CHAPTER 431: THE TOURNAMENT 3

Her eyes locked with Alaric’s.

He hadn’t moved. The mask still concealed his face, but she didn’t need to see it—she felt him. Concern radiated from him like a steady flame in the storm. He was urging her on in silence, his will shoring up her own.

For a heartbeat, Lara simply stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping warm from the cut at her temple, each breath sending agony lancing through her ribs. The roar of the crowd swelled around her, a storm crashing against the walls of the arena.

Her gaze flicked across the stands. Her father—rage and fear twisting his features—looked ready to vault the barrier and drag her out by force. She turned away quickly, finding her master. Jethru’s frown cut deep; he had never seen her take such punishment, and worry pressed heavily into the lines of his face. Then Logan—barely conscious, one eye swollen shut—still managed to grin, raising a bruised thumb skyward.

The referee’s shout broke through the noise. Fenris was called to step back; she’d crossed the yellow line. The crowd hissed, restless. She reset her footing on the packed dirt, steadying herself.

Only two fighters remained. Lara and her last opponent.

The rules shifted. The referee’s voice rang out, announcing they could now arm themselves. They could use a weapon of their choice from the available ones provided at one corner of the ring. But there were only four. A hunting knife, a sword, a twin short blade, and a metal nunchaku.

They have to be fast if they want to get the weapon of their choice.

Lara’s gaze cut to her opponent. He was massive, a mountain of a man whose scarred body bore the story of countless brutal victories. They called him Slayer, and not without reason—his opponents rarely left the ring whole. Against his bulk, Lara’s height suddenly felt insignificant; she barely reached his chest.

His eyes narrowed at her, assessing. A predator who saw not a slip of a young man, but a rival to crush.

"Fighting you is beneath me," he sneered, voice dripping disdain. "The one I defeated before was more deserving." He glanced at Alaric at the side of the ring. "You? I don’t even understand how you’ve crawled this far." He stepped back with false magnanimity, mockery sharp in his grin. "Choose your weapon. I won’t waste time competing for scraps."

Jethru surged to his feet, fury crackling through his shout. "Did he just insult my disciple?!"

Julian Cardill looked at him and frowned even more. He looked so familiar. It couldn’t be him right?

The arena stilled, anticipation thick as smoke. All eyes followed Lara as she walked—slow, deliberate—to the weapons. Her hand closed around the nunchaku, lifting it with a calm defiance that drew murmurs from the crowd. Slayer barked a laugh at her choice, already twirling his twin short blades with deadly confidence.

The gong struck.

He lunged, force and precision crashing together, every strike heavy enough to shatter bone. Lara moved on instinct, her body a blur of weaving limbs and parries, her nunchaku clattering against steel. Each impact sent jolts down her arms, every near miss grazing her skin. Blood oozed from a fresh slice across her arm, the pain white-hot. She stumbled, nearly losing her footing. The crowd gasped as Slayer pressed forward like a storm intent on breaking her.

Jethru and Odin shot up from their seats. Alaric, still motionless by the ring, pressed his lips tight.

Lara gritted her teeth and dug in. Her next block wasn’t just defense—it was strategy. She trapped the twin blades against her nunchaku, twisted, and wrenched. One weapon clattered to the ground. Slayer’s eyes went wide, disbelief flashing through them.

Julian Cardill rose abruptly, the smug pride he’d worn for his disciple crumbling into shock.

Slayer lashed out, trying to recover, but Lara was already moving. She slid low, kicking the disarmed blade away across the dirt. Slayer’s fury ignited—he came at her with reckless ferocity, but every strike met steel and chain, every fist bruised against the bite of her weapon. His confidence faltered as the crude tool carved pain into him with every misstep.

Lara shifted, letting his next strike graze past her, then twisted inside his guard. Her knee drove upward, catching him off balance. Before he could recover, she spun, her elbow slamming against his jaw with every ounce of strength left in her.

Slayer wavered. One step. Two. And then, with a thunderous crash, he crumbled.

For a moment, Lara could only stand there, chest heaving, blood dripping from the cut at her arm and pain throbbing along her ribs. The noise of the crowd swelled around her like a storm.

But her eyes found Alaric’s.

He had not moved, though the mask hid his expression. Yet she knew. She felt it. The pride. The relief. And beneath it all, something deeper—something that made her heart stutter despite the ache in her body.

Lara straightened, ignoring the pain, and lifted her chin.

The referee began to count. But before ten, Slayer stirred. Slowly, impossibly, the giant rose.

Silence swept the crowd.

Blades flashed back into Slayer’s hands. He came again, relentless, silver arcs whistling through the air. Lara answered with fluid precision—each dodge, each deflection an echo of water flowing around stone. Her movements were sharp, calculated, honed from every lesson and every scar she earned from the many teachers that her father hired for her and from her master.

"Damn you," Slayer cursed, desperation fraying his composure. He could not predict her. She was too fast. Too sharp and her fighting style different.

A blade sliced close, grazing the left sleeve of her jacket. With a sharp exhale, she pivoted low, swept her opponent’s leg, and struck upward with her palm. The man stumbled back, the twin blades flying from his grip.

Gasps rippled through the arena as Lara advanced, chain wrapped tight in her hand. She stopped just shy of his throat, her voice ringing out, clear and cold.

"Yield."

The intent in her eyes froze him. Not the beaten young man he’d mocked—but a predator ready to end him. His defiance crumbled. With wide eyes and a strangled breath, he dropped to one knee.

The man’s eyes widened before he dropped to one knee. "I yield."

The crowd erupted, the sound a tidal wave of disbelief and awe. Julian Cardill’s face twisted in hatred, his perfect disciple kneeling in defeat before an opponent almost half his size.

He was not reconciled, and an intense hatred surged through him as he gazed at Fenris.

The gong resounded. The crowd erupted in cheers. Lara straightened, breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with adrenaline.

Odin, Percival, and Abel stood, and their claps and shouts were louder than anyone else.

Jethru and Logan stormed into the ring, sweeping Lara up, throwing her skyward in triumph. She barely heard them. Her gaze, inexorably, found Alaric once more.

He had not moved. But at last, beneath the mask, the faintest curve touched his lips. It was not amusement nor mockery.

It was something deeper—Pride!