The sun stood high overhead, casting a sharp glow across the polished stone streets of Arcadia. A gentle breeze swept through banners and awnings, cooling the fevered excitement that had built up all morning.
The first round of the Arcadia Young Elite Tournament had ended.
Lunch hour had begun.
Crowds poured out of the arena gates—nobles making their way to grand restaurants in their carriages, while commoners trickled toward food stalls and taverns tucked into the bustling lower districts. Everywhere, a few common names hung in the air like spells:
"Logan Smith."
"Zephyr Albrecht."
"Morgan Benedict."
"Lilith Starwind."
"Prince Rowan."
"Rovan Yale."
⸻
Moonvine Hall, the most luxurious sky-dome restaurant in the Noble Ring, was nearly full. Floating lanterns glowed with gentle light, runes etched into the walls emitted a faint hum, and trays of enchanted crystalware floated between tables as if guided by invisible hands.
At one table near the corner window, several nobles sat sipping starroot wine and sampling tier-three spiritbeast roast. Their voices—while hushed in tone—were anything but dull.
"Did you see that lightning burst? That boy—Logan—he didn't just win. He dismantled Varn Drayden," murmured a viscount from the Eastern territories.
"He's only twelve," said another, swirling his glass. "That alone is worth writing a Chronicle about. Dual affinity awakened before baptism? Almost like Lilith Starwind."
"He used lightning and air with near-perfect sync. It wasn't brute force—it was calculated finesse."
"House Smith kept him hidden far too long. Makes you wonder what else they're sitting on…"
Someone chuckled. "Or who they're trying to suppress."
Eyes turned subtly toward the table where Rudeous Smith sat, surrounded by his family.
At the long obsidian-inlaid table near the enchanted window, the full Smith family sat in a carefully arranged setting.
Rudeous sat at the center of one side, flanked by both his wives—Alice to his left, Mirena to his right.
Opposite them, the younger generation sat in mirrored balance. Logan and Darius were in the middle—two sons of different mothers, seated shoulder to shoulder.
To Logan's left sat Ardyn Vex, jolly as always, but his sharp eyes never missed a detail. To Darius's right was Kael Thorne, arms crossed, posture rigid.
Alice wore a soft smile, pride glowing in her eyes. "He's grown so much," she murmured to no one in particular. "And so quickly."
Rudeous nodded, one hand resting calmly on the table. "He was always capable. We simply… waited too long to let the world see it."
Ardyn glanced at Logan with a pleased smile but said nothing. The boy had earned more than praise today—he had earned respect.
Mirena, elegant as ever, sipped her wine with perfect posture. Her smile, however, didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course, Logan did well," she said, tone mild. "But let's not forget—this is only the first round."
"True," Darius added, though the words came slower than usual. "He hasn't faced anyone truly elite yet."
Kael's gaze didn't move from his glass. "Yet."
Ardyn finally spoke. "Then I suppose we'll see soon whether the next round humbles anyone."
"You have an important match as well, Darius. That Zephyr Albrecht is a worthy opponent. If you're not careful, you may have a hard time winning against him," Rudeous said with caution. For him, both Darius and Logan were his sons. And he wanted both of them to shine. The more they did, the brighter House Smith's future would be.
"I will be careful, Father. And I will surely win."
Tension flickered like a ripple across the table.
Rudeous raised his glass with a slight smile. "To House Smith. May both our sons leave a mark."
They clinked glasses—some louder than others.
⸻
Meanwhile, down in the lower districts of Arcadia, the atmosphere was anything but tense.
The Creaking Keg, a crowded, smoky tavern wedged between two potion stalls, was roaring with laughter and wild conversation. Barmaids carried plates of roasted meat and foaming mugs of frost-ale as patrons slammed their tankards together, replaying the morning's events like bards recounting a war saga.
"I'm tellin' ya!" a young man shouted over the clamor, "The kid didn't even flinch! Took a blast from that Emberlight brute and just stood there—like it was rainwater!"
"No chant, no delay—just zapped him outta the ring!" someone added.
"Logan Smith, eh? Never heard the name before today."
"You will now."
At a nearby table, an old mage with half his beard singed chuckled into his drink. "I been watchin' this tournament for thirty years. That boy… he's not natural. Either he's a freak, or House Smith's been hiding a bloody weapon."
A group of teen cultivators nodded vigorously. One of them clutched a crudely drawn sketch of Logan, beaming with fanboy enthusiasm.
"You think he'll win the whole thing?"
"Dunno. But I'd pay double to see him fight that ice guy—Zephyr something. Now that was a duel."
"Oho, Zephyr Albrecht? That one fights like a shadow with a vendetta. He's fighting another Smith in the second round."
"And what about that Starwind girl? Twelve years old and throwing around gravity magic like candy!"
"The rich sure raise their monsters young," a drunk muttered. "Meanwhile, my kid still eats dirt."
Laughter erupted around him.
⸻
Back in Moonvine Hall, another group of nobles seated across the room continued their analysis.
"Darius Smith's next opponent is Zephyr Albrecht, isn't it?" a merchant lord asked.
A baroness nodded. "That will be… telling. If Darius loses, House Smith may have to re-evaluate their succession plans."
"Maybe they already are," someone whispered.
"They'd never let Logan claim heirship," said another. "Not without political chaos. He's the second wife's son, after all."
"But maybe he's the stronger one," the merchant replied.
That silence said enough.
⸻
As dessert was served—a floating arrangement of frostberries and honeyroot cream—Logan was enjoying the taste and thinking about the next round.
Alice reached over and gently brushed a leaf from his shoulder. "You okay, sweetheart?"
Logan nodded. "Just… thinking about the next round."
Ardyn spoke. "Your opponent—Lira Wynn—is talented, but untested under pressure. Don't underestimate her, but don't let her pace the fight either."
"I won't."
Rudeous leaned forward, voice calm but commanding. "Just remember why you're here. You're not fighting for applause. You're fighting for the future of our family."
Logan met his eyes. "I know."
The table was quiet for a moment.
Then Logan stood, eyes narrowing slightly. "I want to walk around. Enjoy the view a bit."
Coming into this new world, Logan had always been busy training. So a little sightseeing would help him both explore and clear his mind.
Rudeous gestured toward the side door. "Go. We'll meet you in the waiting box before the next match."
⸻
Outside, the streets of Arcadia shimmered with sunlight and magic. Bards sang, hawkers shouted, bells chimed as enchanted dishes floated out of kitchens.
Logan walked quietly, hood up, mostly ignored by the crowd now that his cloak was plain and unmarked.
But even among the noise and laughter, he could still hear it.
Whispers.
"Did you see that kid…?"
"They say he trained with the Thunder Reaper."
"I heard he crushed a Tier 2 without even using his full power."
He kept walking, the voices fading behind him.
The next round was coming.
And with it, stronger opponents.
But that was what he wanted.
Not recognition.
Not fear.
But__
Challenge.
To grow.
To arise.