The tense standoff between the noble scions and the brooding commoner was broken by the sudden, unnatural descent of a thick, cloying mist. It rolled in from the surrounding woods with eerie speed, swallowing the landscape and reducing visibility to mere feet.
"An ambush!" Sir Lucas roared, his voice cutting through the sudden silence. "Form up! Protect Lord Liam!"
The Black Knights reacted instantly, their disguised forms melting into a defensive perimeter around Liam. Lady Elara Voss nocked an arrow with swift precision, her eyes scanning the swirling grey. Kael Thorne hefted his axe, a grim understanding dawning on his face. Even their disparate groups recognized a common, immediate threat.
Dark figures materialized from the mist, cloaked and armed, moving with a sinister coordination. There were at least two dozen of them, far outnumbering any single group present. Their blades glinted dully in the ethereal light.
"Serpent's Teeth insignia!" one of the Voss guards shouted, spotting a familiar emblem on a bandit's pauldron. But Liam knew better. This wasn't a random bandit attack. The timing, the coordination, the sheer audacity pointed to a more deliberate hand. Vorian.
There was no time for subtlety. Liam drew Crimson Fang. The blade seemed to drink in the gloom, its crimson fuller pulsing faintly. "Dragonheart Vigor, activate!" he mentally commanded, channeling his mana into Strength and Agility in equal measure. A surge of power coursed through him.
As the first wave of attackers crashed into their defensive lines, Liam moved. He was a whirlwind of silver hair and crimson steel. Crimson Fang, an extension of his will, sang a deadly song. His enhanced senses, sharpened by Draconic Senses, cut through the disorienting mist, allowing him to track movements, anticipate strikes.
He met a charging bandit, his sword deflecting the man's clumsy slash. Liam's counter was a precise thrust that found a gap in the bandit's leather armor. The man gurgled and fell. As Crimson Fang tasted blood, Liam felt it – a distinct, exhilarating surge. The Blooddrinker effect. A faint notification pulsed in his vision: [+1 Strength, +1 Agility].
He spun, his blade a scarlet arc, cleaving through another attacker's guard. Another kill, another surge. [+2 Strength, +2 Agility]. The power was intoxicating, raw. His movements became faster, his strikes more devastating. Onlookers, including the other young nobles and their guards who were now engaged in their own desperate fights, couldn't help but notice the almost unnatural ferocity with which Liam fought, the way he seemed to grow stronger with each fallen foe. The air around him thrummed with a barely contained power.
The Black Knights fought with disciplined lethality, cutting down assailants with practiced ease, but the sheer number of attackers was taxing. Liam, now a terrifying force on the battlefield, carved a path through the enemy ranks, Crimson Fang weeping crimson tears of its own. By the time he reached his fifth kill, the +5 bonus to Strength and Agility made him a demigod of destruction in the swirling mist. The remaining bandits, seeing their comrades decimated by this single, terrifying youth, began to falter.
The ambush, clearly intended to overwhelm and assassinate, broke. The surviving attackers, realizing their prey was far more dangerous than anticipated, melted back into the mist as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind a dozen of their dead.
As the mist slowly began to dissipate, an uneasy quiet fell. Liam stood panting, Crimson Fang dripping, the potent energy of Blooddrinker slowly fading. Sir Lucas, his face grim but his eyes shining with a fierce pride, clapped him on the shoulder. Lady Elara Voss stared at Liam, her earlier mockery gone, replaced by a look of shocked disbelief and perhaps, a grudging respect. Kael Thorne merely grunted, wiping blood from his axe, his expression unreadable but his gaze lingering on Liam's bloodied sword.
"Vorian's work, no doubt," Sir Lucas muttered, his voice low. "He sought to eliminate you before you even reached the tournament. The man is growing bolder, more desperate."
The rest of the journey to Oulbeck territory was tense but uneventful. The shared experience of the ambush had forged a wary, unspoken truce between the rival groups. They traveled in a loose, combined caravan, the added numbers a deterrent to further attacks.
They arrived at the Oulbeck estate as dusk was settling. It was a sturdy, fortified keep, built more for defense than ostentation, reflecting the martial nature of its inhabitants. The courtyard buzzed with activity – young warriors from various Houses, commoner champions, and their entourages, all gathered for the tournament.
As the newly arrived participants were being registered, a commanding figure strode into the torchlit courtyard. He was tall and powerfully built, his silver hair tied back in a warrior's knot, his face a roadmap of ancient battles. A palpable aura of immense power emanated from him, silencing the assembled crowd. This was Grandmaster Orin Oulbeck, a living legend, a 7-Star Sword Saint.
His gaze, sharp as a honed blade, swept over the young competitors. "Welcome, aspirants, to the Tournament of Spears!" His voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls. "You have come seeking glory, seeking the spoils of victory. You will find them here, if you are worthy." He paused, his expression hardening. "But be warned. Victory in Oulbeck is not merely a matter of skill or strength. Here, it is a matter of survival. Many will enter. Few will triumph. Prepare yourselves."
The next morning, the participants were gathered in a vast, open-air arena. Grandmaster Orin stood on a raised platform, outlining the rules for the first round.
"The first trial is a test of awareness, agility, and opportunism!" he declared. "A free-for-all melee within this arena. However, this is no mere brawl." He gestured, and faint, glowing sigils appeared on the backs of every competitor, just between the shoulder blades. "These are your targets. Strike another's target, and you earn points. The arena itself will shift, its terrain magically altered throughout the trial. Be wary. Killing is strictly forbidden and will result in immediate disqualification and severe penalty. The warriors with the fewest points at the end of the allotted time will be eliminated."
Liam felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with caution. A free-for-all. His Draconic Senses were already on high alert. As he scanned the arena, he noticed subtle anomalies – a patch of ground that seemed slightly unstable, a section of wall that shimmered faintly, hinting at illusion. Traps. And he saw it too – the quick, exchanged glances, the subtle nods between certain groups. Alliances were already forming. He caught the eye of a few participants from Houses known to be unfriendly towards Lithia; their gazes lingered on him with clear intent.
The System panel chimed in his vision:
[System Quest Update: The Oulbeck Tournament of Spears]
Objective 1: Win the tournament.
[New Sub-Objective: First Trial - Survival and Cunning]
• Finish the first trial ranked in the Top 5.
• Bonus Objective: Expose a saboteur or rigged element within the trial.
[Rewards for Sub-Objective Completion:]
• +1 to a chosen Attribute (Strength, Agility, or Stamina)
• 200 EXP
• Increased standing with House Oulbeck if bonus objective is met.
As Liam absorbed this, his gaze swept across the assembled competitors. He noted a powerfully built knight with cold, calculating eyes, wearing the livery of a minor, almost unknown house. The man's insignia was unfamiliar, yet there was an air of dangerous competence about him. Ser Jarek, Liam recalled the name from the registration roster. Something about him felt… off. A prickle of unease, a whisper from his Draconic Senses. He filed the observation away. The tournament was about to begin, and it was already clear that victory would require more than just skill with a blade. It would require vigilance, cunning, and the will to survive a crucible designed to break the unworthy.