Through his lowered hood, he meticulously appraised his competition. About thirty mercenaries stood to the left, while knights and their squires tended to their weapons on the right.

The mercenaries’ interest faded soon after Riftan settled quietly in the corner.

“I heard knights from every kingdom signed up this year. Accomplished ones, too.”

“It’s goin’ to be stiff competition with this year’s prize.”

“Have you seen the match sheet? Treating us like stooges, they are. We’re just the amusements before the main event, there to make the high and mighty knights shine.”

Riftan followed the mercenaries’ grumbling with minimal interest as he looked out the window. His eyes roamed over the thousands of spectators encircling the stadium in the hopes of spotting her.

“The tournament is about to begin,” announced a cleric as he entered the waiting room with a pair of guards. “Before we proceed, allow me to go over the ground rules. This distinguished event is to be held in the presence of His

Holiness, the pope, and prominent members of the nobility from across the Seven Kingdoms. As such, everyone is expected to compete fairly, and all offenses must cease in case of surrender. Furthermore, the use of magic or magical devices is strictly prohibited. The slaying of an opponent who has lost consciousness or is unable to fight due to injury is also prohibited, as is attacking while they are defenseless. We also ask that you refrain from excessive brutality. Let us take into account the purpose of this tournament to honor the spirit of Wigrew and the twelve knights and compete with reverence to the art of swordsmanship.”

The cleric’s voice was solemn as he wrapped up his explanation. Riftan double- checked when his turn would be before perching on the windowsill.

He was fifth on the list. Since the knights would only be competing after the mercenaries, rumors that the nobles would not come to watch until past noon swirled among the competitors. His face falling, Riftan roughly swept back his hair. He could not shake the thought that participating in this event was utter foolishness.

“First match! Kyle Sévon, Dermond Eden! To the arena!”

A soldier called the first pair of competitors forward, and the two men secured their helmets and stepped into the arena. A deafening cheer erupted across the stadium, with some spectators crying out the name of their favorite.

Sitting with his head back against the wall, Riftan stared vacantly into space as he waited for his turn. He must have appeared listless, as even the competitors who had been flicking appraising glances at him soon lost interest.

What the hell am I doing here?

His sword skills lay in hunting monsters, not single combat. Though he had exchanged blows with taunting knights on the odd occasion, he was used to using the terrain to his advantage and had no qualms about striking his opponent from behind if needed. Taking out an enemy with whatever weapons he had around him anything from chains, hooks, daggers, and ropes was different from a duel. He could not help but feel he did not belong.

“Riftan Calypse! Cedric Gayron! To the arena!”

Riftan’s turn came around about an hour and a half into the tournament. He rose to his feet and pulled on his helmet. His opponent was a burly giant encased in steel armor, and he eyed the hefty-looking sword on the man’s back

As they walked side by side out of the waiting room, Gayron bared his stained teeth threateningly at Riftan. “Well, well, aren’t you a nice-looking fella?”

When Riftan lowered his visor, the man sniggered and gave a bark of laughter.

“You must be one hell of an unlucky bastard to get me for your first match.

Don’t worry. I give you my word, I’ll let you keep your limbs.”

Riftan stared disinterestedly toward the arena at the end of the tunnel. Banners emblazoned with the crests of noble houses fluttered in the stands, and trumpets and drums rang out from all around.

The massive crowd of over ten thousand roared, calling for blood. Riftan could not help it he laughed. Had the cleric not said this event was to honor the spirit of Wigrew and the twelve knights? These people did not seem to possess any noble intentions in the least.

There was only one reason they paid the exorbitant fee to watch the tournament, and that was to be entertained. Looking over the boisterous crowd, Riftan felt his apprehension ease.

A soldier serving as the master of ceremonies pointed to the center of the arena. “To your places!”

Riftan slowly walked over to take his position facing his opponent. As the tension in the stands grew, the soldiers raised the flags, signaling the start of the match.

Gayron snorted derisively as Riftan drew his bastard sword, then pulled his own massive weapon from his back. The blade alone measured six kevettes (approximately 180 centimeters). The man was evidently a well-known figure in Osiriya as people began to chant his name from around the stadium.

“Gayron! Gayron! Gayron!”

He puffed up his chest and inhaled deeply as if to soak in the adulation.

‘You hear that? The man you face is one of this tournament’s favorites. My skills have been tested in real combat across countless battles. Even those bootlicking knights don’t have what it takes to best me.”

Riftan stared silently back at him.

“I was going to be merciful and offer you the chance to surrender, but hearing their cheers, I’m afraid I’ll have to give them the show they came for. So come at me, boy. I’ll let you strike first.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Riftan charged. The glint in the man’s eyes changed instantly. As if sensing the danger in the blade flying at him, Gayron immediately swung his sword. Riftan parried the huge weapon as though it weighed no more than a tree branch.

Astonishment crossed Gayron’s face. Though the giant of a man tried to regain his footing, he was too slow to block the next attack. IVhile his arm was still up in the air, Riftan plunged his sword into the man’s side. The blade slipped through the crack in his armor, penetrated flesh and muscle, and exited through the man’s back.

“Kergh!”

Gayron’s eyes grew wide as he let out a ragged breath. Riftan yanked out the sword, and blood poured from the gap in his armor. When Gayron tried to retreat, Riftan pointed his blade below his helmet.

“S-Surrender,” Gayron said, staggering back with his hand pressed to his side.

He dropped to his knees. “I surrender!”

Barely three minutes had passed since the flags had gone up. The stunned soldiers hastily blew the trumpets, ending the match. Ear-splitting cheers erupted around the stadium.

