Thomas stepped forward this ti, turning to address the gathered crowd with a confident gaze. "Next!" he called out, his voice clear and commanding atop the makeshift stage.
Watching from the sidelines, Jamie allowed himself a slight smile. Seeing Thomas brimming with confidence was a sight to behold. That simple summons was all it took for more of the hopefuls to reconsider their ambitions. One by one, they began to slip away from the line.
"I need to get back to work; I don't know why I'm wasting my ti here," one muttered.
"If I get injured, I won't be able to put food on the table," another sighed.
"Those two are clearly trained fighters; there's no way I can take them on," admitted a third.
Whispers and murmurs spread through the crowd as more candidates departed, each attempting to reclaim a shred of dignity without looking back.
Undeterred, a seasoned rcenary stepped forward to face Thomas. He clearly wanted to prolong the duel as much as possible, aiming to wear him down in hopes of finding a weakness or opening to exploit.
Jamie kept his expression neutral, but internally, he recognized the flaw in his strategy. His tactic wasn't misguided in theory—just misapplied. Thomas possessed perhaps one of the least glamorous Classes one could attain: [Farr]. Yet, that very Class granted him an almost inexhaustible stamina. It was no wonder that [Farrs] could labor from dawn till dusk without respite.
Had he employed the sa approach against Jamie—who had already expended energy casting a spell, run three laps around the southern part of the city, and lightly injured his leg delivering a powerful kick—he might have succeeded in wearing him down.
However, his initial bout had been so swift and brutal that the rcenary seed eager not to challenge him.
‘Thomas doesn't realize yet the strategy he’s fighting against,’ Jamie mused, watching as the rcenary employed hit-and-run tactics. The fighter would dart in to attack and quickly retreat, giving Thomas little opportunity to defend or recover.
Thomas raised his arms desperately, trying to shield himself from the relentless assault. The rcenary before him wielded a short blade with lethal precision, each swipe carving thin lines across Thomas's forearms. Blood trickled down his skin, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to yield.
The duel pressed on, tension thick in the air. Two grueling minutes passed—a seemingly brief span, yet an eternity in the heat of battle. Realizing he could not remain on the defensive forever, Thomas made his move. With a swift motion, he drew his own short sword. Seizing a fleeting opening, he delivered a precise strike to the rcenary's thigh. The man let out a sharp cry, collapsing to one knee as his weapon clattered to the ground.
From the edge of the arena, Jamie sprang into action. He rushed to the fallen opponent, quickly wrapping a bandage around the wounded leg. His hands moved deftly, applying basic first aid to stem the bleeding. "Easy now," he muttered, offering the rcenary a reassuring nod.
Hardly had the dust settled when another challenger stepped forward. This rcenary's eyes glead with a mix of determination and desperation. Thomas was visibly weary—his labored breaths and sweat-drenched brow betrayed his fatigue. Jamie understood their thinking; they sought to exploit any weakness.
"Hey," Jamie called out to his companion, his voice firm. "Don't give them space. If you do, you'll tire yourself out even faster."
Thomas looked back at him and gave a curt nod, too winded to respond verbally. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself as the next opponent ascended into the arena.
As the newcor took his position, Jamie announced the start of the bout. This ti, Thomas altered his strategy. Rather than waiting for the attack, he lunged forward with surprising speed, closing the gap between himself and the rcenary in an instant.
Caught off guard by the sudden offensive, the rcenary stumbled, attempting to brace himself by stepping back. But it was too late. Thomas's powerful arm swung in a wide arc, and before the rcenary could react, a solid fist connected squarely with his face.
The impact was brutal. Even Jamie winced as he watched the rcenary soar backward, landing hard against the wooden barrier of the arena. A hush fell over the onlookers. The man's nose was unmistakably broken, blood gushing freely and staining the dirt beneath him.
"Bloody hell!" the rcenary shouted, clutching his face in agony.
Jamie hurried over, helping Thomas lift the injured man to his feet. "Hold still," he instructed, pressing a cloth to the rcenary's nose to staunch the bleeding. "You'll be all right."
He glanced at Thomas, offering a subtle smile. "Well, that was quick."
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Before they could catch their breath, a voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd—a voice that carried both confidence and challenge.
"My turn."
Jamie turned to see a woman stepping forward, her eyes sharp and unwavering. She moved with the grace of a seasoned fighter, and there was an air of quiet strength about her.
"But I don't want to fight him," she continued, her gaze locking onto Jamie. "I want to fight you."
Jamie turned to observe her more closely. She was clad in light garnts that hugged her form, effortlessly showcasing her curves. To an untrained eye, she might have appeared to be wearing an expensive dress. However, upon closer inspection, it was evident that the fabric was of low quality, crafted to mimic sothing far more luxurious.
