Silver's POV
The crowd was overwhelming. Irritation and discomfort etched themselves plainly across my face. I had always despised crowds and attention, if it had been anyone else, I would never have agreed to this. But this was Zoah. And if enduring this chaos was the price I had to pay to make him fall for me, then so be it. I would endure it. It would be worth it.
Soon, all the competitors were summoned to a space hidden from the public eye. My gaze followed Zoah as he moved to the left, and a storm of conflicting emotions surged through me. Doubt crept in uninvited, how could he possibly triumph over two hundred candidates? Yet if he failed, he would be forced to return to Violet in defeat, and every hope I clung to would shatter.
Still, a thought sparked in my mind. Even if he didn't win, I would find a way to make him stay. Being there for him in his moment of need felt like a strategy, quiet, patient, and clever.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I barely noticed someone stepping onto the podium, a microphone in hand. Forcing myself to focus, I listened.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, her voice ringing through the air, "welcome to the competition for obtaining Herb B. Among two hundred candidates, there can be only one winner. That winner must prove himself capable, wise, and stronger than his peers. We are gathered here tonight to witness who that will be. I assure you, this competition will be conducted fairly and without bias."
Her words ignited thunderous cheers from the audience.
I turned toward Uncle Charles. He squeezed my hand gently and offered a reassuring nod.
I swallowed hard, my heart racing with hope.
I hope Zoah wins.
"This competition will be divided into four stages," the woman announced. "The first stage is the preliminary phase, where the weak will be filtered out and only the strong will advance."
A pause followed, deliberate and heavy.
"In simpler terms, the first stage is combat. One hundred competitors will be eliminated, leaving only one hundred survivors."
A ripple of unease spread through the crowd.
"Before I leave this stage," she continued, "I would like to make a toast."
A glass of wine was brought to her. She poured it with practiced elegance, raised it high, and said, "To all the competitors today." With a slight bow, she turned and exited the stage.
I released a shaky breath. The competition had begun.
The first four competitors stepped into the ring. They were all powerfully built, their sharp features hardened by resolve. Without hesitation, they lunged at one another. The clash was brutal yet brief, within five minutes, two lay on the ground, bleeding and defeated. Cheers erupted for the victors, while the fallen fighters hid their faces in humiliation.
My chest tightened as I began rehearsing words I might say to Zoah, comforting words, just in case.
The matches continued one after another, each fight more ruthless than the last. Then it was Zoah's turn.
My heart skipped.
A murmur swept through the audience, growing louder by the second. I quickly understood why.
This competition was held every year, and for the past five years, there had been only one champion. He possessed everything, strength, courage, wisdom. Rumors whispered that he was a water god, though I dismissed such talk as nonsense.
That man was Zoah's opponent.
The fight was bound to be merciless.
I turned to Uncle Charles, desperate for reassurance, but he looked more shaken than I felt. My stomach sank. This was bad.
The signal was given, and the fight began.
Less than ten minutes later, someone fell. I squeezed my eyes shut, silently begging the universe not to let it be Zoah.
When I opened them, relief flooded me. It wasn't Zoah. And it wasn't the so-called water god either, it was their second opponent.
Zoah's combat skills were flawless, precise, and deadly. The champion matched him blow for blow. They dodged punches and kicks with terrifying speed, each strike calculated. Soon, both were bleeding, yet neither showed signs of yielding.
Thirty minutes passed with no clear victor.
The audience watched in breathless suspense, exhaustion evident on their faces. But the two fighters were far from tired.
Eventually, they were forced apart. Even the directors, it seemed, had grown weary of waiting for a conclusion.
The same woman returned to the stage.
"We have come to the end of the first stage," she announced. "We can now distinguish the strong from the weak."
She paused before continuing, "I am pleased to inform you that the next stage will proceed with one hundred and one competitors."
I leapt to my feet, screaming in uncontrollable joy, drawing every eye in the arena. I didn't care. Zoah had made it. He hadn't lost. There was still hope, at least for now.
Uncle Charles quickly tugged me back into my seat just as the woman spoke again.
"The second stage is an athletic trial," she said. "A sprint. Each competitor must run five thousand kilometers on foot, carrying a heavy load on their back, and then return.
The first fifty to finish will advance."
A challenge rippled through her voice.
"You may know how to fight," she added coolly, "but are you fit enough to run?"
She reached once more for a glass of wine, lifted it high, and smirked. "To the competitors. We shall see."
She left the stage amid roaring cheers.
The second stage had begun.