When he was much younger, Phaedon enjoyed walking along the halls of the Bertrand estate. It still felt like a relatively new house to him despite the few years his family lived there—everything always looked so fresh and neat and shiny. Moreover, doing so helped clear his head when the stress of his studies got to him. It was difficult to memorize and understand so many things at once even with the eagerness he had to learn.

  That said, he was as enthusiastic as he could be about his swotting. His father had taught him about their grand purpose: “A Bertrand protects his family’s name”, and what a noble purpose it was. The idea of having something so precious to you that you’d give all of yourself to it was something that made him feel like he could take on the world. To say he was excited was an understatement for his feelings on eventually inheriting his father’s title—leading the Drakonyra district into greatness and solidifying the Bertrands as a great house of Artemest.

  Phaedon stopped for a moment, and the quiet pitter-pattering of footsteps that were following him did, too. He strode forward a few more steps and paused again, and the tiny footsteps alternating in their sound and silence shadowed him.

  Finally, he turned around to look at the wide, empty hallway—with a tiny figure hiding behind one of the statues that lined the space. She would have done a good job of hiding herself if her antlers weren’t poking out the side of the bust. Phaedon waited for a moment. Slowly, the girl peeked out, and when she realized that he was watching, she flinched and hid again. She stood still, as if believing that if she hid long enough, he’d forget she was there.

  “Come out,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  The girl didn’t move at first, but she eventually stepped out, albeit with hesitance. Her tiny antlers jutted out of the top of her head, and her black hair, as always, was too long, almost reaching the ground. She stood there, staring at him with wide eyes—a tiny girl of eight, nearly half Phaedon’s age.

  Sometimes, he wondered if she could even understand him. She followed him around constantly but rarely ever spoke. When she did, it was always in her native language. Rene said that she was being taught Eirsarian, the common tongue of Nomena, but Phaedon had a hard time believing that with how quiet she was.

  At any rate, he didn’t really know how to interact with her—with Phaelan Bertrand, his strange little sister.

  Phaedon’s footing slipped, forcing him to block a punch from Gaeus with his arms instead of his weapon. Once more, his sword went flying. It almost felt futile to try and stay armed.

  He staggered back, a hot buzzing radiating through his right arm, stinging like it was about to fall off. Without a way to get a good hit in, he was slowly being pushed into defeat, steadily being whittled away while Gaeus took little to no damage. Before long, Phaedon would lose.

  The only chance he had at victory now was to destroy Gaeus’ bracelet—something any inexperienced fighter could say before realizing how difficult it actually was to do. Everyone that had made it this far would be skilled at protecting it. If anything, a smarter combatant would use it as bait to force an opening from their opponent.

  Gaeus was a dumb brute—Phaedon had no doubts about that—but even he understood that concept.

  The young heir rushed in, dust billowing behind him. He grabbed a spear and lunged both legs forward, striking at Gaeus’ shins with a two-foot kick in hopes of toppling the larger man. The result was only a short skid backwards. Gaeus was heavy, and being fully-armored only added to that weight. Phaedon rolled across the ground, avoiding another gauntlet from crushing him and creating distance between them.

  The large man cleverly went on the offensive, not giving Phaedon a chance to unwind, and knocked away Phaedon’s spear. If he was in Gaeus’ position, he’d have done the same thing, too. It was clear that he was on his last legs.

  He grabbed another one of the blades strewn across the arena and focused his attacks on Gaeus’ left arm, where his identification bracelet was. The latter was quick to maneuver it away all the while hammering at Phaedon with his other gauntlet, forcing him on the defensive.

  Phaedon’s stamina wasn’t going to hold. He felt every breath strain heavy against his lungs.

  The young heir swung as hard as he could at the gaps in the armor—a decision that ended with another sword shattered against the man’s gauntlets. A second gauntlet struck Phaedon’s side, and he was sent tumbling across the ground, his entire body feeling like it was on fire. He could tell that ribs had cracked. Hopefully, it was just one, but he didn’t want to pause and check lest the pain overwhelm him.

  He pushed to keep himself up, nearly losing consciousness. His ears were ringing. The announcer was saying something, but nothing was registering. He was, at least, still clear-headed enough to know that if he didn’t grab hold of a weapon within the next ten seconds, he’d be out of the tournament then and there. His eyes found a pair of brass knuckles on the ground in front of him, and he rushed to grab one of them. The crowd stirred from that—he was probably still in the game.

  Phaedon pushed himself to his knees, brandishing the knuckledusters on the hand on his good arm. Gaeus sauntered towards him, and the young heir could feel the vibrations from his laugh echoing inside that helm of his. It was an overconfident stride filled with openings, but Phaedon was in no state to take advantage of it.

