The cheers were still echoing when I stepped off the arena ptform.The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet. My hands still felt steady—but my pulse was just beginning to settle.

  “THERE HE IS!”

  A blur of fiery red hair and golden eyes crashed into view, boots skidding across the gravel.

  Constantine barreled toward me with the force of a celebratory stampede, barely giving me a second before cpping a hand on my shoulder hard enough to rattle my bones. “I told you he’d win. That was art, Cassius. Absolute poetry with a spear. Did you see that jab? You made him dance! The timing? The wrist flick??”

  He mimed the exact spear move, nearly hitting a passing attendant in the face.

  Behind him, Theoden caught up—less loud, but just as breathless.

  “We finished our match in a hurry so we could watch yours,” he said, casually dusting off his sleeves. “Ours was easy, anyway.”

  He said it with the kind of pride only Theoden could get away with.

  “You what?” Trevon’s voice cut in—sharp and unimpressed. He stood a few paces off, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

  “I see,” he added ftly. “So you both missed my match entirely.”

  Constantine blinked, then looked at Theoden. “We got here just in time for the fun one,” he said with a grin.

  “You traitors,” Trevon muttered.

  “You won, didn’t you?” Theoden asked, raising a brow.

  “Obviously.” Trevon’s voice was clipped. “But no one stormed in yelling ‘There he is!’ for me.”

  Constantine slung an arm around him. “We’ll make it up to you, champ. But let’s be real—Cassius had the better stage presence today.”

  I didn’t respond. Just adjusted the grip on my spear and looked away—half amused, half uncomfortable.

  The four of us walked together, though we didn’t exactly match pace.

  Constantine led like he was still in the middle of a victory parade, tossing the occasional wink at nearby spectators. Theoden followed a step behind, quiet and composed, though his gaze swept constantly—watchful, calcuting.

  Trevon stalked beside me, arms crossed, still fuming in the most dignified way possible.

  “You could have at least said you were sorry for missing my match,” he grumbled, still clearly feeling wronged.

  “Trevon, we haven’t exactly figured out how to be in two pces at once,” I said dryly. “And I doubt it’s physically possible.”

  Theoden chuckled. “Trevon, your fight was over in less than three minutes. No one even had time to settle into their seats.”

  “That’s because I’m efficient.”

  Constantine looked back at us, smirking. “You three bicker like idiots.”Then he nodded toward me, casual and confident. “But this idiot just made the court collectively forget how to breathe.”

  I frowned. “You noticed?”

  “Cassius,” he said, spinning around and walking backward for a few steps. “Some of them stood up. Some looked panicked. One nearly dropped her fan. You didn’t just win—you made waves.”

  I let my gaze drift toward the stands.

  The cheers had faded, but the stares remained. Lingering. Measuring. The kind of attention that didn’t vanish when the match was over.

  I knew what that meant.

  Nobles didn’t watch for sport.They watched for leverage.

  They’re recalibrating.

  Even now, a few names and sigils caught my eye—Zonneveld banners among them. One attendant, cloaked in subtle Eastern garb, whispered into a communication orb as he slipped away.

  We hadn’t made it far before the crowd shifted.

  A group of well-dressed young noblewomen began drifting closer—first subtly, then with growing boldness. Ribbons fluttered, perfume clouded the air, and embroidered handkerchiefs were clutched with hopeful nervousness.

  They weren’t subtle.

  “That’s him! The one with the silver hair—did you see the spear work?”“—like a dance! So fluid, I nearly forgot to breathe—”he didn’t even sweat—”“Do you think he’ll speak to us if we—?”

  The guards stepped in immediately, forming a quiet but unyielding line between us and the ripple of admirers. The girls squeaked, flustered, fanning themselves harder. One even tried to curtsy mid-step and nearly toppled over her heels.

  I was already moving past them when Constantine slowed down.

  He turned to the fan group with a gleam in his eye and a hand casually resting on the hilt of his sword.

  “Ladies,” he said smoothly, voice just loud enough to carry, “I must regretfully inform you that His Highness, Prince Cassius, needs rest and won’t be able to entertain conversation.”

  A collective sigh swept through them.

  “But worry not,” Constantine continued, pcing a hand on his chest with mock gravity, “you have me.”

  Theoden groaned under his breath. “Every time.”

  Trevon didn’t look amused. “You’re encouraging them.”

  “I’m rewarding them,” Constantine corrected, sending the group a dramatic wink. “Besides, Cassius clearly needs a social liaison.”

  I didn’t reply. Just kept walking.

  Behind us, the girls dissolved into excited whispers again, and one nearly fainted into her friend’s arms.

  As we turned the corner toward the competitor’s rest corridor, the noise behind us softened—but the tension returned.Tighter this time.

  The announcer’s voice rang out:“Next match—Lucien Zonneveld!”

  The energy changed instantly.

  No cheers. No squeals.Just a collective, silent breath in.

  Constantine’s grin faded. Theoden straightened. Trevon narrowed his eyes.

  We all turned back toward the ring.

  Lucien was already there—stepping into the arena like he’d owned it long before he arrived.No nerves. No tension.Only certainty.

  He didn’t look at the crowd.

  He didn’t need to. The silence bowed around him, reverent and still.

  The sun caught the edge of his bde as he lifted it—just once—then lowered it like it had never weighed a thing.

  His opponent hadn’t even entered yet.But Lucien had already cimed the stage.

  ? 2025 baobaochong – All rights reserved.