Her face and hair were ticulously cared for. Long, silky black hair cascaded over her shoulder, lending her an air of elegance. Yet, a long and deep scar marred her features, stretching from the top of her forehead, across her left eye, down to her chin. Her eyes were a crystalline blue, but where the scar traced its path, her left eye lacked focus. She appeared completely blind in that eye.
Her hands bore no rings or jewelry, and even her ears held only a simple, inexpensive earring. The most striking feature, however, was the shape of those ears—long and pointed. She was unmistakably an elf.
This was the final clue Jamie needed to recognize her.
‘She'll be a problem,’ he thought, ascending into the arena while scratching his head. Not necessarily because she might be formidable in combat—though that was a possibility—but because dealing with her affiliations could prove complicated.
‘She is or was a prostitute,’ Jamie surmised, considering that she might be attempting to flee from the Crimson Veil. He doubted she had been sent by them; she would have to be utterly desperate to subject herself to these trials.
Given the elves' reputation and the conflicts that had unfolded over the past decades, Jamie thought this explanation seed the most plausible.
Drawing from Jay's mories, he recalled that the war with the Holy Elven Empire had ended only ten years prior. It was likely there were still elves who had been captured during the war.
Jamie positioned himself carefully within the arena. Uncertain of what kind of fighter she would be, he kept his senses sharp, his eyes tracking her every movent.
‘Elves are skilled in both magic and archery,’ he reminded himself, expecting that she might attempt sothing from a distance.
"Begin!" Thomas shouted.
Jamie waited a few monts, watching the elf for any sign of movent. Yet she remained still, her eyes fixed intently on him, a silent challenge lingering in the air between them.
‘If you won't make the first move, then I will,’ Jamie decided. He drew a dagger from his belt, the blade gleaming sharply in the light. Without hesitation, he surged forward, closing the distance between them in swift strides.
As he approached within re inches, a sly smile curved upon the elf's lips. In a flash, she reached beneath her flowing dress and produced two small crossbows, one in each hand.
"Dammit!" Jamie cursed under his breath, realizing too late the trap laid before him. She fired both bolts with startling speed. He twisted desperately, managing to evade the first projectile as it grazed his shoulder, slicing through fabric and flesh. The second bolt, however, was unavoidable. Instead of futilely attempting to dodge, Jamie braced himself.
The bolt pierced his leg, biting deep into the muscle. Pain flared, but he refused to let it hinder him. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on, lunging toward the elf with ferocious determination. His dagger beca an extension of his will, slicing through the space between them.
Surprised by his tenacity, the elf attempted to retreat, clearly having believed her shots would incapacitate him. Her movents were swift, but Jamie's resolve was unyielding.
In a heartbeat, his blade ca to rest against the pale skin of her throat. Both combatants stood frozen, the world narrowing to the thin steel edge between them. The elf's confident smile faded, replaced by a glint of respect—or perhaps fear—in her eyes.
"I believe we're done here," Jamie stated coolly, his voice steady despite the throbbing pain in his leg.
Without another word, he lowered his dagger and stepped back. The tension dissipated as he turned and descended from the arena, leaving the elf standing amidst the whispers of the onlookers.
At the platform's base, Thomas approached with concern etched upon his face. His gaze fell to the bolt embedded in Jamie's thigh. "What should we do about that?" he asked, nodding toward the injury.
"Leave it for now," Jamie replied, wiping a trickle of blood from his shoulder. "At least it's stopping the bleeding. We have only one more contender."
The final challenger stepped forward—Bertram, Aldwin's stout friend. The boy appeared as anxious as ever, his eyes shifting nervously. This ti, he had strapped a plank of wood to his arm, a makeshift shield that resembled a toilet lid hastily tied on. In his other hand, he clutched a small wooden mace, its surface marred with dents.
"Um... I... I want to fight you," Bertram stamred, pointing shakily at Thomas.
Thomas offered a faint, reassuring smile. "Very well."
They took their positions as the remaining spectators ford a loose circle around the arena. The atmosphere was markedly different—less charged, almost somber.
The bout concluded almost as swiftly as it began. Thomas moved with practiced efficiency, closing the gap between them in an instant. Bertram raised his improvised shield, covering his face in a defensive reflex. But Thomas's strike was powerful; his fist shattered through the flimsy barrier, connecting squarely with Bertram's nose.
The boy's eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. A hushed silence fell over the crowd.
Jamie sighed softly, his expression unreadable. "That's that, then," he murmured.
With the last match concluded, Jamie stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the sparse audience—a handful of rcenaries and curious residents from the Lower Quarter. The sun hung low in the sky, casting elongated shadows across the worn ground.
"This marks the end of the Combat Trial," he announced, his voice carrying over the quiet murmur of the crowd. "I will now call forward those who will proceed to the final phase."
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