Days bled into one another, a steady rhythm of alchemical refinement and physical conditioning for Lucian.
Each morning brought new instructions from the System, new concoctions to brew, new thresholds of pain to endure as his body was meticulously broken and reformed.
The faint, lingering scent of various solutions became a familiar companion, a constant reminder of the relentless pursuit of strength.
And then, the day arrived. The air outside his home thrummed with an almost palpable anticipation, a distant murmur of a growing crowd that carried on the crisp morning breeze.
Lucian stepped out, the cool Norlandian air a sharp contrast to the controlled warmth of his lab.
He was dressed simply, in dark, practical clothing that blended into the shadows, his naturally white hair now dyed a deep, unnatural black, falling across his forehead.
The subtle blue line, was painted across his cheek, a stark, almost defiant streak against his pale skin, further obscuring his true features.
He followed the swelling tide of people, a river of anticipation flowing towards the heart of the Guild district. The murmur grew into a roar, a vibrant tapestry of shouts, laughter, and the excited chatter of hundreds.
The tournament grounds unfolded before him, a sprawling expanse dominated by a colossal arena, its stone walls weathered but imposing.
Banners depicting various Guild divisions crests flapped in the wind, their bright colors a stark contrast to the grey stone.
The scent of roasted meats from nearby vendors mingled with the earthy smell of damp soil and the metallic tang of anticipation.
Lucian navigated the dense crowd with practiced ease, his movements fluid and economical, avoiding accidental brushes.
He spotted a series of temporary counters, bustling with activity, and made his way towards one.
A burly man with a neatly trimmed beard and a Guild emblem pinned to his tunic sat behind it, his eyes scanning a long roster.
Lucian presented his token, a small, polished disc of dark wood etched with a unique symbol. The man took it, his thick fingers tracing the intricate lines. "Hmm, Mr prince, is it?" he rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle for his size.
He consulted a ledger, then nodded. "Alright. Your token is verified. You can head into the participants' cabin. It's just beyond that archway there."
He gestured with a thumb towards a large, ornate archway leading into a separate, quieter section of the grounds.
"You'll be called when your fight will start, there is also tournament chart and your opponent's name is written there."
Lucian offered a curt nod, a silent acknowledgment, and slipped past the counter. The archway led into a more secluded area, the roar of the crowd softening to a dull thrum.
The cabin, a sturdy, timber-framed structure, stood before him.
There were two guards standing outside, they nodded after seeing Lucian and let him pass.
They pushed open the heavy wooden door and let Lucian stepped inside.
The air within the cabin was thick with a different kind of energy. It wasn't the boisterous excitement of the crowd, but a coiled tension, a quiet hum of ambition.
Dozens of people milled about, a diverse collection of warriors, swordsman, and various combatants from across nearby villages and all of region under Jarl of Stormhold.
Some stretched, their muscles rippling beneath their clothes.
Others sharpened blades with meticulous care, the soft rasp of steel on whetstone a rhythmic counterpoint to the low conversations.
Every pair of eyes held that same light, a fierce, unwavering glint that spoke of determination, of a singular focus: they were here to win.
Lucian's gaze swept across the room, taking in the varied forms of power and preparedness. He spotted a large wooden board mounted on one wall, covered with a meticulously drawn tournament bracket.
He moved towards it, his steps silent. His finger traced the lines until he found his own name. His opponent for the first fight was listed simply as 'Speed-King'.
A faint, almost imperceptible chuckle escaped him. Speed-King. He shook his head, a wry amusement touching his lips. Is there no one with a normal name here? What's next? 'Shadow-Slicer'? 'Boulder-Breaker'?
The thought brought a fleeting image of the absurdly dramatic names from Earth's comic books, a stark contrast to the grim realities of his past life.
He looked around, spotting a large, clear glass window that offered a view of a smaller, auxiliary arena.
This arena was for this group of people in this big hall.
Here, participants engaged in warm-up sparring matches, their movements a blur of controlled aggression.
He found an empty bench near the window, slightly set apart from the main cluster of competitors, and settled down, content to observe and wait for his turn.
He hadn't been sitting for long when a shadow fell over him. A voice, jovial and surprisingly close, broke the quiet. "Hey! Aren't you the one I met during registration?"
Lucian turned his head slowly. Standing over him was the same man he'd briefly encountered at the registration line a few days prior.
