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Book Two Chapter 43: Kids Games
🕑 Added 2025-07-11 04:07:01 +0000 UTCRuby’s voice hit before the lights could even shift.
Slicing into the noise like a diamond through glass.
“Darlings… welcome to the semifinals!”
The crowd exploded. They knew what this was. The final cut before legends were printed in chrome and blood.
Ruby didn’t give them time to breathe.
“Four remain. Four monsters. Four myths in the making. But only two will rise. And this first match… oh, sweet gods of old, this one sings silence and bends knees.”
The pit dimmed. Spotlights spun like orbitals above, casting elongated shadows across the stone.
“In this corner… she doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to, and wouldn’t care if you begged. A girl carved from quiet. The one who shatters without touching, who broke fear itself like a wineglass in her palm, give your silence, not your applause, to the Southern Citadel’s own... the Silent Belle... CHIME!”
The crowd obeyed. Thousands went still, all at once, as if their lungs had frozen under glass.
Then came the shift.
“And opposing her…”
A new pressure built. One that didn’t ask, it commanded.
“You don’t cheer for this one. You don’t root. You don’t blink. You kneel. The boy whose presence unstitched Sylen Verdance from her spine. The one who walks like a crown already weighs his head down. The King’s Will himself... ELIAN!”
The response wasn’t thunderous, it was absolute. A hush that came not from awe, but from something deeper. Recognition. Like every watching soul had just remembered they were subjects in someone else's kingdom.
Ruby’s voice dropped to a purr, rich with theater and teeth.
“Let the court convene, darlings. And may your loyalty survive the silence.”
The lights cut.
The pit began to shift.
The pit lifted.
It decoupled from the ground unlatched from its foundation and began to float, levitating just enough to sever contact from the rest of the Citadel. It wasn’t a trick. Not a simulation. Just a slab of stone suspended in air, surrounded by the curve of the skybox, the lights, the crowd.
Two cages rose into view, one from each side of the platform. Transparent, humming faintly, and pulsing with light. Inside each, a figure stood still.
Elian.
Chime.
The moment the cages crested the platform edge, the crowd exploded.
Cheers shook the skybox. Stomps echoed like thunder. The sound was primal, raw hunger wrapped in awe. Thousands of voices screamed, not in recognition, but in celebration of what was about to happen. A cheer not for personality, but for spectacle.
Elian stood motionless.
The cage around him dissolved.
He stepped into the air like it had been made for him.
He walked with the unhurried cadence of gravity given form.
The crowd roared again. A sound that said: we see you.
And Elian ignored it.
The weight he carried wasn’t heavy. Not to him. It simply belonged there. Settled around his shoulders like a tailored coat. The crown wasn’t visible. Elian didn’t wear it. The world wore it for him.
Across the platform, Chime’s cage dissolved.
She walked forward, silent as always. The moment she moved, the air tightened. Even Elian felt it, sharp at the edges.
She made the stone soundless beneath her. She let the air curl around her shoulders. Where Elian brought stillness, Chime brought... constraint. Control.
The two stood on opposite sides of the floating pit, the crowd held in suspension around them like the rim of a bowl. Every noble, officer, and corporate puppet leaned forward.
“Match one of the semifinals... begins.”
Ruby’s voice this time, soft, clear, and cutting through the roar.
Elian breathed in.
The world tilted.
Not literally. But emotionally. Like reality had to take a step back to let him move forward.
Chime didn’t wait. She moved first.
She drifted. Her body glided with dancer’s grace, but there was nothing soft about it. Each shift of weight came sharpened. Each slide of her foot promised retaliation.
Elian matched her, step for step.
And the world walked with him.
They circled without commentary.
Chime closed the gap by inches. Her body a sketch drawn slow and exact across a floating stone page. She tracked breath, not position. Shadows, not shape. Elian’s presence pressed from all angles, but she didn’t let it define her path. She folded through it like cloth through a ring.
Elian’s pace narrowed. Every step trimmed. His field didn't erupt, but it adjusted, subtle corrections in pressure, like the pit itself wanted to move its weight onto her back.
She adjusted her hip angle by two degrees.
He responded by shifting his stance one centimeter.
Tension finding the exact moment before release.
The first real sound came not from her, but from the stone, when a fault line cracked beneath her step. A click.
Her body shifted as the tile beneath her cracked just slightly. A trap, maybe. A false note in the terrain. But Elian hadn’t planted it.
Neither of them paused.
But she used it.
Pushed off the break to rotate. A feint through posture. Her left shoulder dipped, her right knee braced. A forward lean that could become anything.
Elian didn’t flinch. He simply lowered his eyelids.
Permission granted.
She struck.
She hit the edge of his range and snapped forward with a snap-elbow built on compound rotation. Her whole body pivoted through it, knee to spine to shoulder to limb, perfect form, perfect weight.
It hit nothing.
He wasn’t there.
He hadn’t dodged. He’d moved before she struck. Before the elbow began. Before she knew what she would throw.
Chime’s body shifted again, flowing through the miss into a palm blade that swept through the air where his hip had been. That missed too. But not entirely.
She caught pressure.
Like a phantom limb of his presence had stayed behind to mark her strike as useless.
She landed low, pivoted on the balls of her feet, and came up fast, inside his new stance. Her knee nearly connected with his ribs.
Nearly.
