The second match of the opening round followed the same pattern as the first—two young fighters of roughly equal tempered-body strength trading heavy, straightforward blows until exhaustion created an opening. The winner was declared after a long, grinding exchange that left both combatants swaying. The third and fourth matches ended far more quickly; one fighter was knocked cleanly from the ring with a single decisive combination, the other yielded after a brutal series of body blows left him unable to continue standing.
Then the fifth match was called.
A young man with a bare head, sharp brown eyes, and a plain black robe stepped onto the platform. Austin—Dennis's half-brother—moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome long before the lots were drawn. His opponent, a boy of similar age but far less presence, visibly paled the moment Austin entered the ring. The boy's legs began to tremble so hard the movement was visible from the seats.
The crowd's reaction was immediate and loud.
"The match hasn't even started and he's already shaking in his boots."
"That's the difference in level. Unless someone stronger shows up, Austin takes the whole tournament."
"Look at the way he stands. He doesn't even see the other boy as a real opponent."
Dennis watched from the better seats with open pride, arms folded. "My brother's already finished this one before it begins."
Andrew's smile was thin and satisfied. "I only hope he's drawn against the outsider later. I want to see how the brat handles a real monster."
Austin stood in the center of the arena and looked at the shaking boy with mild distaste, as though the entire situation were a mild inconvenience.
"Save yourself the trouble," he said, voice carrying easily over the murmurs. "Forfeit now. If you don't, I won't bother holding back. I have no interest in wasting energy on someone who already knows he's outmatched."
The boy's hand shot up almost before the last word left Austin's mouth. "I forfeit!"
A ripple of unsurprised laughter and commentary moved through the spectators. Even the family head, seated among the elders, gave a small nod as though the result had been expected from the moment the lots were drawn. A few of the younger outer-camp watchers looked disappointed at the lack of blood, but most simply accepted the hierarchy on display.
The officiating elder formally announced Austin the winner. As Austin left the platform he turned his head just enough to sweep a flat, measuring glance across the other fighters who had already advanced. The look carried no open threat, only a quiet, personal promise of violence. Several of the waiting combatants shifted uncomfortably; one actually took a half-step backward before catching himself.
*Watch that one carefully,* the bracelet said inside Jason's mind, its tone sharper than usual. *There's real killing intent under the surface. He isn't here for ranking or resources. He's here to hurt people.*
Jason kept his expression neutral, though a cold thread slid down his spine. *If we meet in the ring, he'll be trouble. More than Todd or Larry.*
The sixth and final match of the first round produced another strong-looking youth named Larry, broad-shouldered and already carrying the calm of someone who had fought for real stakes before. He advanced with efficient, almost bored dominance, ending his match in under a minute. With the opening round complete, the remaining fighters—including Jason and the free-pass holders—were called forward for a new drawing of lots.
This time Jason's luck did not hold. The token he drew carried the number two. Austin, by contrast, received the zero and the automatic bye into the next stage. Jason returned to the waiting bench, turning the wooden tag over in his fingers, feeling the grain against his skin.
*Who am I facing now?* he wondered, eyes moving across the remaining faces.
*Stop worrying about the name and focus on how you'll beat whoever it is,* the bracelet answered. *You've already watched most of them. Use what you learned. Timing, habits, the way they breathe when they're tired.*
The second round began at once.
Larry stepped back into the arena against a short, compact boy who proved surprisingly durable and stubborn. The fight lasted nearly thirty minutes of constant pressure, clinches, and short counters before Larry ended it with a heavy kick to the stomach that folded the boy double, followed by a clean, measured punch to the side of the head. The shorter fighter dropped and did not rise. Larry was declared the winner and left the platform without celebration or expression, as though the entire exchange had been a mild chore.
"Numbers two—step forward."
Jason rose from the bench. The wooden tag felt heavier than it should have. He walked onto the packed earth of the arena at the same time as Todd. The young man who had defeated Oliver in the first round still carried a light, confident smile, though his eyes had sharpened now that a real opponent stood across from him. The crowd's noise dropped into a more focused, analytical murmur as the two faced each other across the open space.
"That outsider never fought in the first round. No one knows what he can actually do."
"He's not even family. Hard to see him lasting much longer against someone who's been training under the Fox name."
"Todd already looked solid against Oliver. This should be straightforward."
In the seats, Dennis leaned toward Andrew, voice low but eager. "Maybe my brother won't even need to get involved. Todd should be more than enough to put the outsider in his place."
Andrew's eyes stayed fixed on the platform, the earlier satisfaction still lingering at the corners of his mouth. "Tell Todd I want the legs and the hands broken if possible. No half-measures. I want the lesson to last."
"He won't show mercy," Dennis said with certainty. "Not after reaching the second round. He has his own ranking to protect."
Andrew settled back against the chair. "Then let's watch the show."
Jason and Todd stood a few paces apart, each quietly measuring the other. Todd's stance was relaxed but ready, weight slightly forward, the posture of someone who preferred to dictate the first exchange. Jason kept his own posture loose, hands open, the quiet density of the fifth layer and the residual dragon-line refinement settled deep in his bones. Before either could speak, a clear, high voice cut across the arena from the spectator area like a thrown blade.
"Beat the living hell out of him, big brother!"
Jason turned. Two rows from the front, Hannah stood fully on the bench, both hands cupped around her mouth, braid swinging with the force of her shout. Clara sat beside her, expression composed but eyes bright with tightly held worry and something that looked almost like fierce pride. The sight of them—his mother pale but upright, his sister refusing to be quiet—pulled a real, unguarded smile onto Jason's face for the first time since he had stepped into the square.
Todd noticed the exchange. His own expression hardened, the earlier lightness vanishing.
"I was planning to take it easy on an outsider," he said once the elder had given the formal start signal, voice carrying just far enough for Jason to hear. "But since you have family here cheering like that, there's no reason to hold anything back. They should see what real training looks like."
Jason settled deeper into his stance, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, the pathways for both Phantom Kick and Invisible Iron Fist already half-awakened under his skin. "Please don't hold back. I don't want to hear later that you weren't serious if I win."
Todd's smile turned thin and sharp, almost eager. "Confident for someone who got a free pass. Fine. I won't feel sorry when you're half-dead on the ground in front of them."
From the seats Andrew watched the two fighters with quiet, personal anticipation, the memory of his own broken ribs still fresh enough to make the moment sweeter. The officiating elder's hand rose, held for a heartbeat, and then cut downward through the air.
The match was about to begin.