The fight had ended before it truly began. A single breath, a heartbeat. Then the crowd erupted.

  Outrage, exultation, disbelief—Elysian heard none of it. His gaze remained fixed on the warrior at his feet, watching as the thralgar’s spasms slowed, breaths turning shallow. The raw chaos around him was meaningless noise.

  The Draekthar roared in triumph, celebrating yet another victory in their favor. Warriors slapped each other’s backs, some grinning, others shaking their heads in sheer amazement. But not everyone joined in. Those of power remained silent. Vrakdur and Throrak sat still, their heavy gazes locked on Elysian, their expressions unreadable. Drask, so quick to laugh before, had gone quiet, his usual smirk tempered by something sharper—calculating.

  Even Kaerthlyn and Thrynzak remained motionless, too stunned to react. They had seen the fight. They had seen what he had done. Not just the speed. Not just the precision. But the sheer economy of it. No wasted movement. No wasted aura. A victory secured with the absolute minimum required effort. For all their raw power, all their experience as warriors, neither Kaerthlyn nor Thrynzak could have executed that maneuver. They might have greater reserves than him, but the sheer mastery—the refinement—Elysian displayed was beyond them. Beyond all of them.

  Drask’s fingers drummed against his side. His sharp eyes flickered between the thralgar on the floor and Elysian, his expression caught between amusement and something else. Something like respect.

  Elysian flicked his blade, sending a fine mist of blood scattering into the dirt before sheathing the weapon with a quiet rasp. Then, finally, he turned—to Drask.

  For a moment, Drask simply looked at him, confused, before realization dawned. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, right. The winner. The rootless, who put on quite the show for us.”

  The Draekthar cheered once more as the fallen warrior was carried away by his clanmates. The wound had stopped bleeding. Not unexpected. The thralgar were tough—troll blood ran through them thick and strong. His pride might be wounded, but he would live.

  Elysian did not return to his seat. He stood there, arms at his sides, his expression detached as the Draekthar celebrated. Their approval meant little to him. Their cheers even less. His purpose was his own, and he had no intention of playing to an audience.

  Drask arched a brow. “You’re still standing there. Do you have something to say?”

  Elysian lifted his chin slightly. The cold disinterest in his face melted away, replaced by something else—an edge of arrogance, a gleam of provocation.

  “Why don’t we make this entertaining?”

  Drask’s smirk returned, sharp as a blade’s edge. “Entertaining?” he echoed, amusement and intrigue warring in his tone. “Now, what exactly do you mean by that, rootless?”

  The fire crackled, its embers winking like dying stars, shadows leaping across Elysian’s face. He rolled his shoulders, letting the weight of the moment settle. Then, with deliberate ease, he smiled.

  “I mean,” he said, voice smooth, “why don’t you let me fight until I’m defeated?”

  A heartbeat of silence. Then, the Gulthram warriors erupted—not in cheers, but in scorn. Some barked laughter, others spat insults, their confusion turning to fury as they grasped his meaning. He wasn’t just challenging them—he was mocking them. As if he could take on anyone they threw at him. As if their warriors weren’t even a threat.

  Elysian let the venom wash over him, grinning as if their rage delighted him.

  ‘Yes, get angry. Make this easier for me.’

  His gaze flicked to Drask, who was watching him, considering. Elysian didn’t break the stare. “See? They agree,” he said, tone light, gesturing toward the enraged Gulthram.

  Drask chuckled, but his eyes flickered with interest. He glanced toward the clan leaders. Vrakdur exhaled, looking away—a silent disapproval, but no interference. Throrak, on the other hand, looked like a beast that had just scented fresh blood. His grin stretched wide, nodding eagerly.

  Drask shrugged. “Alright, have it your way.” He paused, then smirked. “But make it a show. Something worth watching.”

  Elysian returned the smirk. “I’ll do my best.” Then he turned toward the Gulthram participants, scanning them, eyes dancing with a challenge. “But I’m only half of the coin,” he mused, voice slow, deliberate. “If my opponents aren’t good, well…” He let the words hang, before letting his grin sharpen. “Then it’ll just be like before—easy.”

  A roar of outrage. Warriors surged forward, shouting over one another, snapping like starving wolves fighting for the first bite. Their eyes blazed with the promise of retribution, the need to silence his arrogance. Some cracked their knuckles, others flexed their aura, shoving and snarling over who would be first to tear him down.

  Elysian watched it unfold, his body still, his smirk unwavering.

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  ‘I hate this part. But it has to be done.’

  The Gulthram’s jeers swelled, a chorus of snarls and curses, but Elysian remained motionless. His silence was a blade of its own, cutting deeper than any taunt. Let them rage. Let them trip over their own pride. He had no intention of losing—not tonight.

  At last, one of them moved forward, shoving aside his competitors with a guttural snarl. The chosen warrior was lean, and muscular, his long reach deceptive beneath the sinew. His sharp gaze never left Elysian, and in those eyes, Elysian read something different. This one wasn’t a brute swinging blindly for glory. No, this was a killer—one who knew his craft.

  Elysian’s grip tightened on his sword, but he didn’t change his stance. His feet were planted, weight settled, exuding nothing but the quiet promise of inevitability.

  “Fight.”

  The thralgar lunged, fast but silent. Unlike the last, he wasted no breath on battle cries. He had seen what happened to his comrade. This was no reckless charge—he struck with purpose, his blade slicing down in a precise arc, taking full advantage of his reach.

