The relative quiet of the post-victory waiting area was a stark contrast to the arena's thunderous chaos. Tsurugi sat on a simple stone bench, a damp cloth pressed to a minor graze on his forearm—the only mark the melee had left on him. His body hummed with the afterglow of the newly integrated powers, the Wild (Gao Red + AbaRed) energy a low, primal thrum in his veins alongside the soaring Sky and elusive Ninjutsu essences. He was a living symphony of honed violence, and he listened to its new movements with a strategist's ear.
His attention turned to the viewing crystal in the corner of the chamber, broadcasting the Group D melee. The combatants were skilled, their techniques polished and deadly, but compared to the titanic clashes of Group C, it felt almost… clinical. There were no walking natural disasters like Harjun, no feral geniuses like Kai, no primal forces like Raion and Gorm. It was a display of superior martial skill over common warriors, not a battle between legends.
The field was whittled down methodically. Swordsmen dueled with precision, axe-wielders traded crushing blows, and archers picked off targets from the edges. It was efficient, impressive in its way, but it lacked the raw, paradigm-shifting spectacle Tsurugi had just been a part of.
In the end, the last warrior standing was an enigma. Clad from head to toe in sleek, grey-blue plate armor that offered no glimpse of skin or identity, they moved with an eerie, fluid silence. Their weapon was a simple, unadorned spear, but they wielded it with a mastery that bordered on the supernatural. They didn't overpower their opponents; they un-made them. A subtle shift of the spear's tip would disarm a swordsman. A precise tap on a pressure point would send a berserker collapsing into unconsciousness. When the final challenger, a hulking berserker frothing at the mouth, charged, the armored fighter simply sidestepped and used the haft of the spear to trip him, sending him crashing face-first into the sand, out cold.
The referee's voice boomed. "The victor of Group D: Lance!"
Lance. A name as anonymous as the armor. Tsurugi's red eyes narrowed. This one was different. Not a force of nature, but a ghost of the battlefield. They represented a different kind of danger, one of perfect control and possibly, perfect lethality held in check. Tsurugi filed the information away. Borris was the obvious, monstrous threat. This 'Lance' was the hidden razor.
An official entered, announcing the final round would be held after midday, giving the victors time to recuperate. Tsurugi nodded and left the waiting area, his mind already dissecting the potential matchups.
High above the raucous city, within the austere, majestic halls of Valhalla's royal palace, a different kind of assessment was taking place. The air here was cool and carried the faint scent of polished stone and old parchment. In a private solar filled with tactical maps and relics of past wars, Queen Brynhildr sat upon a throne carved from the petrified heartwood of the World Tree.
A steward presented a scroll, detailing the victors from each group. Brynhildr accepted it with a hand that seemed carved from alabaster, her expression one of regal detachment. Her beauty was not of this world, a fact that had been a source of awe and whispered legend for decades. She scanned the names: Borris, the brute. Tristan, the skilled. Lance, the unknown. Her amethyst eyes, the color of a twilight sky, passed over them with little interest.
Then she reached the report on Group C.
Her eyes, which had been pools of placid royal duty, suddenly sharpened. They devoured the descriptions of the battle: the white lightning speed, the defeat of three champions simultaneously, the unlocking of paradoxical powers, the honorable concession from Harjun the Unmovable. And then, the attached sketch, drawn by a quick-handed scribe in the stands.
It captured the sharp lines of his face, the intensity of his fiery red eyes, the unruly shock of silver hair. It was a face of fierce beauty, of contained power and sharp intelligence.
A change came over the queen. The regal mask softened. The corners of her full, crimson lips—lips that had not smiled in genuine interest for years—curved upward into a slight, unmistakable smile. A faint, rosy blush tinged her flawless cheeks.
"Fascinating," she murmured, her voice a melody that seemed to make the very air in the room still to listen.
If Tsurugi had been present, even his disciplined mind might have faltered for a moment. Brynhildr's beauty was legendary for a reason. She was the hybrid offspring of a Valkyrie, a warrior spirit of divine grace, and a Spirit of the Aurora, a being of eternal, breathtaking allure. Her hair was a waterfall of living aquamarine, adorned with a simple silver crown and hairpins shaped like falling stars. Her figure was a masterpiece of impossible proportions—a slim, graceful waist that flared into generous, perfectly rounded hips, and a chest that was both full and lifted with an otherworldly defiance of gravity, straining the elegant silk of her royal gown. Her face was a sculpture of perfection: high cheekbones, a delicate nose, long eyelashes that cast shadows on her cheeks, and those luminous amethyst eyes that now sparkled with keen interest.
She had been married to King Sigurd for over two decades, a political and traditional union with a great warrior who respected her but was wedded to his duty. In all that time, she had remained as she was now—ageless, untouched by time, and profoundly… alone. Sigurd had been a good king, a comrade-in-arms, but his heart belonged to battle, not to a wife who would outlive him by centuries.
This silver-haired stranger, this "Tsurugi," was different. He was not just strong; he was interesting. His power was a puzzle. His demeanor was calm, strategic. His face promised a fire that matched the cold, eternal flame of her own spirit.
She set the scroll down with deliberate care. "This afternoon," she announced, her voice now carrying a note of command that brooked no dissent, "I will attend the final match in the royal box. I wish to observe this 'Tsurugi' personally." She paused, her gaze lingering on the sketch. "And regardless of the final outcome of the tournament… ensure he is brought to me afterward. I would speak with him."
The steward bowed deeply, understanding the singular nature of this command, and hurried out to make the arrangements.
Alone once more, Brynhildr rose and glided to a window overlooking the training grounds far below. She lay back on a divane, her magnificent form a study in elegant repose. The image of Tsurugi's face, fierce and focused, would not leave her mind's eye. A warmth, unfamiliar and deeply unsettling in its pleasantness, spread through her. She pressed a cool hand to her cheek.
"I have watched centuries of warriors," she whispered to the empty room, a secret confession to the stones. "Brutes, heroes, skilled weapons… all so predictable." Her amethyst eyes grew distant, then focused with new intensity. "But you… you are a new kind of storm. I wonder what sound your thunder makes." A genuine, hopeful smile touched her lips, making her already impossible beauty truly devastating. "I hope you can win, handsome stranger. I find… I have high hopes for you."
For the first time in a very long time, the eternal Queen of Valhalla felt the slow, curious flutter of anticipation. The tournament was no longer just a political necessity to choose a king. It had become profoundly, personally interesting.