CHAPTER 429: DAY OF THE TOURNAMENT

Jethru did not come to the brothel that night. Instead, he sent word that he would arrive the following morning.

Lara scowled at the message.

Why a brothel of all places?The capital boasted countless respectable inns. Did Alaric not realize the kind of suspicion—and humiliation—I would face if anyone saw me walking into such an establishment?

At once, her master’s disapproving face flashed in her mind, stern and frowning, as though he stood before her in judgment. And still... despite herself, a small smile touched her lips.

The third floor of the brothel was unusually quiet, secluded from the raucous laughter and music below. No other patrons lingered there. Agilus had arranged for their meals to be brought up, and they dined together in a modest dining room before retiring to their respective chambers.

Lara’s room was directly across from Alaric’s.

Sometime past midnight, a faint noise pulled her from her sleep. Hushed voices—low and deliberate. Instincts honed by years of discipline surged within her. Silently, she slipped from her bed and padded to the door. Pressing her eye against the narrow crack, she froze.

Her breath caught. There, in the dim torchlight of the hall, a woman stood at Alaric’s door, clothed in little more than a whisper of silk, her posture too practiced to be innocent.

Lara’s pulse quickened. What is she doing here?

She forced herself still, fighting the urge to burst out. The woman fumbled with the lock. For a moment, it resisted—then clicked open on its own. A muffled male voice carried through the gap.

Alaric?

Before Lara could process what was happening in front of her, the woman was yanked inside, the door slamming shut behind her.

Her body tensed, a sudden jolt coursing through her as disbelief danced wildly across her features. She blinked rapidly, desperately rubbing her eyes as if to erase the haunting image before her, yet it remained—real and undeniable.

Heat surged through her chest. Anger and betrayal, she refused to name. Jealousy lurked in the shadows of her mind. Her breaths came out in sharp, jagged gasps, each inhalation a struggle to reclaim her composure. She grasped at calm, but it eluded her grasp like sand slipping through her fingers, leaving her spiraling deeper into a whirlwind of turmoil.

How dare he? How dare he bring a woman into his room, under my nose?

Fury boiled until she could contain it no longer. She flung open her door, stormed across the hall, and raised her foot to kick his door off its hinges—

—but strong arms wrapped around her from behind.

Startled, her instincts screamed. She reached for the knife she always kept at her thigh, only to grasp at nothing. She was in her nightclothes—unarmed and her blade was left under her pillow.

Before she could struggle further, a familiar scent washed over her, warm and disarming.

"You," she breathed.

Alaric pulled her firmly back into her room and shut the door.

Lara blinked in confusion. "If you’re here... then who’s in that room? Don’t tell me—it’s Agilus?"

Alaric gave a small, knowing nod. "We’ve both been targeted too many times. He and I know how to play the part."

Lara huffed, crossing her arms, though her cheeks burned. "Good. If it had been you in there... don’t think for a second I’d forgive you."

Alaric’s lips curved into a grin. He should have been irritated, but instead, he felt a rush of satisfaction. Lara was furious and jealous. That could only mean one thing: she cared.

"I know and I wouldn’t dare," he said softly, his grin lingering.

Get some rest, "the elimination round begins at dawn. You’ll need your strength."

...

Dawn broke with the clamor of bells ringing across the capital. The elimination round of the tournament was set to begin.

Outside the brothel, Jethru stood cloaked in a heavy mantle, his hood drawn low to shadow half his face. He had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, his presence austere and immovable.

"Master Jethru," Agilus greeted, striding out with a grin. "What in the world are you wearing? I nearly mistook you for a thief lurking in the alleys." His tone was light, almost mocking.

Jethru’s frown deepened, sharp as a blade. "Do not jest with me. Who told you to lodge my disciple in a brothel? Had it not been so late, I would have dragged her out with my own hands."

Agilus only laughed, loud and unbothered, the sound rolling like thunder."Ah, but she is none the worse for it, Master. Come. Let us waste no more words. The arena awaits."

...