He was of average height, with a lean, wiry build, and a perpetually restless energy seemed to hum around him. His eyes, bright and darting, seemed to take in everything at once.
"What is your name?" Lucian asked, his voice low, his gaze steady. "I mean, your alias?"
He knew the Guild encouraged combatants to use aliases for the tournament, a tradition that added to the mystique.
The man threw his head back and laughed, a surprisingly loud, uninhibited sound that drew a few glances. "Haha! My name? My alias? I am named Speed-King!" He puffed out his chest slightly, a proud grin on his face.
Lucian's internal monologue about the name had been prescient. He merely nodded, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Speed-King, apparently, was his first opponent. The irony was not lost on him.
Speed-King leaned closer, his bright eyes scrutinizing Lucian. "So, what's your name? I didn't catch it at registration."
Lucian met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "Mr. Prince," he replied, his voice flat, revealing nothing.
It was the alias he had chosen, a simple, unassuming name that gave no hint of his true identity or his past. No one here knew his real name, Lucian, nor the life he had left behind.
Speed-King straightened up, his restless energy momentarily focused. "Can you tell me," Lucian asked instead, his voice even, "are we all the participants here? In this cabin?"
Speed-King straightened up, his restless energy momentarily focused. "Hmm, no, not all of us. There is a total of four groups, like ours. This is the second group. And in the first round, only twenty-four people will remain in each group."
He began to tick off fingers, his explanation rapid-fire. "Then, in the second round, the people will decrease to twelve. After that, it's down to six. And at last, only three people will remain in each group."
He paused, taking a dramatic breath. "Those three-remaining people from each group will then fight in a 1v1v1 battle royale!" He punctuated the last part with a flourish of his hand.
He took another long, exaggerated breath, clearly enjoying his role as an informant. "At last, from each group, we will have one winner from the 1v1v1. That means there will be a total of four champions from all four groups. And those four will fight it out until one ultimate winner comes out!" He finished with a triumphant grin.
Lucian processed the information, the complex structure of the tournament unfolding in his mind.
"Will the final winner fight against someone else? I heard mask man is going to fight against last champion? What about that? Isn't there going to be 1v1 finale" he questioned, a faint frown creasing his brow.
Speed-King's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then he chuckled. "Oh, you're talking about the Super-Final fight! That's a whole different beast. That's a one-versus-one that will happen on the 14th of April, after one champion emerges from tomorrow's four-person rampage fight." He leaned in conspiratorially.
"It's a new rule, actually. In past tournaments, even champions had to start from the very first round. But this year, they've changed it up."
He continued, his voice dropping slightly. "The winner of the four-person rampage will fight with Freya. She was last year's champion. So, if she wins, she'll take the magic potions, the grand prize. For many years, the Masked Man used seat on the throne of champion, but I think he'll get his honor back in this tournament. I think this tournament is going to be intense!" His eyes gleamed with excitement at the prospect.
Lucian's frown deepened. "If we add all the participants in all groups, it's less than two hundred," he stated, a logical inconsistency nagging at him. "Why so few people? I thought I saw many more during registration." He distinctly remembered the sprawling queues, the hundreds of hopefuls.
Speed-King, looked at Lucian with a mixture of amusement and genuine surprise. "Oh, that's simple, mate. There was a preliminary round yesterday. It eliminated all the low-level warriors. Only the strong ones made it through to today."
Lucian's confusion was evident. "Nobody told me about it," he said, the words flat. He hadn't received any notification, no instruction to participate in a preliminary round.
Ned's bright eyes narrowed slightly, a thoughtful expression replacing his usual boisterousness. He looked Lucian up and down, taking in his quiet demeanor, his unusual questions. "Are you perhaps..." he began, a slow realization dawning on his face, "a wizard?"
Lucian met his gaze, a subtle shift in his posture, an almost imperceptible hardening around his eyes. "Yes," he stated, the single word carrying a quiet authority. "I am."
Ned's face broke into a wide, disbelieving laugh. "Hahaha! A wizard! Well, that explains it then!"
He clapped Lucian on the shoulder, a friendly but firm thump. "Wizards can directly participate, you see. There's no such need for you to go through Round Zero, or the preliminary round. You're considered a different class of combatant altogether. Lucky you, eh? Saved yourself a lot of trouble."
Lucian merely nodded, the information settling into place. A different class. It made sense. He looked out the glass window again, watching the sparring warriors, their movements raw and physical.