The registration plaza for the Einjaar Battle Royal was packed.
Lexel chewed casually on a skewer of grilled meat he had bought from a terrified street vendor moments after localized earthquake. Beside him, Anthierin walked with her arms crossed, still occasionally glancing over her shoulder as if expecting the city guards to arrest them at any moment.
"I can't believe you did that," Anthierin muttered, aggressively biting into her own skewer.
"Did what? Bought you lunch?" Lexel smirked, tossing the empty wooden stick into a nearby barrel.
"You know exactly what," she hissed.
"Relax. I'm just stretching my legs," Lexel said, turning his attention to the massive crowd gathered in front of the registration booth.
The line was filled with heavily armored warriors, arrogant squires, and rugged mercenaries. At the front of the line sat a bored-looking receptionist behind a heavy oak table. In the center of the table rested a smooth, transparent crystal orb.
So that's the Fourth World's lie detector, Lexel thought, watching the process.
To enter, participants didn't need to declare their Job Class—they only had to prove they met the strict criteria: Under Level 20.
A hulking man with a battleaxe stepped up and slammed his hand onto the crystal. The orb flared with a bright blue light, and a magical voice echoed across the plaza.
"Level 19."
The crowd murmured in approval. The man smirked, puffed out his chest, and signed his name on the parchment before swaggering off.
Next was a nimble-looking rogue. He touched the orb.
"Level 18."
It went on like this for several minutes. Every single participant was either Lv18 or Lv19. They were the absolute peak of what the tournament allowed, all looking to crush the competition before inevitably breaking through the Lv20 threshold.
Finally, it was Lexel's turn.
"Hand on the orb," the receptionist said without looking up, dipping her quill into an inkwell. "If it flashes red, you're over the limit and disqualified."
Lexel stepped up. He casually wiped the grease from his fingers onto his pants, ignoring Anthierin's disgusted sigh, and placed his palm against the cool surface of the crystal.
The orb didn't flash red. It didn't flare with a blinding blue light, either. Instead, it gave off a weak, pathetic little pulse of dim light.
"Level 15."
The plaza went dead silent.
The receptionist finally looked up, blinking at the crystal, and then up at Lexel.
A second later, the line behind him erupted into roaring laughter.
"Level 15?! Is he lost?!" a swordsman cackled from the back.
"Hey kid, the adventurer's academy is three streets down! This is for actual fighters!" another mocked, leaning on his shield.
"He's going to get snapped in half in the first round. What a waste of a registration slot."
Anthierin covered her face with her hand, groaning internally. This is so embarrassing.
Lexel, however, didn't even blink. He leaned over the table, bringing his face closer to the receptionist.
"Question," Lexel said, his voice completely serious. "If I accidentally kill one of these guys... will I get prosecuted by the city?"
The receptionist stared at him blankly. She looked at his cheap clothes, his complete lack of visible armor, and then back down to the pathetic dim light of the Level 15 reading. She shook her head, letting out a heavy, exasperated sigh.
"Look, kid," she said, sliding the registration parchment toward him. "There is absolutely no way a Level 15 is going to kill anyone in this arena. Just... do your best not to die, okay? The cleanup crew is already understaffed."
Lexel picked up the quill. "Noted."
He signed his name with a fluid flourish. Behind him, the insults and mockery from the crowd grew louder, filled with snide remarks about his level, his lack of gear, and his sheer arrogance.
Anthierin stepped up beside him, her face flushed with secondhand embarrassment. "Lexel, ignore them. Don't cause a scene here."
But as Lexel turned around to face the massive line of Level 19 combatants, a wicked, razor-sharp smile slowly spread across his face.
The insults weren't annoying. To a Zodiac Heir who had been itching to break this world's logic since the moment he arrived, the mockery was an absolute orchestra to his ears.
His tongue sharpened. It was time to tune the instruments.
Lexel turned his back to the receptionist's desk, leaning casually against the heavy oak wood. He crossed his arms and let his eyes wander over the sea of heavily armed competitors.
"Look at him," a man with a scarred face sneered. "Level 15 and he's posing like a hero."
"Hey kid," called out a towering warrior in full plate armor. "Do us a favor and jump out of the ring when the bell rings. Saves us the trouble of scraping you off our boots."
The crowd erupted into a fresh wave of laughter.
Lexel didn't flinch. He didn't look angry, either. Instead, a slow, wicked smile spread across his face.
"You know," Lexel started. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a strange, heavy cadence that cut right through the laughter. "I was actually a little worried when I saw this line."
The mockery died down into confused murmurs.
"I thought, 'Wow, look at all these high levels. Level 18s. Level 19s.' I thought I was going to be at a real disadvantage today." Lexel pushed himself off the table, taking a slow, deliberate step toward the armored warrior. "But then I realized something."
He stopped, tilting his head.
"You guys are all in your twenties and thirties. Some of you look like you're pushing forty." Lexel gestured vaguely at the sea of angry faces. "And you're all still stuck at Level 19."
The silence in the plaza became deafening.
The smug arrogance on the competitors' faces melted into instant, burning fury. He had hit the exact insecurity that haunted every single one of them.
