The night after the first trial, the Oulbeck estate buzzed with an undercurrent of hushed conversations and speculative glances. In the communal barracks, competitors spoke in low tones, dissecting the day's events. Liam's name was a frequent murmur – his unnatural reflexes, the almost predatory grace with which he'd moved, the way he'd exposed Ser Jarek. He was no longer just another young noble; he was an anomaly, a force to be reckoned with. Some eyed him with a newfound, wary respect. Others, like Lady Elara Voss, watched him from across the room, her sharp gaze analytical, as if trying to deconstruct a complex puzzle.
Liam sat on his simple cot, meticulously polishing Crimson Fang with a soft cloth. The blade, sated from the day's minor bloodletting via the Blooddrinker effect, seemed to hum faintly under his touch, a low thrum of contained power. He ignored the stares, focusing on the rhythmic motion, his mind replaying the trial, cataloging his own performance and the skills of his rivals.
The door to the barracks creaked open, and Sir Lucas entered, his weathered face unreadable in the flickering lamplight. He walked over to Liam, his gaze steady. "You certainly made an impression today, young lord. Grandmaster Orin Oulbeck doesn't hand out public praise lightly."
Liam nodded, his thoughts still lingering on the oppressive presence he'd felt from the high balcony. "And the cloaked man, Sir Lucas? The one on the highest viewing platform?"
A shadow crossed Lucas's face, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "That… was Eldrin the Unbroken. Orin's own master. A Sword Sovereign who, legend has it, hasn't taken an apprentice in over thirty years." His eyes, sharp and knowing, bored into Liam. "He is not a man to be trifled with, nor one whose attention is easily caught. If he has indeed taken an interest in you, consider it both a monumental opportunity and a profound danger."
Before Liam could process the full weight of that statement, a sharp knock sounded at the door. A young Oulbeck squire, clad in the House's dark green livery, bowed stiffly. "Lord Liam Lithian. Grandmaster Orin requests your presence in the Northern Training Yard."
A summons from the Sword Saint himself, at this hour? Liam exchanged a quick, questioning glance with Lucas, who merely gave a curt nod of understanding. This was not a request one refused.
Grandmaster Orin awaited him in a secluded, torchlit training yard. The air was cool, the only sounds the crackling of the flames and the distant calls of night birds. The old warrior stood bare-chested despite the chill, his torso a veritable map of scars, each a silent testament to a lifetime of battles. In his calloused hand, he held a simple, unadorned wooden practice sword.
"You fight like a man who has already stared Death in the face and spat in its eye," Orin said without preamble, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Liam's very bones. His gaze was piercing, as if he could see straight through Liam's youth to the ancient warrior soul within. "But raw instinct and a thirst for survival alone won't carry you through the next trial." He tossed Liam an identical wooden sword, which Liam caught deftly. "Show me your true skill, boy. No holding back. Let me see the spirit that caught Eldrin's eye."
Liam's breath hitched. This was more than just a test of skill; it was a direct challenge, an invitation to reveal the depths of his power. Refusal was unthinkable, but unleashing his full capabilities was a risk. Yet, the potential reward… He pushed aside his reservations. He needed every advantage he could get.
"As you command, Grandmaster," Liam said, settling into his stance. He activated Dragonheart Vigor, not just for Agility or Strength, but allowing the raw, potent energy to flood his entire being, sharpening his senses, quickening his reflexes, imbuing him with a power that far outstripped his physical years.
Orin moved like a storm unleashed. His wooden sword, wielded with the speed and precision of a master, became a blur, a vortex of strikes that seemed to come from every conceivable angle. Liam parried, the force of the blows rattling his bones despite his enhanced strength. He was pushed back, forced onto the defensive. This wasn't like sparring with Lucas or Captain Torvin; this was like facing a force of nature.
Switching tactics, Liam began to weave his Draconic Senses more consciously into his defense, his mind processing Orin's movements at an incredible speed, anticipating strikes fractions of a second before they landed. He dodged, he parried, he flowed, his own wooden sword a desperate, flickering defense against the Grandmaster's relentless assault. For three intense, heart-pounding minutes, he held his own, a whirlwind of youthful energy against seasoned mastery.
