After the combatants had been presented to the crowd, an attendant carried a plain wooden box into the center of the arena and set it on a low stand. The elder stepped forward again, hands folded behind his back.
"Each of you will draw one lot," he announced. "The lot marked zero grants an automatic advance to the next stage. Approach in the order of the numbers on your tags. You will not open your lots until I give the word."
One by one the fighters stepped up, reached into the box, and returned to the line with a closed wooden token in hand. When only two lots remained, it was Jason's turn. He stood in front of the box longer than the others had, staring at the two identical tokens as though the wrong choice might bite him.
Dennis's voice carried clearly from the seats. "Look at that kid—too scared to even pick. Someone else should choose for him before we all grow old."
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience. Andrew's mouth curved in quiet satisfaction. The mockery landed exactly as intended.
*Just pick one and stop giving them free entertainment,* the bracelet said inside Jason's mind.
Jason drew a slow breath, reached in, and closed his fingers around one of the remaining tokens. He returned to his place in the line without expression. When the last combatant had drawn, the empty box was removed.
"You may open your lots," the elder said.
Wood clicked against wood as thirteen tokens were turned over. Fighters began scanning the numbers around them, already calculating first opponents. Jason simply stared at the character burned into his own token.
Zero.
*You're luckier than you deserve,* the bracelet remarked. *Use the free round. Watch every fight. Learn their habits.*
Jason's first reaction was dismissal. *They can change methods in the next round. Studying them now might not matter.*
*If someone attacks you with a technique you have already seen, can you not prepare a counter?*
*Of course. Only an idiot would stand there and take it.*
*Then you are that idiot if you refuse the chance to learn their movements while they are displayed in front of you.*
Jason's ears warmed. *You could have said it that way from the beginning.*
While the private exchange continued, the elder's voice rose again.
"I imagine most of you are already preparing yourselves mentally. Matches begin shortly. First, however—who holds the zero lot?"
Jason lifted the token so the markings were visible. "I do, Elder."
The elder gave a brief, approving nod. "Congratulations. You advance. Take your place in the waiting area."
Jason walked to the small section of benches reserved for those who had already secured a spot in the next round. The wooden seat felt almost unreal beneath him. A free pass. One less fight. One more chance to watch.
"Numbers one—step forward."
Two young men left the remaining group and climbed onto the platform. A fresh wave of commentary rolled through the crowd.
"Oliver and Todd? They're evenly matched."
"I don't care about those two. Brother Austin is still going to take the whole tournament. Shame his half-brother didn't enter."
The elder waited for the noise to settle. "You know the rules. Force your opponent out of the ring or obtain a forfeit and you advance. Begin when ready."
Oliver and Todd exchanged small, respectful smiles, bowed to the elder, then separated to opposite sides of the arena. Their eyes sharpened. The elder's hand cut downward.
The first exchange was immediate and loud.
Oliver came in behind a heavy right cross; Todd slipped it and answered with a low kick that forced Oliver to hop back. They closed again, fists and forearms cracking together, feet scraping and stamping on the packed earth. Spiritual energy flared in short, controlled bursts—enough to harden skin and add weight to strikes, not yet at the level of true techniques. The crowd noise rose and fell with every clean hit.
Jason leaned forward on the bench, eyes narrowed, cataloguing everything. Oliver preferred to press forward and trade. Todd liked to angle off and counter. Both tired at roughly the same rate. Neither showed a finishing method beyond raw tempered-body power and basic combinations.
The fight stretched. Sweat darkened both fighters' robes. Breathing grew heavier. Then Oliver over-committed on a lunging punch, leaving his centerline open for half a heartbeat. Todd stepped in and drove a full-power fist into Oliver's chest. The impact sounded solid and final. Oliver's eyes widened; a thick mouthful of blood left him as he crumpled, unconscious before he fully hit the ground.
The elder raised a hand. Attendants hurried forward. One slipped a recovery pill between Todd's lips while others lifted Oliver and carried him from the arena toward the waiting physicians.
Mixed reactions rolled through the spectators—cheers for Todd, groans from those who had favored Oliver, a few loud claims that they had known the outcome from the start. Todd stood in the center of the platform, chest still heaving, and accepted the short round of applause.
The elder waited until the arena was clear, then turned back to the remaining combatants.
"Those holding the number two—step forward."
Jason remained on the bench, the zero token still in his hand, already turning over everything he had just seen. One fight down. More to come. And somewhere in the draw, opponents who would not be as straightforward as Oliver or Todd were waiting.