The arena floor was a whirlwind of motion, officials organizing things, attendants confirming names, guards checking weapons and armor. Above them, the stands swelled with noise. People leaned forward, eager for conflict, eager to see something that would make the capital forget its worries for a few hours.

A voice rose over the din. Amplified by runic channels built into the walls, the narrator’s voice echoed across the arena, clear and practiced.

“Welcome, one and all, to today’s event of historic significance! Guild against guild, strength against strength, will against will!”

Cheers rippled around the stands. Some modest. Some loud. Some slurred.

As the narrator continued, people looked over the seating sections reserved for guild representatives. They lingered on the Lionsguard.

They did not look like other guilds. Along the rows, some members sat upright, disciplined, focused. Others leaned forward with elbows on knees, studying the arena as if memorizing every grain of sand. A few guided newcomers to their places with calm gestures.

And then there were the northerners. Even the narrator paused at the sight. It was barely eight in the morning.

At least two dozen were already drinking from oversized jugs, some swaying a little, some red-faced, some laughing hard enough to shake the benches. One particularly enthusiastic northerner was trying to teach a pair of Lionsguard recruits a drinking chant in a language that didn’t sound entirely human.

The narrator hesitated. Then frowned.

“…Our northern guests appear eager to begin today’s proceedings,” he said delicately.

In the stands, a northerner lifted his jug, bellowed something unintelligible, and received a wave of laughter from his companions. The narrator cleared his throat.

“Ahem. While we encourage excitement, we remind all guests to remain seated during the competition. Please refrain from, ah, excessive chanting, uncontrolled magic projection, or throwing objects at nearby guilds.”

People looked away from the northerners, too quickly, almost nervously.

“Today marks a rare and remarkable event,” the narrator continued, voice regaining momentum. “A contest of guild stewardship. A challenge for rightful control of the frost labyrinth!”

The stands erupted again.

The narrator smiled approvingly, then blinked, glancing back toward the Lionsguard section.

A northerner had just passed out backward, legs sticking up, boots shaking in the air as someone tried to drag him upright without spilling their drink.

The narrator pressed on.

“Representing the Lionsguard—Vice Guildmaster Ludger Graves!”

The roar that followed wasn’t polite applause. It was force. A wave of voices rising at once, shouting his name, shouting the guild’s, shouting challenges and admiration and curiosity all tangled together. The narrator swept an arm toward the entrance tunnel.

“For many, the name needs no introduction. From the frontier, from the frost labyrinth, from battles whispered across the Empire, he stands as the youngest guild officer in living memory!”

More noise, cheers, gasps, disbelief. And then… The arena doors opened. From shadow into light, Ludger emerged. Alone. No escort. No fanfare. No hesitation.

He walked across sand still cold from the morning air, froststeel catching the sunlight, gauntlets gleaming faintly. Every step was measured, steady, unhurried, like someone who was not here to perform, but to finish something. The crowd leaned forward as one. The narrator inhaled.

“And here he is.”

Ludger walked to the center of the arena, the sand whispering under his boots. The roar of the crowd swelled and then began to fold inward, compressing around him like a living thing. When he stopped, he crossed his arms, not dramatically, just comfortably, his gaze steady, expression unreadable.

He didn’t get to hold the pose for long. A judge in formal robes strode over, brisk and businesslike.

“Arms apart,” the man said.

Ludger uncrossed them without comment. Procedure. Nothing personal.

The judge stepped close, eyes sharp, hands hovering over Ludger’s gear without touching. He scanned the froststeel guards, the gauntlet extensions, the runic channels along the metal. He checked for hidden runes, prohibited enchantments, concealed weapons. His brow furrowed once, just once, at the cold residue clinging to the metal.

But he found nothing out of regulation. Behind the barricade, a pair of small voices suddenly pierced the air.

“Ludger!”

“Ludgie! Ludgie!”

The twins were waving from Elaine’s arms, tiny hands stretched outward like they expected him to walk over and give them a lift. Their voices carried surprisingly far, and it didn’t take long for people around them to start smiling.

Viola laughed. Ludger’s eye twitched. Audibly.

The sound carried just enough to make sure he heard it, shoulders shaking in open amusement. She’d already said there was no chance the twins would stay quiet, but seeing him suffer through the attention in the middle of an arena was another level of entertainment entirely.

Near her, Torvares leaned slightly forward, studying Ludger’s equipment with a critical gaze. His expression sharpened the moment he noticed the new gauntlet attachments.

Froststeel. He frowned.

It would have been easier, cleaner, to forge new gear entirely from froststeel. Stronger, too. But Ludger hadn’t replaced the forearm guards. He’d extended them. Froststeel layered seamlessly into the original metal. A strange choice. Arslan, standing beside the lord, saw the look and shrugged lightly.

“He likes those guards,” Arslan said. “He’s had them since you gave them to him.”

Torvares blinked.

Arslan continued, voice low. “They’ve served him well for years. Familiar weight. Familiar balance. There’s comfort in that.”

Torvares glanced back at Ludger, who was now tolerating a judge tapping his gauntlets with a rune crystal.

“Comfort,” Torvares murmured. “That’s unusual for him.”