By the time Lara and Logan stepped into the arena grounds, the space was already thick with the noise of the crowd. Spectators packed the stands, their voices blending into a restless hum of anticipation.

The arena was a vast circle of trampled dirt, hemmed in by ropes thick as a man’s wrist. Dozens of competitors lined its edges—warriors from every province of the kingdom. Some gleamed in polished armor, proud banners stitched into their cloaks. Others stood quiet in plain training garb, their calmness more daunting than any armor. Weapons flashed here and there in the sunlight, though most had come bare-handed, their very bodies honed into living weapons.

Lara and Logan wore matching black garb that Jethru had prepared: long-sleeved shirts, loose trousers that concealed movement, and light leather jackets thrown over the top. They were dressed not to dazzle, but to endure.

Lara tightened the straps of her wrist guards and rolled her shoulders, exhaling slowly. Her heartbeat was steady—not with dread, but with the razor’s edge of anticipation. She had trained all her life for moments such as this. She would not falter now.

Yet, when she felt a familiar gaze settle on her from across the grounds, her focus wavered for a breath.

Across the arena, Alaric stood among the competitors. His arms folded across his chest, his posture casual, but his eyes... his dark eyes fixed solely on her. To others, he might have looked unreadable. But she knew better. There was sharpness there, yes, the keen weight of scrutiny. Yet beneath it lingered something softer—something meant only for her.

Still, questions clawed at her thoughts. Why were Alaric, Agilus, and Redon on the field? Each of them wore identical masks marked with the sigil of the Zen Warriors, blending into the ranks of contestants as if they belonged there.

Weren’t they with Jethru at the bleachers where the audience was?

She glanced toward Jethru, hoping for answers. He only shrugged, a rare flicker of puzzlement crossing his otherwise impassive face. "I registered only two names," he mouthed.

Her gaze darted back to the tall prince. Their eyes locked for a fleeting heartbeat, a silent pull that made her breath catch. She was the first to look away.

But then Alaric crossed the arena, closing the distance between them. He leaned close, his words low, meant for her alone.

"We’re here to guard you," he murmured, his voice carrying the quiet certainty of command. "The elimination round is not a duel—it is chaos. A free fight. Remember the rules: do not be thrown beyond the rope, and no weapons. Bare hands only."

The crowd roared as the gong signaled the first call to start. Lara swallowed hard, straightening her spine. The air between her and Alaric still crackled, but she forced her focus back onto the ring.

The storm was about to begin.

The gong reverberated like thunder, and the arena erupted into motion.

Warriors surged forward, the dirt beneath their feet kicking up in clouds. The shouts of the contenders clashed with the roar of the crowd, each strike and counterstrike punctuated by gasps and cheers from the stands.

Lara’s eyes swept the chaos, her body coiled and ready. Every fighter was a potential threat. A giant from the northern provinces swung his fist like a hammer, sending two opponents sprawling. A lean man in crimson moved like a striking serpent, his kicks sharp and relentless. Somewhere to her left, Logan had already engaged, his movements controlled and measured, but Lara forced herself not to linger on him. She needed her focus for herself.

Two men closed in on her at once. She stepped back, measuring the rhythm of their advance. One lunged clumsily; the other hung back, waiting to exploit her response. A trap. Her lips curved in the faintest smirk.

At the last moment, she pivoted low, driving her shoulder into the first attacker’s chest. He toppled, and before the second could capitalize, Lara spun and caught him with a sharp kick to the ribs. Both men crashed into the dirt, groaning. The crowd roared its approval, though Lara heard none of it—her blood sang too loud in her ears.

And then she felt it again.

His gaze.

Even amidst the frenzy, she knew exactly where he stood. Alaric was fending off three opponents, his movements deceptively effortless. He struck with precision, conserving strength, as if he’d fought this battle a hundred times before. For the briefest instant, his eyes flicked to her—checking, calculating.

Lara never lost her focus. She tuned out everything else but the enemies around her. Suddenly, she felt that she was back in the hellhole that her father in her past life had thrown her into.