  Elysian didn’t move until the last possible moment—a subtle shift, shoulders turning, angling just enough that the blade whistled past his ribs. His opponent’s momentum carried forward, but even as he followed through, Elysian’s sword flicked up at an angle, so precise it might have been preordained. Not a wild counterattack—no, a calculated trap. The warrior’s own movement did the work, dragging his forearm against the keen edge of Elysian’s sword. Blood spattered. A shallow cut, but deep enough to matter.

  The thralgar hissed, jerking back, his aura pulsing in reaction. His stance widened, his wariness doubling, but Elysian only watched him, gaze cold and assessing.

  The crowd had gone oddly still. The ones who understood what they were seeing—Drask and the clan leaders—had fallen still. They had seen warriors win with brute strength, overwhelming force, but not like this. Not with this deliberate, economical artistry.

  The Gulthram warrior bared his teeth, but his fury was restrained. He would not make the same mistake twice. He circled, testing Elysian’s defenses, feinting, trying to bait out a reaction. Elysian gave him none. Just stood there, blade lowered, his breathing steady. A flicker of doubt entered the thralgar’s gaze. It was small, but it was there. Elysian saw it. So he gave him something. A smirk. Just enough to stoke the anger beneath the discipline.

  The warrior snapped forward, feinting low before twisting into a high slash. Fast and controlled. But Elysian had already moved, evading the attack by a hair, his blade meeting his opponent’s wrist at the apex of the swing. Another cut. Not deep, but deliberate—a demonstration. He was putting on a show.

  This time, the warrior recoiled, breathing harder. The realization was settling in. He saw the clear gap in skills between them. The rootless was leading him into mistakes, making him pay for every inch. The crowd saw it too. The ones who had been screaming for blood were now watching with a different kind of hunger.

  Elysian exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Sloppy,” he murmured, just loud enough.

  The warrior snarled, lunging again. More aggressive now, less precise. The pain was getting to him, frustration turning his footwork careless. Elysian's response was economical—a slight leap, his boots landing exactly where they'd left, his blade singing through the air with calculated grace. The angle was perfect, a subtle redirect that turned the warrior's own momentum against him. Once again, the warrior's flesh met Elysian's edge, his reckless charge becoming his own undoing.

  The humiliation hit harder than the wound. The thralgar staggered back, panting, clutching his arm where fresh blood trickled. His aura flared, but it was unfocused now. Desperation crept into his stance.

  Elysian took a step forward. For the first time, he closed the distance. The warrior tensed, but he hesitated—just for a second. Elysian struck. Not a wide, dramatic swing. With a flick of his wrist, his blade found the exact moment of imbalance. The warrior tried to react, but it was already over. Elysian’s strike cut cleanly across his thigh, a deep, punishing slice. His leg buckled. He collapsed to one knee, teeth gritted in pain.

  The thralgar’s eyes went wide, his breath hitching in his throat. The weight of his defeat hit him like a hammer to the ribs—crushing and undeniable. He was already on the floor before he realized he had fallen, his blade slipping from numb fingers. The fight was over. No—calling it a fight was generous. This had been a lesson, and he had been the fool too blind to see it coming.

  Silence swallowed the onlookers. The Gulthram warriors, once howling for blood, now stood frozen, their snarls replaced with blank disbelief. A few still had their mouths half-open, as if their curses had died mid-sentence. Even those who had jeered and spat venom moments ago found themselves choking on it. Their pride had demanded Elysian be put in his place. Instead, they had watched him carve through their chosen warrior like a sculptor shaping wood—clean, precise, and masterful.

  The defeated warrior trembled, his hands curling against the leather on his legs. He couldn’t look up. He didn’t dare. He had never known fear like this, not of death or pain, but of irrelevance. A great chasm had formed between him and the boy standing before him, a divide so vast it felt impossible to cross. His pride, his belief in his own strength—it all lay shattered at the rootless’ feet.

  Elysian exhaled slowly, shaking the blood from his blade before sliding it into its sheath with an effortless rasp. He glanced down at the kneeling warrior, his expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, he sighed.

  ‘I didn’t want to do this.’

  Drask was the first to break the silence. He exhaled a short, incredulous laugh, running a hand through his hair before grinning wide. “Well,” he drawled, “that was entertaining.”

  A ripple went through the crowd, but no one spoke against him. How could they? What could they say? The realization had already taken root, stretching deep into the bones of every warrior present. It had started with Durvalk’s fight. Then came Sybil’s, orchestrated like a performance, Elysian pulling the strings. Still, they had dismissed it. The rootless was clever, yes, but surely that was all. Then he entered the competition. He had cut down his first opponent so swiftly, so effortlessly, that the crowd barely had time to react. And yet, even then, doubt lingered. He was small. He was rootless. He had to have limits. But now?

  This was no trick. No accident. No lucky strike. This was mastery.

  Elysian Ironheart—this too-short, too-young rootless—had stood against a thralgar warrior and dismantled him with a precision that should have been impossible. And he had done it calmly. No excess movement. No wasted energy. Just clean, ruthless efficiency.

  The Draekthar warriors, who had cheered for him, were just as silent. They had come to the same conclusion as the Gulthram—they had underestimated him. That realization sat heavy in their chests, a weight that would not be shaken easily.

  The kneeling warrior clenched his jaw, forcing himself to lift his head. He looked at Elysian—not in defiance, not in anger, but in something closer to reverence and fear. He understood now. He had never stood a chance.

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