Then, Orin feinted low, a movement so convincing Liam instinctively dropped his guard to counter it. In that infinitesimal opening, Orin's true strike came high, the wooden blade a whistling blur that stopped a hair's breadth from Liam's throat.
Liam froze, panting, sweat dripping into his eyes. He had lost, but he had survived.
"Good," Orin grunted, lowering his sword. There was a flicker of something akin to approval in his stern eyes. "Very good. You have the senses of a predator and the tenacity of a cornered wolf. But you rely too much on that raw instinct when pressured. Your footwork becomes… sloppy. Predictable." He stepped back, his chest heaving slightly. "Tomorrow's trial is a gauntlet, a true test of a warrior's adaptability and endurance. The arena itself will become a living opponent. Survive it, impress not just me but him," he jerked his head subtly towards the unseen heavens, "and Eldrin may consider you. He seeks not just skill, but an unbreakable will."
Liam's pulse spiked. An 8-Star Sword Sovereign as a mentor? The implications were staggering. As if on cue, the System chimed in his mind.
[New Quest: The Gauntlet of Blades]
[Difficulty: Very Hard]
Objective 1: Survive the second trial.
Objective 2: Finish the second trial ranked in the Top 3.
Bonus Objective: Earn the direct acknowledgment of Sword Sovereign Eldrin.
[Rewards for Full Completion (including Bonus):]
• Unlock Dragonheart Vigor's 3rd hidden trait (???)
• 500 EXP (Sufficient to reach ★★★ Adept)
• [Title: Eldrin's Hopeful] (Grants significant favor with Sword Sovereign Eldrin)
• [Special Reward: One personal training session with Grandmaster Orin Oulbeck]
[Penalty for Failure to Survive:]
• Severe injury or incapacitation.
• Significant loss of reputation.
[Penalty for Failing Top 3:]
• Reduced EXP, no Title, no special reward.
As Liam walked back towards the barracks, his mind reeling with the possibilities and the immense pressure, a figure melted from the deep shadows near the entrance – Kael Thorne. The commoner's axe was strapped to his back, his usual surly expression even grimmer than usual.
"Jarek wasn't acting alone, Lithian," Kael muttered, his voice low and urgent. He glanced around to ensure they weren't overheard. "I have… ears in places nobles don't. Overheard some of the Oulbeck guards talking after they dragged Jarek away. He wasn't just a cheat. Someone influential paid a hefty sum to have you removed from this tournament – quietly, or very, very loudly." He spat on the ground. "I don't like nobles, most of you are arrogant peacocks. But I hate cheats and backstabbers more. Watch your back. There are more vipers in this pit than just Jarek."
Liam's blood ran cold. Vorian. His uncle's reach was longer, his methods more insidious than he'd initially thought. He was actively trying to eliminate him, even here, miles from Lithian Hold. "Thank you, Kael," Liam said, genuine gratitude in his voice. "I owe you one."
Kael just grunted and disappeared back into the shadows as quickly as he'd appeared.
At dawn, the remaining competitors – their numbers noticeably thinned after the first trial and Jarek's exposure – stood before a dramatically transformed arena. The flat, shifting ground of yesterday was gone. In its place was a terrifying labyrinth of towering stone pillars that scraped the sky, narrow, precarious ledges, rotating platforms studded with sharpened blades, and shimmering patches of ground that hinted at illusionary pitfalls or worse. At the very center of this deadly maze, visible through narrow gaps, stood a colossal, snarling statue of a dragon, its gaping maw clearly the intended goal, the exit.
Grandmaster Orin Oulbeck's voice boomed across the silent, awestruck assembly. "Behold, aspirants, your second trial! The Gauntlet of Blades! Your task is simple: reach the heart of the beast, the dragon's maw. The path is fraught with peril, both mundane and magical. Only the truly worthy, those with skill, courage, and an indomitable will, shall pass."
As the ceremonial horn sounded, a deep, guttural roar seemed to emanate from the arena itself. The pillars began to shift, blades whirred to life, and the gauntlet, in all its terrifying glory, roared to life. The crucible awaited.