Chapter 80: Chapter 80— Waves Recede

The nobles’ viewing gallery overlooked the arena like a theater box designed for gods.

Rich carpets muffled footsteps. Crystal decanters caught the afternoon light, scattering rainbows across polished marble. Cushioned seats—far more comfortable than the stone benches the common soldiers sat on—were arranged in careful hierarchies, each position a statement of rank and influence.

This was where vassals came to hunt.

Not for beasts.

For talent.

Lady Corrine Veylin sat near the center, wine glass balanced delicately in one hand, eyes sharp despite her relaxed posture. She wore the colors of House Veylin—deep emerald trimmed with silver—and carried herself with the casual authority of someone born into power.

Beside her sat Sergeant Marcus Thane, broader and rougher around the edges. His armor was ceremonial but functional, the kind worn by someone who’d actually used it.

“Your Golden Spears performed adequately,” Sergeant Marcus said, not quite a compliment.

“They lost,” Lady Veylin replied bluntly.

“To that Sunshine Squad, yes.” He took a sip of wine. “Interesting name. Ridiculous, really. But the children are really making waves.”

“The waves would settle down eventually,”

“Yes,” Sergeant Marcus agreed. “But they’re drawing attention right now—this very moment. Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but we’re sitting here discussing them. Nobodies. And the attention they’re getting? That’s a straight pipeline to investment.”

Lady Leylin grunted. “Your backers have any plans on getting their claws on them?”

“I’m just the scout. I’ll be watching them, yes—but the final call won’t be mine,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.

The squad leader—Morgan, I believe—has potential. He fights like he has eyes in the back of his head. Doesn’t overextend his lines when pressed. I haven’t seen him fall for a feint yet.

That said, he’s only gone up against chumps so far. Hard to judge. Potential still needs refinement. Pressure. Testing.”

“If I remember correctly your backers aren’t the types to pull the brakes on their investments when the pressure is overwhelming.”

“If it crashes that shows the investment wasn’t worth it to begin with.”

Below them, the arena floor was being prepared for the next match. Workers raked sand, repositioned obstacles, cleared away bloodstains that hadn’t quite dried.

Another man approached—younger, wearing the bronze and black of a lesser vassal house.

“Sergeant Thane. Lady Veylin.” He bowed slightly. “Have either of you had the pleasure of meeting Adept Commander Crownhold?”

Sergeant Thane’s expression darkened. “Once. That was enough.”

Lady Veylin’s smile was thin. “Commander Crownhold is… efficient. But unsettling.”

“Unsettling how?” the younger man asked.

She set down her wine glass, choosing her words carefully.

“Have you ever stood beside a fire knowing it would consume you—and yet, for a moment, forgotten what fire truly is? Forgotten the heat. The burns. The way it would char your skin black. You step into it like a warm bath, lulled by the illusion, by the scent it gives off as if it were something gentle. Your flesh begins to simmer, and only then does the wrongness surface. Deep. Fundamental. Impossible to explain. Still you bask in its warmth.”

The young man frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“You will,” she said quietly. “If you spend enough time around him.”

Sergeant Thane leaned forward. “Vaelith’s talent isn’t just mere power and the weight it bears. It’s influence. He doesn’t fight you directly. He makes you fight yourself. Makes you doubt. Second-guess. Question every instinct you’ve spent years honing.”

“That’s…” the young man hesitated. “That’s legal?”

“Legal?” Lady Veylin laughed softly. “Legality is a luxury afforded to those without power. Commander Crownhold has power. Therefore, he defines legality within his sphere of influence.”

She gestured toward the arena.

“I always wondered why he wasn’t simply swept up into the Senate,” Sergeant Marcus said. “His expertise would be invaluable there.”

“When most of the world is infested with man-eating monsters,” the reply came calmly, “you don’t bequeath a man from a noble house to have his primary weapon of choice be dialogue? For the people of flesh and blood he faces, words alone would never be enough. Watch his matches closely and you’ll understand.”

A pause.

“His opponents don’t just lose. They unravel.”

—–

In the eastern barracks, Bright’s squad gathered for their pre-match briefing.

Adam stood at the center, notebook open, pointing to a hastily drawn diagram of the arena layout.

“The Iron Fangs from my knowledge fight in waves,” he explained. “First wave is pure aggression—meant to overwhelm and demoralize. If that fails, they switch to precision strikes. Targeted eliminations.”