  Then, his eyes focused on the stands behind him, where swathes of people cheered and roared and made merry. Near the edge, he could see a figure standing, well-dressed and donning a smug grin on his damnable face. His father, of course, would not have passed the opportunity to witness Phaedon’s defeat.

  The heir grit his teeth, feeling rage broil through him. Every time Phaedon joined the festival, he fought against all manner of opponents, but in the end—at the heart of it all—he was only ever fighting against one person: Lysandros Bertrand.

  And in all those years, not once had Phaedon won.

  Was this how it was always going to be? Was his fight futile? Try and try as he might, he couldn’t seem to win. How stubborn of a person would he continue to be? For how much longer could he play the fool?

  Such questions riddled Phaedon’s mind as he kneeled there. They were questions that had plagued him all his life. And the answers ...

  “—Ah.”

  His eyes settled to the ground below him, where a pendant laid, likely having fallen out of his pocket when he was tumbling to his current position. A simple, cheaply-made, and worn mouse-ear pendant rested dull against the stone.

  You’re the strongest person I know, nii-sama.

  Those words replayed in his head like a curse. They were words spoken so long ago by someone whose face he could not even recall—words he had decided were meaningless.

  So, why did he always remember them?

  “... Damn it,” Phaedon muttered under his breath as he grabbed the pendant and stuffed it back into his pocket.

  Seeing his father act so high-and-mighty pissed him off. Seeing Gaeus act so smug over armor that wasn’t even his to begin with infuriated him. Seeing the prospect of once again losing the festival made him burn to no end.

  All those things were suitable enough reasons to push himself as far as he did.

  But more than anything else, he found himself unable to betray those words his little sister once spoke out of blind admiration.

  Phaedon pushed himself up to his legs, a single brass knuckle equipped, and he glared at his opponent with such ferocity that, for a brief moment, Gaeus stopped and trembled.

  “H-hah! Still rarin’ to go, are ya? Fuckin’ bastard must be lovin’ getting’ beat up, he is!” Gaeus laughed, posturing.

  Phaedon didn’t say anything. He switched the brass knuckle from his left hand to his nearly broken right one and settled into a simple boxing stance. With a deep breath, he steadied himself.

  There was no point in drawing things out. He was determined to give it his all and win this festival, and he was going to prove it.

  Gaeus let out a haughty laugh then rushed in, intending to finish his opponent. Phaedon waited. He kept himself still, an open target. Gaeus, fortunately, was not the type to slow down or be cautious, so he kept on rushing.

  Finally, the man swung his gauntlet down. The heir narrowly moved his body to the side, the gauntlet missing by only millimeters. He strengthened every muscle in his body, summoned every bit of power and energy he could muster from his fatigued form, and swung his arm as hard as he could.

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  His fist collided with Gaeus’ faceplate, and a crashing noise erupted from the impact, a force so strong it managed to kick dust up around them.

  Phaedon roared as he forced the punch through, refusing to be stopped or blocked or rejected, until Gaeus’ faceplate dented inwards.

  Snap.

  “—?!”

  In an instant, it felt like molten iron was poured into Phaedon’s arm. A mind-numbing pain surged through him, threatening to collapse his mind.

  Gaeus nearly flew when he stumbled backwards onto the stone they stood on, tossing about on the ground as he struggled to get his helm off. There was a pause in the air as his muffled screams reverberated from his dented faceplate. Then, staff rushed in to help. Seeing that Gaeus could no longer fight, Camille declared Phaedon the winner, but the young heir couldn’t quite focus on the crowds’ cheers as he clutched his right arm, the brass knuckle falling out of his shaking hand.

  He tried not to let anyone else see the pain he was in, but it was nothing short of a monumental task, a cold, clammy sweat forming on his face. Phaedon had completely shattered the bones in his hands, and his ulna was pretty much snapped in half.

  He walked back to the waiting room and sat down, gritting his teeth through the pain as he waited for the healers to come. They always did, after every fight, so that the contestants didn’t enter their next one exhausted and wounded.

  No healers came.

  Lilieth stood by one of the windows of her waiting room, watching the fights outside unfold. Several had already passed. Grits defeated a fighter named Sami who was wholly unimpressive. Albus recently finished his own fight against a man named Efstathios who also didn’t pose much of a threat. There were fights between people Lilieth didn’t know, too.

  The final fight of the second round was underway: Sibeiya against Sandrine.

