Drask’s grin stretched wider as he let the silence fester. "The rootless wins again," he mused, voice carrying like a blade through the stunned hush. His tone alone mocked the Gulthram, but his expression? That was pure amusement. A predator toying with wounded prey. "Tsk. The rootless has done his part—what a prodigious display." He let the words sink in, savoring the weight of them. "And yet, you lot have been… underwhelming."

  The Gulthram warriors, once loud and proud, now stared at the ground, shame curling around them like smoke. It wasn’t just embarrassment—it was reluctant, grudging respect. Whatever they had told themselves before, whatever excuses they’d clung to, the truth had slammed into them with the force of a hammer. The rootless wasn’t just good. He was something else entirely. And no one could deny it anymore.

  Drask exhaled theatrically, shaking his head. "Ah, silence. I can’t blame you. I’d act the same if I were beaten by a rootless a quarter of my height."

  Still, nothing. Not a single insult hurled back. Just shifting shoulders, tightened jaws, and the occasional glance toward their clan leader. When Drask followed their gaze, his amusement sharpened. Throrak had yet to speak, his keen eyes pinned on Elysian, weighing, measuring. Then, as if feeling Drask’s stare, Throrak met his gaze and raised a single brow—a silent challenge.

  Drask only smirked. "Well, well. No one’s in the mood, I see. Understandable." He dragged his gaze back to the silent warriors, savoring their discomfort like a fine meal. Then, with deliberate mockery, he clapped his hands together. "So, let’s keep the show going! Gulthram, send out your next fighter."

  He waited. And waited. Nothing. Unlike before, no one leaped forward, eager for the chance to prove themselves. No fists slammed into chests, no snarls of challenge. The three remaining contestants stood stiff, staring elsewhere, suddenly fascinated by the ground or the distant torches. The only movement came from the warrior who had just been beaten—who slunk back to his seat, head bowed, shoulders hunched, the weight of his failure pressing him into the earth.

  Drask blinked. Then grinned. "Oh?" He stretched the word out, rolling it over his tongue. "No one?"

  Still, the warriors did not move.

  Drask turned, lazily shifting his attention to Throrak. The Gulthram leader’s expression had darkened, his frown etched deep as he took in his warriors’ sudden hesitation. Drask, delighting in the tension, chuckled. "What’s this, Throrak?" he drawled, eyes glinting. "Your warriors were so eager just moments ago. Surely one of them still has the spine to step forward?" He let his gaze wander over the warriors, each one carefully avoiding eye contact. "No?"

  Throrak’s scowl deepened. His presence alone should have been enough to jolt them into action. And yet, none of them dared.

  Drask sighed, feigning sympathy. "Don’t be too mad at them. You can’t blame the kids. The rootless is just too good." He flashed a grin, teeth bared. "Even if the Draekthar had stepped forward tonight, the result would have been the same."

  That caught Throrak off guard. His sharp gaze flicked back to Drask, searching, but there was no mockery in those last words. Just a simple truth. Because the truth was undeniable now—Elysian wasn’t an ordinary warrior. He wasn’t an ordinary rootless. He had just dismantled two of Gulthram’s most promising warriors, and there had been no luck involved. No fluke. Just skill. Pure, honed, terrifying skill.

  Throrak exhaled, his scrutiny shifting back to Elysian. The boy’s face hadn’t changed. Indifferent, unreadable. As if none of this mattered to him. As if their reactions, their hesitation, their fear—none of it even registered. And that, perhaps, was the most unsettling part.

  Drask’s smirk sharpened, the glint of mischief never leaving his eyes. “Since we’re already at it, why don’t we make the next match... exciting?”

  Throrak’s frown wavered. Then, slowly, he grinned. “Tell me.”

  Drask let the pause stretch, savoring the tension. “Why don’t we let all the remaining participants fight the rootless at once?”

  A ripple of reaction passed through the gathered warriors. Throrak’s eyes flickered with intrigue before narrowing in consideration. His gaze settled on Elysian, who hadn’t so much as flinched at the suggestion. Not even a raised brow. Just that same measured indifference. Something about that expression made Throrak more curious about the boy. He turned back to Drask, lips curling into a smirk. “Why do I have a feeling you just want this competition to end?”

  “It’s obvious.” Drask waved a lazy hand, but his grin dimmed, just slightly. “Everyone does. No one is in the mood for this.”

  A quiet murmur of agreement passed through the crowd. The aftermath of the Draen’Volruk still clung to them, a heavy weight that no amount of spectacle could fully lift. Drask sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair before the mischief returned to his eyes. “Since we have to do it, why not make it worth watching? One-on-one against the rootless would just turn stale, given the obvious gap in skill.” He gestured broadly to the defeated warrior still sitting with his head low. “So, why not three at once? That should at least be interesting.” Drask turned to Vrakdur. “What do you say, boss?”

  Vrakdur exhaled, his gaze shifting to Elysian for a long, unreadable moment. Then, he sighed. “Do what you want. I won’t interfere.”

  Throrak chuckled. “You seem moody, my friend. Is it because we ignored what you wanted?”

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  Vrakdur’s brow lifted in silent warning. Throrak only raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t push. But you can’t deny it’s been entertaining.”

  Vrakdur didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  Drask turned to Elysian, his grin widening. “What do you say, rootless? Up for the challenge?”

  Elysian met his gaze, unimpressed. “Do I have a choice?”

  “You seem to think you don’t,” Drask mused, eyes twinkling. “But I have a feeling you don’t mind.”