Duncan studied the diagram. “What’s their formation?”

“Three initiates up front. Heavy hitters. The fledglings hang back and provide ranged support and exploit openings.”

Baggen crossed his arms. “So we weather the storm, then punish them when they overextend.”

“Easier said than done,” Mara muttered. “Their initiates are more experienced than ours—and better equipped. No offense, Private.”

“Still they are not as coordinated as they would like us to think,” Bright said quietly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

He stood near the window, blade resting against his shoulder, eyes distant.

“They’re aggressive because they can be,” Bright continued. “Because individually, they’re stronger than most opponents. But that aggression creates gaps. Moments where they’re committed to a strike and can’t adapt.”

He looked at Adam. “You said they switch tactics if the first wave fails?”

“Yes.”

“How long does that take?”

Adam flipped through his notes. “Based on previous matches… thirty seconds. Maybe forty.”

Bright nodded slowly. “That’s our window. We survive the initial rush, then hit them during the transition. When they’re changing tactics, they’ll be vulnerable.”

Duncan grinned. “I like it.”

“It’s risky,” Rolf said. “If we can’t survive the first wave, the plan doesn’t matter.”

“Then we survive,” Bright said simply.

He turned to face his squad fully.

“The Iron Fangs are stronger than us. Individually. There is no pep talk I’m going to give that’s going to change that, our job is to to find a small opening from them and punish them for the opportunity they will gladly be providing in the match to come.”

He tapped his blade against the floor.

“They think strength is enough. We’ll show them it’s not.”

—–

The prep tunnel smelled like old sweat and fear.

Bright walked at the front of his squad, feeling the weight of their eyes on his back. Duncan limped slightly but kept pace. Adam was muttering calculations under his breath. Mara’s hands rested on her blade hilts. Baggen and Rolf brought up the rear, silent and focused.

The tunnel opened into blinding light.

The crowd roared.

The Iron Fangs waited on the opposite side—six fighters in rust-red armor, weapons gleaming. Their captain stood at the center, a massive man with a war hammer that looked like it could crush stone.

Bright extended his spatial sense carefully.

Three initiates. All mid-tier. Confident and experienced.

Three fledglings. Well-trained and disciplined.

Dangerous.

The judge stepped forward, raising both hands.

“ARENA MATCH—SUNSHINE SQUAD VERSUS IRON FANGS!”

The crowd’s noise swelled.

“STANDARD RULES APPLY. BEGIN ON MY SIGNAL!”

Bright’s squad fell into formation automatically:

Duncan at the front, spear raised with a flimsy shield he bought to provide additional support.

Baggen beside him, hammer ready.

Mara and Rolf on the flanks.

Adam and Bright in the center.

The Iron Fangs mirrored them—but their formation was looser, built for overwhelming force rather than defense.

The judge lifted his horn.

The world held its breath.

“BEGIN!”

—–

The Iron Fangs charged.

Not as a unit.

As a wave.

Their three initiates hit the line first—war hammer, twin axes, spear—each one moving with brutal efficiency.

Duncan braced, Bone Guard flaring.

The war hammer hit his shield like a thunderclap.

CRACK.

Duncan staggered back, boots digging trenches in the dirt.

The twin-axe wielder came from the left—

Baggen intercepted, hammer meeting axes in a spray of sparks.

The spear-wielder thrust at Mara—

She flicked her throwing knife towards the spear wielder and jupmped backwards, her short knife deflecting the strike a bit, giving her time to dodge the attack.

The fledglings moved in behind their initiates, coordinated, disciplined.

One fired a crossbow bolt—

Adam shot it out of the air with his trusty rifle.

Another threw a chakram—

Rolf burned it mid-flight with a fireball.

But the pressure kept building.

The war hammer swung again, faster this time, aiming for Duncan’s head—

Duncan ducked, spear thrusting upward—

The hammer-wielder twisted, impossibly fast, catching the spear shaft and ripping it from Duncan’s hands.

Duncan stumbled, defenseless.

The hammer came down—

From nowhere, Bright’s blade extended, metal whip-cracking across the arena floor, wrapping around the hammer’s handle and yanking.

The hammer-wielder stumbled.

Duncan rolled away, gasping.

Mara lunged at the twin-axe fighter, blades flashing, pushing above her weight class—

He blocked both strikes, then headbutted her.

She went down, vision swimming.