  Sibeiya, of course, fought with a spear, whilst Sandrine was equipped with a giant mechanical gauntlet on her right arm, the gears and cogs within fully visible, as if no care had been given to making it look “pretty”. It was larger than the ones a previous contestant, Gaeus, wore, and it sure was packed with all sorts of little tricks. At one point it had begun spewing fire around. Lilieth didn’t know how that was legal.

  Surprisingly, Sibeiya was much more cautious than Lilieth anticipated. The young mage had expected her to rush in and attack as soon as the fight began, but she actually waited and observed, standing by for Sandrine to make the first move.

  Granted, if Lilieth’s opponent had a giant mechanical hand as a weapon, she’d do the same thing.

  So far, the fight was ... interesting. Sandrine, while neither as fast nor strong as Sibeiya, was able to keep her own, somehow. Strange considering she was supposed to be a researcher at an institute, but perhaps she had a background in adventuring. Camille, who was a member of the Guild, seemed to know her personally, so it wasn’t the most far-fetched theory.

  Sibeiya had a chagrined look on her face as she tried to keep up with her many tricks all the while Sandrine just seemed like she was having the time of her life. After some time, Sibeiya did finally manage to adapt to the woman’s strange fighting style and was about to corner her. That was until the Salcaeli woman pulled out her second weapon. A loud sound erupted as something hit Sibeiya’s shoulder, forcing her back.

  Lilieth strained her eyes. “Is that ... a pistol?”

  In Sandrine’s hand was a bronze short-barreled firearm, still looking like it was made from scrap, but a firearm nonetheless.

  “Firearms” were a new kind of weapon pioneered by the researchers of the Edhel institute that utilized magitech to attack at extreme ranges. They were expensive to make, so you didn’t really see them often. Lilieth had only ever heard rumors and seen illustrations, never the real thing.

  “Sandrine!” the announcer roared from the press box. “Did ... did you bring a gun to the tournament?!”

  “The bullets are rubber!” the contestant yelled back, her voice tiny compared to the one from the magitech device Camille used. The opening elicited her a sweep under the leg from Sibeiya who had quickly closed the distance while she was distracted.

  “That Sandrine girl keeps letting her guard down.” Albus walked in and leaned against one side of the window frame. “It’s going to be Sibeiya’s win.”

  Lilieth agreed but didn’t say anything. She continued observing the fight, trying to see if there were any moves or techniques she could steal. The whole time, she felt Albus’ eyes on her, as if he was trying to read her.

  “What?” Lilieth eventually asked.

  “I’m guessing you and young Sibeiya had a fight, and I have speculation of the broad strokes of what happened.”

  Lilieth scoffed. “Do you now?”

  Albus shifted, making himself comfortable. “I don’t know who, but I can tell you’re trying to kill someone.”

  The young mage flinched. He was pretty much spot on.

  “How can you tell?”

  “You have those eyes. I’ve seen them before—not on myself, of course, but on plenty of other people. Have you ever been to Odunast?”

  Lilieth shook her head.

  “Terribly cold place, my homeland,” Albus said. “And it wasn’t just because of the snowstorms. The people there could get pretty vicious at times, too. You know how we choose our souverains?” A pause. “We don’t. We have candidates for the throne, and they fight each other to the death until only one is left standing. That person becomes the next Souverain of Snow.”

  The young mage had heard of that rather brutal custom of theirs. “Sounds to me like they’re clinging to their old ways a bit too hard,” Lilieth said.

  The gray-haired man shrugged. “It is what it is. My point is that Odunast is used to people trying to kill each other, so I’m rather familiar with that look you have in your eyes.” He sighed, staring out at the battlefield. “You came here as a young girl, soft and timid. And in just a few weeks, you’ve gained that fire in your eyes, but I fear you may be burning yourself from within.”

  “I have to,” Lilieth replied. “I don’t have a choice. The people I have to hunt down are stronger than me, much stronger than me.”

  That’s why she had to get a hold of everything she could. Every skill she could learn, she needed to take. Nothing less would let her goal be possible.

  Albus nodded, as if understanding something. “And you think Sibeiya’s trying to stop you from doing so.”

  The young mage turned her eyes to him. “Did she tell you?”

  “No, but I know her well enough to know that she tried to do something about that flare in your eyes.”

  Lilieth held her tongue. The gray-haired man was quiet for a moment, pondering. Then, he sucked in a breath.

  “Before I found Guillem, I actually trained under a different instructor,” he began. “He was a mountain of a man—old, unsociable. Odunites are known for their sharpened senses of humor, as you know, but not him.”

  Lilieth frowned. “I’ve never heard of that stereotype before.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “Must’ve just been me that found them funny then. Anyway, he was dull as a brick. Didn’t have the capacity for strategic or comedic thought, him. He’d make Guillem look like a jester in comparison.”

