Chapter 141
Everyone looked at Bran in surprise after hearing his words. For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Rayne simply stared at the old man while trying to process what he had just heard.
Bran wanted to participate in the tournament? Why?
From everything Rayne knew about the man, Bran was not someone who enjoyed fighting for the sake of fighting. He wasn't like Jason, who genuinely enjoyed testing himself against strong opponents, nor was he someone chasing glory or fame.
If Bran wanted to enter the tournament, then there was definitely a reason behind it.
Rayne just didn't know what that reason was.
Before he could ask though, Heins spoke first. “Can Valerian soldiers even participate in the tournament?”
Bran nodded. “Not while assigned to an active quest,” he explained. “But we don't have one right now. The tournament also forbids battles to the death. Injuries are the responsibility of the participants. If a soldier enters, he pays for his own healing and hopes he's recovered before his next assignment.”
He paused briefly, looking towards the arena. “I believe we'll remain in the capital for at least a few weeks. Participating wouldn't be a bad idea.”
A few members of the party slowly nodded. The explanation made sense. Still, it didn't answer the main question.
Rayne folded his arms. “But why do you want to participate?” Bran looked toward him. “Unlike Nate, you're not chasing more gold.”
“More gold is always good,” Nate immediately argued.
Kesh snorted. “That's because you're addicted to gambling.”
“It's not gambling if you're good at it.”
“It absolutely is.”
Before another argument could start, Rayne shook his head. “Forget these two idiots,” he said. “Why do you want to participate, Bran? You do realize there'll be legitimate spellswords participating.”
That thought had only just occurred to him. At first, he had imagined ordinary fighters and adventurers taking part.
But this was a major tournament in the capital. Of course spellswords would participate.
People with advanced classes and ones who were proficient with mana. They would be able to cut through ordinary soldiers easily.
The realization only made Bran's decision seem even stranger. Yet the man remained calm.
“I know,” he simply said, then he looked back toward the arena. “I just think it might help me break through the wall.”
The words immediately caught everyone's attention.
“There isn't much else I can do in a short amount of time,” Bran continued. “We're not on a quest. We're not hunting monsters. There aren't many real challenges inside or outside the city close by. But the tournament might provide one.”
Rayne understood what he meant, but that didn't make him feel any better about it. Going up against potential spellswords just to break through a wall felt incredibly dangerous.
The tournament might forbid killing. That didn't mean people couldn't cripple each other—A shattered arm, broken ribs, a ruined leg.
All of those were possible, and unlike younger fighters, Bran wasn't in the prime of his life anymore.
Rayne had no idea how well the old man would recover from serious injuries. Part of him wanted to immediately argue against the idea for those reasons. To tell Bran it wasn't worth the risk.
But before he could speak, a loud horn suddenly echoed throughout the arena. The deep sound rolled through the massive structure.
For a split second, the entire crowd went quiet. Then cheers exploded from every direction. Thousands of voices rose together.
Rayne immediately turned toward the arena floor. Two groups of fighters were emerging from opposite gates.
The crowd grew even louder as they saw them.
All six fighters wore armor of various weights and sizes. Although Rayne didn't recognize any of them, he could immediately identify the composition of both teams.
Each group had one heavily armored defensive fighter carrying a massive shield, one archer, and one swordsman.
None of them looked like spellswords. At least not from a distance. But they still looked experienced.
These weren't amateurs. Every one of them moved with confidence.
“They're arena fighters,” Nate muttered beside him.
“Popular?”
“Very.”
Rayne nodded slowly. That explained the cheers. Some spectators were even shouting names he couldn't make out.
Apparently these fighters already had their own supporters.
A lone official stepped onto the arena floor and walked toward the center. The man carried a large red flag.
There was no speech, no announcement, no grand introduction. It was probably because this was only an exhibition match.
Everyone involved already knew the rules.
The official raised the flag high into the air. The crowd gradually quieted.
Then he dropped it.
The reaction was immediate. All six fighters exploded into motion with the archers acting first.
Both of them drew and released almost simultaneously. Multiple arrows shot through the air.
Rayne barely tracked them.
The projectiles crossed the battlefield in seconds. Two arrows clipped against each other mid-flight and spun away in opposite directions.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
The remaining arrows continued forward. The shield-bearers reacted instantly.
Large shields rose. Several arrows slammed into metal with sharp impacts on both sides. Others struck wood and bounced away.
Then the fighters finally reached each other.
The two shield-bearers collided first. A loud crash echoed across the arena. Sand exploded beneath their boots.
Neither man gave ground.
Behind them, the swordsmen immediately moved around the sides, searching for openings while the archers began repositioning for better angles.
Rayne found himself leaning forward slightly. The battle was far more organized than he expected.
The fighters moved like practiced teams. Every step seemed planned. Every action supported their allies, and the crowd loved every clang of steel or an arrow missing its target.
Watching it all, Rayne couldn't help but imagine what would happen if these fighters were all spellswords. Right now, there were no explosions, just the tension of the battle permeating the arena, but if they had mana, the whole place might have been shaking depending on how high level they were.
He didn't know how Bran would handle such intense battles.
Rayne knew that only parties could enter the tournament, but that didn't make him feel much better about Bran's decision.
The old man was still a normal soldier. Experienced, certainly, and probably one of the most capable archers Rayne had ever met, but there was still a massive difference between a veteran soldier and a genuine spellsword.
If Bran ended up facing one of those parties early into the tournament, there was a very real chance he would be crushed before he ever got close to breaking through the wall.