Riftan watched apathetically as the clerics healed his opponent before looking to the stands. Among the highest seats, the Croyso banner fluttered next to the crest of Wedon’s royal family. It was impossible to distinguish one face from another from where he stood. It was too far away, and there were far too many people.

Moreover, every woman in attendance had their face concealed behind a veil. After squinting over the crowd, Riftan gave up and lowered his gaze. If the mercenaries’ grumblings were correct, the nobles had yet to join the audience.

That was his last thought as he trudged out of the arena.

Riftan fought in four matches that day, with all of them ending in less than five minutes. He was given the moniker “Single-Strike Calypse.’

He scowled when he heard the crowd chanting the tasteless nickname at the stadium’s entrance the following day. From half-breed to dragon slayer, he had been called all manner of things throughout his life. This embarrassing name was by far the worst. The crowd, however, clearly thought it was impressive.

As soon as Riftan entered the waiting room, multiple searing gazes bore into him with far more intensity than yesterday. Ignoring the hostile stares, he sat quietly until a middle-aged man with a deeply tanned face strode up to him.

‘You! Are you really that famed dragon hunter from Livadon?”

Riftan furrowed his brows. Although the man’s clothes looked polished, something about him felt too unrefined for a knight. The man flashed a genial smile before taking the seat next to him.

“Everyone was talking about you when I stopped by the tavern yesterday. Word on the street is you’re a ruthless monster hunter who can single -handedly take down ten drakes.”

“What do you want?”

The man blinked, taken aback at Riftan’s gruff tone. He recovered and said casually, “I merely came to see this infamous man with my own eyes. When I saw your large frame from afar, I thought for sure you would be in your mid-twenties, but you look much younger up close. How old are you?

The silent glower Riftan directed at the man told him it was none of his business. Evidently amused, the man stroked his well- groomed beard with a grin.

“Not much of a talker, are you? I wager you’re the troublemaker when you’re in close quarters with a group.”

Riftan remained silent.

“How are your equestrian skills? If you’ve been a mercenary for as long as I think you have, you must have fought in a war or two. Are you able to ride?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t waste my time with idle chatter,” Riftan said coldly, not bothering to hide his irritation. “People who act chummy from the get- go is a pet peeve of mine.”

The man shrugged, a small smile crossing his face. He stood up and said, “0f course, you’re just about to duel. How inconsiderate of me. Please consider it nothing more than well-wishes for your future feats. I look forward to hearing about them.”

Again, Riftan did not reply.

‘Well then, till next time.”

The man strode to the other end of the room, and Riftan’s brows went up as he began conversing with the knights. The stranger certainly did not look like a competitor. Had he come over to see what Riftan was about while he was here supporting his comrades?

What a way to check out the competition.

With a light snort, Riftan looked away just as a soldier called his name. He picked up his helmet as he rose. His first opponent was a royal knight of Arex. The knight shot him a contemptuous glare as he stalked to the arena.

No doubt he was outraged that his opponent was a pagan mutt. Ignoring his icy glare, Riftan pulled on his helmet. The sun-lit arena soon filled the limited field of vision allowed by his visor. He stood in the center and swept his gaze over the stands, searching for the Croyso banner.

‘You there, half-breed,” came the knight’s belligerent voice. “Don’t tell me you’ve got your sights set on the Knight’s Sword.”

Riftan looked down.

The knight’s eyes crinkled scornfully as he added, “That sword belongs to a knight. No mercenary should even think to wield its like.”

What on earth was the man talking about? Riftan knitted his brows before looking to the seat of honor reserved for the pope. A sword was on display in front of the altar, surrounded by the Temple Knights. Thinking back, he recalled the mercenaries talking about how this years prize had drawn a large number of knights.

Riftan twisted his lips as he unsheathed his sword. “Are you afraid that a mere mercenary is going to steal it out from under your nose?

“You dare—”

“Enough talk. If you have something to say, do it with your weapon.”

The knight’s face grew stony, and he drew his sword in response. “Very well! shall drive my point home with my blade!”

The knight’s sword came hurtling toward him, which Riftan easily deflected.

Sparks flew as the metal blades clashed. The man’s face fell ever so slightly. Evidently deciding he would not be able to outpower Riftan in a head -on confrontation, the knight took a step back. Riftan did not let him strike again.

You fool. Did you think I’d give you another opening?

The knight had sealed his fate the moment he had retreated. Riftan ruthlessly thrust forward just as his opponent’s weight shifted backvvard. Alarm flashed across the man’s face.

Keeping up the momentum, Riftan mercilessly rammed the hilt of his sword into the knight’s helmet. The blow crumpled his visor , and a fountain of blood began to gush from his nose.

Not stopping there, Riftan turned his blade and swung at his arm. The gleaming metal cut through the armor and lodged in the man’s thick bicep. He let out a sharp cry.

“If you don’t want to end up losing a limb, I suggest you surrender.”

The knight viciously glared at him, his face distorting in pain as he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming.

When Riftan pushed the blade deeper, the knight spat through gritted teeth, “I-I surrender.”

Riftan withdrew his sword and straightened. Chants of “Single- Strike Calypse” soon filled the stadium. Scowling, he swore that if he ever found the person responsible for the awful moniker , he would punch them right in the face.

His winning streak continued despite being pitted against more knights. Even he was surprised. Though he had never held much admiration for swordsmanship, he was taken aback by how advanced his abilities in the arena turned out to be.

“I’m not surprised! You’re a lightning drake-slayer. How could a mere human best you?

There were only two deciding matches left in the tournament. Ruth, likely thanks to the hefty sum he had put on Riftan winning, had a permanent grin emblazoned on his face.

‘You are invincible, Master Calypse! When this is over, I pledge to follow you wherever you go ! ”