  Lilieth sighed. “You say it as if that’s easy to imagine.”

  “Never said it’d be easy. We called him Graves because his real name was a bit of a mouthful—and a tad bit depressing. He was one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. He had no Blessings, and yet, he was a match for Seconds. I once saw him fight a Third to a draw.”

  The young mage perked up. “You’re joking.”

  “I do like to joke, Lilieth, but not this isn’t one of those times. Not even an exaggeration. It was insanity.” Albus’ tone shifted to one of bewilderment, as if he was just seeing it for the first time again. “I asked him what his secret was. I remember asking: ‘How’d you do it? How did you beat a Third?’ ”

  He paused dramatically.

  “... And?” Lilieth asked.

  The gray-haired man deepened his voice. “He replied that he hadn’t realized his opponent was a Third.”

  “What?”

  Albus laughed. “Yeah, I know. He told me that all he saw in his opponent was ‘a boy and nothing else’. Didn’t even factor in the idea that his opponent was stronger than him. He simply fought, best he could, and somehow, that was enough. That was how he lived his whole life. The lesson I took from that was that I should stop comparing myself to others. At some point, I stopped worrying about the destination and started enjoying the journey.”

  He stood up straight and placed an almost paternal hand on Lilieth’s shoulder. “I don’t know where you’re headed, lass. It might be somewhere far—somewhere not here. I’m sure that wherever you’re headed, it’s somewhere you need to be, but I can tell you this: how you get there’s important, too.”

  Albus left, leaving behind a speechless Lilieth. Was he telling her that her pursuit of strength was somehow wrong?

  Before she could properly process his words, Camille announced Sibeiya’s victory. The young mage looked to the arena and saw a distraught Sandrine on her knees, crying and mourning the loss of her mechanical gauntlet that lay broken in front of her. Sibeiya stood awkwardly in front of her, visibly not knowing what to do. She even looked like she wanted to comfort Sandrine.

  She had that same expression when she talked to Lilieth.

  “...”

  Lilieth walked away from the window.

  Finally, the third round was starting, and the eight winners of the previous one would face off to see who would get to enter the semifinals. This was technically the final round for anyone wanting to pass Spearman’s test. All they had to do to prove they were strong enough was reach the semifinals, not win it.

  Lilieth’s goal, however, was different. From looking at the brackets, she wasn’t going to face off against Sibeiya unless both of them made it to the final round.

  “Let me hear some noise, Artemest!” the announcer’s voice cut through the rising noise of the arena like a whip crack. “It is, at last, time for the third round of the festival! And now, I’m finally joined by the sore loser of the last round!”

  “Urgh ... hello everyone I’m Sandrine Isabeau Artois pleased to meet you ...”

  “Can you at least try to not sound like you’re on the verge of tears?”

  “But my baby! My baby died!”

  “Phrasing!”

  A roar of laughter spread out through the crowd. Lilieth stood at the mouth of the corridor, the heat of the sun spilling in through the open gate ahead. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself.

  “Moving on, let’s get the third round started with our newest rising star!”

  Lilieth stepped forward and emerged into the light.

  “Small in stature but dangerous beyond measure, she—”

  “Oh, it’s you! You’re here too! Hello! We met before! Do you remember m—ah, wait!”

  There was a sound of a scuffle as the mic was taken away from Sandrine.

  “Everyone, put up a round of applause for Lilieth!” Camille hurriedly announced. The crowd erupted in revelry.

  Lilieth, on the other hand, barely reacted. The noise washed over her as she passed by weapons, walking towards the center of the arena.

  “And for her opponent: last round’s underdog with the potential to become a fan favorite, one who touched the hearts of many by refusing to stay down! Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for—”

  A figure stepped into view—tense shoulders, dried blood on his collar accentuating his red hair. The young man stared at Lilieth, determination in his eyes.

  “Niko!”

  The Healmage stopped in front of the young mage, exhaustion evident on him. He wasn’t injured, of course; fighters were healed before stepping out. Still, there was a tiredness about him that was palpable.

  Lilieth knew that this fight was coming. She had seen the bracket. She had nothing against Niko, he who had always helped and patched her up whenever she was injured. She didn’t know why he was fighting, but she had hoped that this matchup wouldn’t happen at all. Now, there they were.

  This is gonna be an easy fight. Just get it over with.

  “...”

  There ain’t no room for hesitation, brat. You came this far. You finish it.

  Lilieth took a deep breath and met her opponent’s eyes. Niko met hers with the same intensity.

  That was right. She’d come too far to stop now. And besides ...

  ... She could always use a few Heal spells.