The first match was already underway.

  Trevon and I stood just beyond the ring, behind a roped-off area designated for those awaiting their turn. From this angle, we had a clear view of the arena floor—sunlight catching on steel, the distant cng of bdes ringing against one another like ceremonial bells. The crowd erupted in bursts of appuse and shouts, their excitement rising and falling with each exchange.

  Trevon leaned forward, eyes sharp with interest. “That’s Lord Ferrick’s son,” he said, nudging me. “The one who almost took second pce st year.”

  I nodded but didn’t respond. I was watching—not him, but his opponent. Smaller build, but quicker. Slippery footwork. Watching how he kept his weight forward. How he baited his strikes with purpose.

  Trevon kept talking, offering little observations under his breath, but I was already mentally elsewhere—calcuting.

  Not every match was worth watching, but patterns always emerged.Some fighters opened with brute aggression, trying to overwhelm from the first swing. Others held back, pying the long game until they found a weakness. I watched their stances, the way they breathed between cshes, how tightly they gripped the hilt when cornered.

  It wasn’t just about winning. It was about understanding.

  The Swordpy Division wasn't a battlefield, but it mirrored one. Pride would drive most of them to recklessness. And unlike war, there were rules here—lines that couldn't be crossed. That, too, changed the rhythm.

  Trevon broke my thoughts with a low whistle. “That parry was nasty.”

  I gave a small grunt of agreement.

  Truthfully, I wasn’t concerned about their skill level. I could match most of them. Outthink them. Outst them.

  My confidence wasn’t mispced—not after Skyridge.The training we endured on that mountain was far more intense than anything this tournament could throw at me. True to his word, Master never went easy on us.

  We began before sunrise, long before the sky turned gold. And while we ran the mountain trails half-asleep, Master trailed behind—riding one of his pet bears.

  Sometimes it was Chong. Sometimes it was Baobao.

  The first few days were just jogging—grueling, but still forgiving.

  The terrain was rough, the air sharp with cold, but it was manageable.

  Then Master decided we weren’t suffering enough.

  So he released the bear.

  To chase us.

  For “motivation.”

  We learned quickly to pray for Chong—the gentler of the two. If he caught up, he’d give you a nudge. Maybe knock you down. Nothing worse than a bruised ego.

  But Baobao?

  Baobao didn’t nudge. Baobao hunted.

  That beast would charge at full speed—massive, unrelenting, terrifying. It didn’t matter how fast we ran; the moment you heard his paws thundering behind you, it was like running for your life. And somehow, despite his size, he moved with absurd precision.

  Even Theoden and Constantine, who’d trained longer than Trevon and I had, never fully outran him. Every time we thought we’d figured out a shortcut or trick to escape, Baobao would adapt—clever and merciless—and sm into us like a boulder.

  No killing intent, of course. But it still hurts like hell.

  Compared to that, a ring full of puffed-up noble sons felt almost quaint.

  That was the kind of training that burned itself into your bones. Brutal. Unforgiving. Honest.

  But what I needed now wasn’t a victory—it was control.Precision. Composure.

  This wasn’t just another match. Not for me.

  The moment I stepped into the ring, I wouldn’t just be a competitor. I’d be a statement. The First Prince. The reincarnated failure. The mystery boy from the capital’s whispers.

  And unlike the others, I couldn’t afford a single misstep. Not here. Not under a hundred watching eyes.

  ? 2025 baobaochong – All rights reserved.