Grub moved through the rest of the tournament without much resistance, the fights blending together in a steady rhythm that no longer demanded his full attention. Each opponent came at him with the same general patterns he had already begun to recognize—wide swings, predictable commitments, moments of hesitation that exposed openings he could exploit almost without thinking.
What had once required full focus now felt almost mechanical. He adjusted, reacted, and ended it. Again and again. None of them carried the same presence as Yu, whose raw aggression had at least forced him to take the fight seriously, and none of them came anywhere near the level of Cordylus, whose speed and unpredictability had nearly killed him outright.
Compared to that, this felt… hollow. Still, he didn't dismiss it. Every exchange, no matter how easy, added something. He learned how their feet shifted before lunging, how their shoulders tightened just before committing to a strike, even how their breathing changed when they grew desperate. By the time he reached the later rounds, he was reading them, he barely even saw them as true opponents anymore.
When the final round approached, Grub found himself sitting in a dimly lit hall carved into the camp's inner structure, a rough bowl of steaming soup held loosely in his hands. He slurped it slowly, his attention drifting somewhere between the present and his thoughts, letting the noise of the other recruits fade into the background. The warmth spread through his body in a way that felt unfamiliar after so long surviving on scraps and instinct, and despite everything, he found himself adjusting to it. How the food tasted and their routines. It wasn't comfort, not really, but it was something close enough that his body had stopped rejecting it.
Footsteps approached, but Grub didn't look up.
"You've been tearing through everyone."
Tre'yon's voice came from beside him, casual but quieter than usual. Grub kept eating, his expression unchanged beneath the hood as Tre'yon lowered himself to sit nearby. The lizard spoke like he always did, filling the space with easy conversation, talking about the fights, about how people were starting to notice Grub, about how strange it was that he didn't seem to use Anima like some of the others despite his strength. Grub only half listened, catching fragments here and there, letting the rest pass by without effort.
Then something in Tre'yon's tone shifted slightly, just enough to pull Grub's attention back.
"This round… is me."
Grub paused mid-motion. Slowly, he turned his head. Tre'yon was smiling, but it wasn't the same as before. It wasn't light or energetic. It looked… tired.
"I wish I could let you win," he said, letting out a small, almost self-aware laugh. "But I can't. I need this."
He scratched the back of his head, glancing away briefly before looking back at Grub.
"You're stronger than you look. I know that much. I've been watching you after all."
A short pause lingered between them before Tre'yon stood, grabbing his own food.
"I'm glad it's you," he added quietly, before turning and walking off.
Grub remained where he was, the bowl still in his hands as the warmth began to fade. He didn't move for a while, his thoughts turning over everything that had happened since entering this place. The tournament had given him more than he expected. He understood their language now—almost fully. The rhythm of it, the structure, the meaning hidden in tone and repetition. He had begun writing it, refining it, turning fragments into something usable. He understood how the rookies fought, how most of the soldiers moved, how they thought under pressure.
That kind of knowledge didn't fade. And his body had changed alongside it. He felt stronger and faster, and more controlled. Still not enough, but no longer fragile and ready to break like before.
His disguise had held as well. Barely. He had patched it between rounds as best as he could, reinforcing weak points, tightening the cloak to conceal any damage. It wasn't perfect but no one seemed to notice.
A battle against Tre'yon. That was the real problem.
Not because Grub cared about fighting him, and not because of any hesitation about hurting him. That wasn't it. From watching alone, from studying his movements in earlier rounds, Grub could tell Tre'yon was different. His strikes were cleaner. His positioning was sharper. There was intention behind everything he did. Even Cordylus, for all his danger, had relied on chaos and instinct. Tre'yon didn't, he fought with knowledge and unparalleled skill. Honestly, from observing him you wouldn't be able to tell that he was a rookie. Grub let out a quiet breath and finished the rest of his soup.
When he stepped into the arena for the final round, the difference was immediate. There were no other matches. The scattered circles were gone. No one divided their attention. Every eye was on them. The crowd had gathered fully, forming a wide perimeter around the single fighting space, their voices rising and falling in anticipation. Grub stepped into the center, his movements steady, his breathing controlled as he lifted his gaze toward his opponent.
Tre'yon stood across from him, already waiting. For a brief moment, everything felt still.
Grub's eyes shifted, scanning the edges of the crowd. He spotted Cordylus first, sitting off to the side, his head wrapped in stark white bandages that clashed sharply against his pitch-black scales. Even from a distance, the way he laughed quietly to himself hadn't changed. Yu stood nearby as well, watching closely, his earlier defeat clearly not enough to keep him away from this.
This was the match.