"You aren't peak combatants," Lexel chuckled, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, predatory light. "You're just the trash that couldn't break through the Level 20 threshold. A whole line of hard-stuck failures."
"You little shit—!" the armored warrior roared, his face turning purple as his hand flew to the hilt of his broadsword.
Lexel didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even shift into a stance.
He just let a fraction of his true aura slip.
A suffocating, invisible pressure suddenly slammed into the front row of the line. It was just a whisper of the killing intent he had honed back in Empyrean, but to the low-level fighters of the Fourth World, it felt like a dragon had just breathed down their necks.
The armored warrior's hand froze on his hilt. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, a sudden, inexplicable terror freezing the blood in his veins.
"Save it for the arena," Lexel said, his smile vanishing into a cold, dead stare. "And try your best not to die."
He turned on his heel, casually grabbing a completely stunned Anthierin by the wrist.
---
The back room of Daren's weapon shop was small, smelling faintly of iron shavings and old leather.
A rhythmic, thunderous snoring echoed from the corner.
Lexel was sprawled out on a makeshift bed of empty grain sacks, one arm hanging off the side, completely dead to the world. He had crashed the second they returned, exhausted from whatever ridiculous, reality-breaking stunts he had been pulling all day.
Anthierin sat at a small wooden table, staring blankly at the flickering candle in the center.
"Here," a gentle voice interrupted her thoughts.
Uncle Daren placed a steaming wooden cup of herbal tea on the table in front of her. He pulled up a stool and sat across from her, his worn face lined with concern.
"You've been wearing that gloomy expression since you came back," Daren said softly. "Did something happen at the plaza?"
Anthierin wrapped her calloused hands around the warm cup. She stared into the dark liquid for a long moment before speaking.
"I saw him today, Uncle Daren," she whispered. "I saw Kain."
Daren let out a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair. "I had a feeling. When you ran out of the shop earlier... I hoped you would miss him."
"He was with a noblewoman," Anthierin continued, her voice trembling slightly before she caught herself and swallowed hard. "He looked right at me. And he didn't care."
Daren reached across the table, placing a comforting hand over hers. "I'm sorry, Rin. I know how much that boy meant to you. He let the prestige of the Champion class rot his heart."
A loud snort came from the corner as Lexel shifted in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent before resuming his steady, obnoxious snoring.
Daren glanced at the sleeping powerhouse and lowered his voice. "Speaking of boys... I saw his registration parchment when he dumped the betting slip on the counter."
Anthierin winced.
"Level 15, Rin? Truly?" Daren's eyes were wide with genuine fear. "The Einjaar Battle Royal is a bloodbath. It's a meat grinder for people trying to prove they belong in the Level 20 brackets. They won't hold back against a Level 15. They'll kill him."
"I know," Anthierin muttered.
"You need to talk him out of it," Daren urged, squeezing her hand. "Tell him to withdraw tomorrow morning. The shop isn't worth his life. I can pack up and leave Einjaar, it's fine. Just... make him quit."
Anthierin looked over at Lexel's sleeping form. She remembered the way he had crushed a halberd blade with his bare hands. She remembered the localized earthquake he had caused just by stomping his foot.
She shook her head slowly. "I can't."
"Rin, please—"
"No, Uncle, you don't understand. It's impossible," Anthierin said, a tired, almost fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I haven't even known him for a month, but I know that much. Once he sets his mind on something, he does it. He's the most arrogant, stubborn, rule-breaking idiot I have ever met. You couldn't make him quit if you put a sword to his throat."
Daren studied her face carefully. The panic in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a knowing, quiet warmth.
"What exactly is your relationship with him?" Daren asked, tilting his head.
"I told you, we're just traveling together," Anthierin said quickly, pulling her hand back to take a sip of her tea. "He needed a blacksmith, and I… wanted to create a regalia."
"Not husband and wife, then?" Daren teased, a faint smile breaking through his beard.
"Gods, no!" Anthierin choked on her tea, coughing as her face burned bright red. "He just says that to annoy me! He's a menace!"
"Maybe," Daren chuckled softly. "But the possibility isn't zero, is it?"
"Uncle!"
"I'm an old man, Rin. I've seen a lot of things," Daren said, his voice turning gentle again. "And I know the look in a woman's eyes when she admires a man. You look at him the way you used to look at..."
Daren stopped himself, realizing his mistake too late.
The warmth drained from Anthierin's face. The blush vanished, replaced by a sudden, chilling dread.
She set the teacup down. Her eyes darted from the candle to Lexel's sleeping figure.
Einjaar.
The Battle Royal.
An arrogant, impossibly strong man entering the arena to prove himself to the world.
Anthierin's chest tightened, the air suddenly feeling thin.
It was the exact same pattern. Years ago, Kain had entered this exact tournament. He had won, taken his prize, gained the attention of the nobles, and left her behind in the dust to pursue a grander life.
Now, Lexel was doing the exact same thing.
When he wins tomorrow... will he realize he doesn't need a lowly blacksmith anymore? Will the nobles offer him a better life?
Will the pattern repeat?
The question gnawed at her heart, twisting like a cold knife in her chest. She pulled her knees up to her chin, staring into the dark, unable to sleep as the sound of Lexel's snoring filled the quiet room.