  Elysian sighed, rolling his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Drask chuckled. “I like the confidence.” His gaze slid toward the remaining Gulthram warriors. “And you three? Still hesitant? Or does the idea of three against one finally give you some courage?”

  The words hit their mark. The warriors stiffened, pride flickering through their shame. Drask’s smirk turned wicked as he glanced at Throrak. “If they’re still afraid to fight a rootless after this, I’d be speechless about the quality of Gulthram warriors these days.”

  The taunt burned, not just in the warriors but in Throrak himself. The clan leader’s expression darkened, but his displeasure wasn’t aimed at Drask—it was at his own fighters.

  The three warriors surged to their feet, eyes blazing with renewed fury. Their earlier hesitation was gone, drowned by insult and wounded pride. They stepped forward, bodies coiled, growls rumbling low in their throats.

  Elysian only smiled at their dangerous stares—unafraid, unshaken. Three against one. They thought the odds were in their favor.

  ‘Yeah, this is what I get for looking strong. F*ck. But what choice do I have? If I can’t hide, I have to make them think I belong here. That I’m worth something. That means winning. And in an overwhelming manner.’

  Elysian stayed still, his grip firm around his sword, legs bent just enough for an instant response. His heart pounded like a war drum, but his face remained unreadable. His opponents would see no fear, no hesitation. Just a boy ready to carve them apart.

  Drask grinned, teeth bared. “Good. Both sides are ready.” A beat of silence. “Fight!”

  Elysian exploded forward the moment the word left Drask’s mouth, aura coiling around his legs as he sprinted toward the middle thralgar. The sudden aggression startled his opponent, the barest flicker of hesitation flashing in their eyes. They recovered fast—too fast. The pincer attack came immediately, the two thralgar flanking him closing in like wolves on a wounded deer while the one in the middle stood his ground, waiting for the boy to come.

  Elysian pivoted sharply at the last moment, redirecting his charge toward the one on the left. The abrupt shift threw off the central opponent, leaving him a step behind his comrades. A curse, a snarl—too late.

  The left thralgar brought his blade down in a vicious arc, expecting to cleave Elysian apart. Instead, Elysian dropped low, rolling beneath the swing, his momentum carrying him between the thralgar’s legs. As he came up, he drove his sword into the warrior’s thigh.

  A roar of pain. The thralgar stumbled back, crashing into his companion. The two collapsed in a tangled heap, limbs flailing, scrambling to rise.

  ‘Two down. One left.’

  Elysian wasted no time. He surged toward the last opponent, the only one still standing.

  The thralgar hesitated. His eyes darted between his fallen comrades and the human charging straight for him. Fear cracked through his composure.

  Elysian feinted right.

  The thralgar panicked, swinging wildly. Too wild. He overextended.

  Elysian ducked under the reckless slash, stepped left, and drove a brutal kick into the back of the warrior’s knee. A strangled cry as the thralgar’s leg buckled, sending him crashing down. Elysian’s blade pressed against his throat. A heartbeat of silence.

  “I—I surrender!” The thralgar’s voice was raw, desperate.

  Elysian withdrew instantly, already turning. The two thralgar entangled on the ground had almost regained their footing. Elysian lunged forward and drove his boot into the head of the top warrior. A sickening crack. His body went limp, dazed—an opening. Without hesitation, Elysian slit his throat in a swift, clean motion. Blood spilled, dark and gleaming.

  The final thralgar, the one trapped beneath his fallen companion, let out a strangled scream. “I—surrender!” His voice trembled with something raw—panic, disbelief.

  Elysian stepped back, his sword dripping, his breath steady. Three opponents, one against three. And yet, here he stood—victorious.

  A stunned hush fell over the gathered warriors. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Three against one—gone in mere moments. The young thralgar of Clan Gulthram, their finest, their most promising, lay beaten, breathless, or worse. The fight hadn’t even lasted long enough for the spectators to grasp its edges, to measure Elysian’s skill. What they had expected was a struggle, a drawn-out clash where they could finally understand the limits of this rootless. Instead, he had carved through them. Not with brute strength. Not with the reckless force of desperation. But with precision. Every step, every shift of his weight, every calculated action had unraveled his opponents before they even realized they were losing.

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd, a rising tide of disbelief. Warriors glanced at one another, searching for some explanation, some flaw in what they had just witnessed—there was none.

  At the front, the clan leaders sat unmoving—silent, except for the slight widening of their eyes. A small thing, yet from beings of their stature, it was as if Creation itself had cracked beneath them.

  Throrak’s grip on his sword tightened, his nostrils flaring. Vrakdur, who had seen centuries of battle, had watched entire generations of warriors rise and fall, now studied Elysian with something new in his gaze. Not mere curiosity—but respect.

  Yes, they were titans, far beyond Elysian in raw power, like gods watching a mortal dance at the edge of their storm. But even gods could admire mastery. And what they had just seen wasn’t luck. It wasn’t brute instinct. It was skill. Not just in the killing but in the thinking—strategy and execution.

  The young ones, still caught in the raw spectacle of it all, whispered in shock. But the elders? The veterans? They saw it for what it was. The cold efficiency. The split-second decisions that had turned numbers against themselves. Not to mention the restraint. Elysian could have killed all three with ease. That would have made things much easier. A stabbed there and sliced at the right angle to end it all, yet he had waited, listened for surrender. That was what made it even more unnerving. For one so young. For one not even thralgar.

  Even with all that, Elysian just looked at his opponent on the floor with the same detached interest one might give a broken practice dummy

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