Arslan smiled.

“Even Ludger keeps something, now and then. He also forged them with Raukor.”

The judge stepped back, satisfied.

“Approved,” he said, voice ringing through the arena.

Ludger lowered his arms. He didn’t look toward the crowd. He didn’t acknowledge the cheers. He didn’t react to the twins calling, or Viola laughing, or the old lord watching his gear with new questions in his eyes. He just waited. Calm. Still. Ready.

The narrator’s voice boomed again, sharp and resonant enough to roll through the stands like thunder.

“And now, representing the challengers for stewardship of the frost labyrinth, Vice Guildmaster Renalt Hollowblade of the Ashbound Compact!”

A wave of noise tore through the crowd. This wasn’t just some hand-picked representative. No middle-rank champion. No decorated officer serving as a face.

They had sent their Vice  guildmaster.

The man who walked out of the opposite gate moved with slow, unhurried confidence. Early thirties. Lean build. Muscles like corded steel pulled tight under light leather armor. His black hair was tied back, streaked faintly with a greenish tint that marked subtle mana attunement.

But the most striking part, aside from the calm, almost expressionless face, was the pair of swords strapped across his back.

Not a dual-set. Not matching blades. Two completely different weapons.

One was broad-bladed and heavy, a frostscale edge gleaming along its surface, clearly forged from harvested lizardman scales. The other blade was slimmer, longer, built for speed and precision. A protector. And an executioner. The narrator leaned into the rising anticipation:

“Vice Guildmaster Hollowblade is a veteran explorer of the eastern labyrinths, known for efficient clears and exceptionally low casualty rates. Under his command, the Ashbound Compact is one of the Empire’s most respected labyrinth guilds, especially in dungeons populated by humanoid monsters!”

The crowd roared, some cheers, some jeers, most just hungry for spectacle. Renalt stopped several meters from Ludger. His expression didn’t change.

He studied Ludger openly, as if the arena noise wasn’t even present, eyes tracking the froststeel gear, the gauntlets, the bracers, the runic inscriptions.

No nervous shifting. No tension in his stance. No hostility. Just calm, deliberate observation. The narrator pressed on.

“Today’s duel will not be a skirmish of apprentices, nor a clash of proxies, but a direct contest between vice guildmasters, one showing his youth, and one representing his order! A rare sight, and one the Empire may not witness again for years!”

More cheering. More shouts. Northerners bellowed wildly from the Lionsguard section, some words encouraging, some unintelligible, some clearly drunk. A judge stepped forward again to outline the rules. Weapons allowed. Armor allowed. Magic allowed.

Victory by incapacitation or surrender. Death strongly discouraged, but not forbidden.

Renalt Hollowblade rested a hand lightly on the hilt of one sword. Ludger didn’t move.

The narrator’s closing words cut through the atmosphere like a spark to oil:

“Let both guilds remember, today decides more than honor. Today decides the future of a labyrinth.”

The crowd leaned forward. The sand settled. Silence spread. And the duel began.

Renalt moved first. His hand slid to the slimmer sword on his back, no hesitation, no windup. The blade came free with a whisper like air shearing cleanly apart. He shifted into stance in one fluid motion: shoulders angled, feet grounded, blade low and forward.

Then he exploded forward. Speed. Precision. Efficiency.

Renalt closed the distance in a heartbeat, steel flashing as he launched a tight, blistering barrage, strikes snapping like lightning, angled to cut tendon, bone, and breath all at once. Every swing was measured, nothing wasted. His blade traced arcs of lethal intent around Ludger’s ribs, throat, elbows, legs—testing him from every direction, pressing for weakness.

The audience gasped as the flurry began. But Ludger didn’t move. He didn’t dodge. Didn’t sidestep. Didn’t shift his weight.

He just planted his feet and stayed there, centered, rooted, expression flat.

His arms rose, gauntlets gleaming frost-blue in the morning light. Every strike met steel on steel, sharp impacts echoing through the arena like hammer blows. Sparks burst outward from each collision, scattering across the sand in hard, bright flicks.

Cha-chak.

Cha-chak.

Cha-chak.

Renalt’s sword cut angles meant to slice openings into joints. To break rhythm. To force retreat. Ludger didn’t give him an inch.

He blocked. Blocked. Blocked again.

His gaze never shifted. His stance never faltered. His expression didn’t even tighten. To the crowd, it looked like Renalt was swinging at a stone monument. A beautiful, terrifying one.

The flurry ended as suddenly as it began. Renalt disengaged, sliding back several steps, blade poised, chest rising with controlled breaths. His eyes sharpened, not frustrated, but alert. Measuring. Calculating.

Studying the boy who had just stood there and absorbed the storm. For a heartbeat, the arena fell quiet. Then it erupted.

People jumped to their feet, roaring approval, not just for the strength, but for the audacity. The balls it took to let an elite guildmaster unleash a live assault and refuse to budge.

Some shouted his name. Some cursed his recklessness. Some swore this was going to be the greatest duel the capital had seen in years. Up in the stands, northerners roared loudest of all, half drunk, half shocked, entirely thrilled. And Ludger? He just lowered his arms again. As if nothing had happened.

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