Baggen roared, swinging at the spear-wielder—

The spear danced aside, tip scoring a deep cut across Baggen’s shoulder.

Blood sprayed.

Thirty seconds.

They’d been fighting for thirty seconds.

And they were losing.

—–

Bright’s spatial sense flared.

Not a warning.

A map.

He saw the arena in his mind—every position, every movement, every gap in the Iron Fangs’ formation.

And he saw the moment.

The transition.

The Iron Fangs’ captain—the war hammer wielder—raised his fist, signaling.

The initiates pulled back half a step, switching from overwhelming aggression to precision strikes.

Forty-two seconds.

The window Adam had predicted.

“NOW!” Bright shouted.

Duncan surged forward, Bone Guard reforming, driving into the war hammer wielder’s chest.

The man staggered, surprised by the sudden counter-pressure.

Baggen followed, hammer smashing into the twin-axe fighter’s knee, as the need for his crowd control ability was diminished for this fast-paced fight.

CRACK.

The man screamed, collapsing.

Mara rolled to her feet,bloodied, blades carving across the spear-wielder’s exposed side.

Blood.

Real blood.

The Iron Fangs’ formation wavered.

Just for a moment.

But a moment was enough.

Rolf unleashed a wall of flame between the initiates and their fledgling support.

The fledglings scattered, coordination broken.

Adam picked off one with a precise headshot—non-lethal, but enough to eliminate him from the fight.

Bright extended his blade fully, the metal whip snaking across the arena, forcing the war hammer wielder to dodge instead of press his advantage.

Duncan recovered his spear, driving it through the twin-axe fighter’s shoulder.

The man yielded immediately.

The horn blared.

“ELIMINATED!”

The tide turned as the waves receded.

—–

The Iron Fangs fought desperately now, their confidence shattered.

Their captain—the war hammer wielder—tried to rally them, but Bright’s extended blade kept him off balance, forcing him to defend instead of attack.

The spear-wielder engaged Mara in a brutal exchange—

Baggen blindsided him with a hammer strike to the ribs.

The man crumpled.

Another horn.

The remaining fledglings—two left—tried to provide support, but Rolf’s flames cut off their angles.

Adam fired methodically, each shot forcing them back, limiting their options.

The war hammer wielder finally broke free from Bright’s harassment, charging directly at him—

Bright retracted his blade instantly, shifting from whip to katana in a heartbeat.

He sidestepped the hammer swing, blade carving across the man’s bicep.

Not deep.

But enough.

The hammer dropped from nerveless fingers.

Bright’s blade pressed against the man’s throat.

“Yield,” Bright said quietly.

The captain stared at him, chest heaving, fury and respect warring in his eyes.

Then he nodded.

“I yield.”

The final horn blared three times.

“VICTOR—SUNSHINE SQUAD!”

—–

The crowd erupted.

But this time, it wasn’t just excitement.

It was recognition.

The Sunshine Squad had just beaten a well standing team.

And they’d done it by adapting mid-fight, exploiting the exact moment their opponents were most vulnerable.

Bright stood in the center of the arena, breathing hard, blade still extended.

Around him, his squad collapsed in exhaustion—battered, bleeding, but alive.

Duncan laughed, a raw, relieved sound.

Mara sat heavily, wiping blood from her split lip and head. The girl had come a long way from calming teammates.

Baggen just grinned, despite the deep cut on his shoulder.

Rolf muttered, “Never again. Never. Again.”

Adam looked like he might vomit, but he was smiling.

And Bright?

Bright felt the inevitability of his words brought into reality.

—–

In the nobles’ gallery, Lady Veylin set down her wine glass.

“Interesting,” she murmured.

Lady Veylin grunted. “They always get lucky.”

“Luck,” Lady Veylin replied, “is just another word for preparation meeting opportunity. And that squad leader—Morgan—he is always prepared from what I can tell. He studied his opponent. Identified their weakness. And exploited it perfectly.”

She leaned forward, eyes sharp.

“I want to know more about him.”

“He’s a nobody,” Sergeant Thane said dismissively. “No family that matter. No connections of worth. No patron of standing.”

—–

Far below, in the shadows beneath the arena, Vaelith Crownhold watched the Sunshine Squad limp off the field.

His expression was unreadable.

Beside him, the hooded figure spoke quietly.

“Didn’t know atheon’s regiment had some good crops.”

“Still not a problem,” Vaelith corrected. “A variable. But not a problem.”

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