crippled elder. A forgotten man.
But one who rembered everything.
The plan was desperate. Cause chaos after the tournant, draw the Grand Master away, and steal Jinmont’s mories while no one was watching. All driven by obsession with an old disaster and the forbidden legacies born from it.
Rowan smiled.
He hadn’t been able to access the Grand Master’s mind, but fate had handed him a side door.
"One way or another," he thought, "I’m getting those answers tonight."
He tracked Tobias Jinmont to a quiet courtyard.
Along the way, Rowan paused briefly, watching Fiona Barlow sprint across the mountain with a shovel, chasing a very tired Amagiri Rōen.
He shook his head.
"So strategies transcend reason."
Then he moved on.
Tobias never felt the spell.
Rowan eased him into unconsciousness and stepped into his mories.
They opened gently.
Sunlit mornings on the mountain. Brothers training together. Laughter. A younger Grand Master. Evan Clarke’s grandfather, still alive, still hopeful. Techniques passed freely. Defensive barriers. Lightning rites. The mountain’s full inheritance, shared without fear.
Then everything collapsed.
Rumors spread. Nas turned poisonous. Allies beca targets. Friends were hunted down one by one.
Tobias left the mountain believing he could still save one of them.
He was wrong.
Pain followed. Endless pain. His limbs destroyed. His body broken, but his mind deliberately spared. Soone wanted him alive.
Back on the mountain, Tobias never slept again. Afraid of dreams. Afraid of speaking in them. He replaced rest with endless ditation, guarding the truth until it hollowed him out.
Rowan withdrew.
He stood in the courtyard for a long mont, silent.
"So that’s the cost," he said quietly.
He adjusted Tobias Jinmont’s blanket, erased the intrusion, and vanished into the night.
Whatever ca next, Rowan would be ahead of it.
Reviews
All reviews (0)