Lelan stepped forward into the center, her presence alone enough to quiet the crowd slightly before she raised her voice.
"ON THIS SIDE—!"
Her voice rang out across the arena, sharp and commanding.
"THE STRANGER WHO SHOWED UP AND SHOWED OUT!"
The crowd responded immediately, voices rising.
"HE SEEMS TO HAVE NO ANIMA! NO BACKGROUND! JUST RESULTS!"
The noise and energy in the crowd roared as she announced.
"HE IS SILENT—BUT DEADLY!"
She pointed directly at him.
"JUGGGGGGG!"
Grub blinked once, the name settling in his mind again. Right, Jug. That was who they thought he was.
Lelan turned without pause.
"AND ON THE OTHER SIDE—!"
The reaction shifted instantly, louder, heavier, more unified.
"BROTHER OF THE LATE TRE'LOK—!"
Grub froze immediately upon hearing that.
"…THE SAME TRE'LOK, YES, THE ONE WHO DISCOVERED THE GREAT UNGUL BEAR SLAIN!"
"…TRE'YON—!"
The name echoed through the arena. And Lelan continued.
"THE PRODIGY!"
"THE FOREMOST SPEAR USER AMONG THE ROOKIES—!"
"TRE'YOOOOOOOOON!"
Grub's grip tightened slightly around the handle of his morning star.
Tre'lok.
So that was it. The one Tre'yon had been talking about. The brother who died.
The one he said had been taken by an animal. Grub's eyes lowered for just a second. It went exactly as he wanted. Everyone bought the wild animal excuse.
He lifted his eyes again. No reaction showed on his face. It didn't matter. Not now.
Tre'yon stepped forward and extended his hand. Grub hesitated for the briefest moment before taking it, the handshake firm but short. Tre'yon smiled faintly before stepping back into position, lowering into a stance with his spear held steady, his posture shifting completely from the casual person Grub had been talking to before.
Grub raised his morning star, adjusting his footing, grounding himself as the noise of the crowd blurred into something distant.
Lelan stepped back, raised her hand, and then—
Dropped it.
Tre'yon moved first, closing the distance in an instant as his spear shot forward. Grub stepped in to meet him, the morning star rising just in time to intercept the strike as metal clashed loudly, the impact echoing across the arena. They separated for half a second before colliding again, faster this time, then again, each exchange sharper than the last. Tre'yon's spear moved with precision, every strike controlled, deliberate, flowing seamlessly into the next. Grub matched him, adjusting as he went, reading the timing, blocking, redirecting, staying just ahead of being overwhelmed.
Then Tre'yon shifted.
He stepped in closer than before, grabbing Grub's arm and using the momentum to throw him overhead. Grub twisted mid-air, landing as Tre'yon's spear blurred forward into a rapid series of jabs. Grub raised his weapon, blocking each one in quick succession, the impacts ringing through his arms as he held his ground.
He was sure he blocked them as he landed fully. But something felt wrong. Grub took a glance down. His cloak had been pierced. Multiple times. His eyes narrowed.
That shouldn't have happened.
Tre'yon didn't give him time to think. He dashed in again, pressing the attack as Grub sidestepped and countered, swinging his morning star into Tre'yon's face with a solid, heavy impact. The hit landed cleanly, but Tre'yon barely reacted. Instead, with one hand still holding the spear, he drove a punch straight into Grub's gut.
Grub folded slightly as the air left him— Then another impact hit him. The second impact hit him like a train. Grub stumbled back, coughing, his mind racing.
What was that?
Tre'yon advanced again, launching another series of strikes. Grub blocked what he could, but again, the hits slipped through, cutting him, piercing him, as if his defense didn't fully matter.
Grub jumped back, creating distance, his breathing heavier now.
Tre'yon smiled slightly.
"Confused?"
Grub said nothing. Tre'yon twirled his spear once, his expression calm.
"That's my Anima," he said.
A brief pause.
"My Forte."
Grub's focus sharpened immediately.
"When I move after using my Anima… it happens twice," Tre'yon continued, his tone almost conversational despite the tension. "Every action leaves an after-effect. When I strike, a second strike follows."
Grub's expression tightened as the pieces fell into place.
So that's why.
"That's why you're getting hit," Tre'yon said simply.
Silence stretched for a moment. Grub exhaled slowly. So this was Anima. A personal ability, a Forte.
Tre'yon raised his spear fully, his stance settling.
"I'm sorry," he said, a faint smile returning.
"But I'm going to win."
Grub lifted his morning star again, his grip tightening as the weight in his chest stirred faintly beneath the surface.
Not yet.
He stepped forward. And the fight truly began.