Those thoughts continued bothering him as he watched the battle below, though it didn't take long for the match itself to pull his attention back toward the arena.
The fight was already reaching its conclusion.
One of the swordsmen had managed to break away from the clash in the center and close the distance toward the opposing archer. At the same time, the shield bearer from his party pushed forward aggressively and occupied both enemy close-combat fighters on his own.
With the allied archer constantly supporting him from behind, neither of the two men could disengage without exposing themselves.
The trapped archer tried to retreat. He barely managed a few steps before the swordsman reached him.
A blade cut across his shoulder and sent him stumbling onto the sand. Before he could recover, the man kicked him in the side hard enough to roll him across the arena floor.
The official immediately raised a hand. The crowd erupted into cheers as the archer was declared out.
Without wasting a moment, the victorious swordsman turned and rushed back toward the remaining fight. One of the opposing fighters noticed him approaching and pivoted around to meet the threat, but the movement exposed his back for just a second too long.
An arrow immediately struck him.
The impact sent him sprawling onto the dirt, and before he could rise again, the swordsman was already upon him. Another strike landed across his back, drawing a cry of pain from the fighter as he dropped his weapon.
The official raised his hand again, and that effectively ended the battle.
Only one man remained standing, and even he lasted only a few moments longer before lowering his shield in surrender as the three remaining opponents surrounded him from different sides.
Watching the victors raise their weapons to the roaring crowd, Rayne slowly looked away from the arena floor.
“That was pretty fast.”
Jason snorted. “Actually, that's just the first exhibition match. I heard they're making the winning team fight a fire giant next.”
Rayne turned toward him. “A fire giant?”
“That's what I heard,” Jason replied with a grin. “There's nothing more exciting for the audience than watching a few humans kill a monster big enough to flatten them.”
The crowd certainly seemed like they would enjoy something like that.
Rayne shook his head slightly. “Sounds interesting, but what happens if one of them dies?”
Bran shrugged. “No one really cares.”
The answer made Rayne frown.
“They have healers around the arena and a few guards who are spellswords specifically to stop things from getting out of hand,” the scout continued. “At least they try their best. If someone still dies after that, then people attend the funeral, drink a little, tell a few stories, and move on.”
Rayne fixed his gaze on him. “What if that happens to you?”
Bran raised an eyebrow. “I won't be fighting a fire giant.”
“That isn't what I meant.” The old man remained silent for a moment. “A spellsword can do the same thing.”
For the first time since the conversation started, Bran didn't immediately answer. Around them, the crowd continued cheering while officials began clearing the arena floor for the next exhibition match, but Rayne barely paid attention to any of it.
Finally, Bran spoke, his voice remaining calm despite the seriousness of the conversation.
“I understand your concerns,” he said while looking toward the arena floor. “And honestly, I agree with them. Joining the tournament is risky, especially for someone like me. There will be stronger fighters than me there, and there is always a chance that something goes wrong. But I do have ways to make sure I stay alive through it, and my goal isn't to win the tournament anyway.”
Rayne frowned as he listened. “You just want to break through the wall.”
Bran folded his arms across his chest before nodding. “Yes, I need one final push to get through this wall. I've been stuck for too long now, and there isn't much I can do about it while we're sitting around in the capital.” He glanced toward the arena where healers were already tending to the defeated fighters. “If I want to advance, I need a challenge, and I don't think I'll find a better one than this.”
Kesh furrowed his brows. “And what exactly are these ways you have to stay alive?” he asked. “You make it sound easy, but you're talking about fighting spellswords.”
Bran turned his head toward him. “Facing spellswords won't be that difficult,” he said evenly, “if I have one in my party too.”
Jason immediately laughed. “And where exactly are you planning to find a spell—”
The words died in his throat, and his eyes widened slightly. A second later, everyone else seemed to reach the exact same conclusion.
One by one, every member of the party turned their heads in the same direction.
Toward Rayne.
Rayne looked back at them before slowly blinking. For a moment, he simply stared, then realization finally dawned on him.
Bran hadn't been talking about entering the tournament alone.
“How did I not see that coming?” Rayne muttered under his breath, then looked at Bran. “Why do you think I'm going to agree to something like that? I'm not really interested in entering a tournament.”
The old man didn't look concerned in the slightest. “You might not be interested,” Bran admitted. “But there are enough reasons to convince you.”
Rayne narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Before he could ask what those reasons were, Bran continued speaking.
“Besides,” he said casually, “have you ever actually said no to a battle before?”
Rayne instantly opened his mouth, ready to argue. Ready to point out all the times he had chosen the sensible option instead of rushing into danger. Ready to explain that he wasn't some battle-crazed lunatic like Jason.
But the words never came.
As he thought about it, memory after memory surfaced in his mind. Every time he had found himself standing in front of something that could easily kill him.
The more he thought about it, the harder it became to form a convincing argument.
Because while he had complained about nearly every battle he had ever fought, he had still fought them.
Every single one.
Across from him, Bran's grin only widened as though he could see exactly what Rayne was thinking.
The worst part was that the rest of the party seemed to realize it too.
Jason looked like he was seconds away from laughing. Kesh was openly smirking. Even Heins had a knowing expression on his face.
Rayne slowly looked around at all of them before letting out a long sigh. He hadn't agreed to anything. Not yet.
But judging by the expressions around him, everyone seemed completely convinced that Bran had already won the argument.
And annoyingly enough, Rayne was beginning to suspect the old man might just be right.
***
A/N: The tournament arc is there for a reason.