He brushed it aside with one hand. Like he was resetting a chess piece that had fallen slightly out of place.
Chime breathed in. That was permission, too.
Her foot twisted. A backward slide. Low stance. She kicked the air behind her, not to strike, but to shift her momentum, a whiplash pivot that spun her around Elian’s left side.
He followed without turning his head.
Not a full step. Just a lean. A tilt of pressure.
The pit answered before she could.
A hairline fracture bloomed beneath her right heel, unnatural, silent, but perfectly placed. It shouldn’t have been there. The pit wasn’t reacting to damage. It was reacting to him.
She vaulted left.
A mistake. The moment her trajectory changed, his field found her again, more present than before.
He didn’t chase. He waited.
Let her create the opening. Let her breathe wrong.
Chime crouched low, swept her leg, and sent a pressure wave forward, a skill, the air being told to move faster.
It broke nothing. It touched nothing.
Elian was already inside her guard.
He hadn’t crossed the gap. But his hand touched her collarbone.
Just one finger.
Tap.
Her body rejected it.
Her spine kicked back as if struck by a much heavier force. They withdrew from contact before pain could register. Trained instinct told them the truth before thought could lie.
She rolled backward, absorbing the fall, skidding across the floating stone to the edge of the platform.
Elian waited.
That was the problem.
He always waited.
And when he moved, it meant it was already over.
Chime rose without dust. She didn’t shake. But her stance adjusted, lower now, more grounded.
Elian watched her with the kind of focus that stripped away mercy.
He stepped forward.
The pit felt it before she did. The air turned thick. A front rolling in from nowhere.
Chime’s shoulder dipped. She flicked her fingers, a sensory check. Her other hand traced the arc of her own breath, centering her ribs, steadying her intake.
Then she moved.
She crossed half the pit in three strides, using the curve of the floating stone to launch. Her foot scraped a barely visible ridge, used it as a fulcrum. She came in high, body angled, elbow and knee aimed at separate impact zones.
Elian didn’t counter.
He simply walked through it.
His shoulder clipped hers mid-strike, redirected the entire line of force. Not by striking her, but by moving precisely into her collapse vector.
She spun. Her hip buckled. Not broken, repositioned against her will.
Chime landed in a crouch again, both hands down. Breath uneven. She was forcing calm now. No longer dictating it.
That was the shift.
Elian didn’t speak. Didn’t press. He just existed harder than she did.
The pit agreed.
Chime surged forward again. Her body moved like a falling blade, not just fast but decisive. She gave Elian no pause to prepare, because she already knew he didn’t need any.
Her palm cut a tight arc through the air. Her opposite foot tracked beneath her, anchoring her momentum. She was trying to anchor his presence, root it, measure it, break its rhythm.
Elian moved his head an inch.
The strike missed.
But not wide. The edge of her sleeve caught his shoulder.
And her body recoiled like it had been flung backward by force.
It wasn’t physical. Not entirely. The contact didn’t launch her. Her own body did. Her training recognized the proximity and triggered rejection.
She hit the ground in a reverse roll, hands slapping the stone to distribute impact. She came up fast, but not unshaken.
Elian hadn’t changed expression.
His foot lifted.
The pit shook.
Only slightly, but enough for the skybox to feel it. Ruby didn’t speak. The crowd didn’t scream. But the weight of Elian’s next step moved through them like pressure under skin.
He was simply walking through her resistance.
Chime launched again, this time lower. At the shadow of his step. The echo of his pressure field.
Her strike connected.
Contact.
Elian reacted.
His left hand opened.
He moved forward through her strike and placed his palm against her sternum.
Chime’s body folded.
Folded like someone turned the page she was written on. She collapsed backward, limbs tight, spine curling, air knocked out in one violent breath.
She hit the stone with precision, because her body still fought for control, even while it shut down.
Elian didn’t step back.
He stood over her.
And finally, spoke:
"Yield."
Chime blinked once.
Then her head lowered. Not submission. Recognition of authority.
Ruby’s voice returned at last. Quiet. Reverent.
“The King's Will has been obeyed, the silent belle has rung.”
The crowd roared.
The skybox buzzed.
The crowd had roared when Elian won, yes. But those who understood what they’d just seen weren’t cheering. They were recalculating.
Elian hadn’t dazzled. He hadn’t stunned the pit with explosive might or spectacle. He’d simply, removed the fight from Chime’s hands. Like he’d reached in and taken it.
He was a force. One not to be clashed against, but obeyed… or broken.
And one of the boys, Jurpat or Vaeliyan, was going to face him in the finals.
Josaphine stood in silence, drink untouched. “I don’t know what we just watched,” she said, quietly.
Isol stood beside her, arms crossed. He nodded once. “Didn’t even need to fight. That’s what’s terrifying.”
The Sarn heir had dominated without effort. Without escalation. His Soul Skill, if it even was one, felt like a Tier 0, maybe Tier 2 at worst, depending on its limits. But no cadet so far had even reached the edges of it. Let alone tested its ceiling.
Imujin was ranting two rows down. Loud. Red-faced.
“Elian could make the world kneel,” he said, slamming his glass down. “That’s not a Soul Skill, that’s divine writ. You can’t counter that. You can’t think your way around it. You submit.”
The wine had loosened him. He was usually the most reserved of the bunch, controlled, severe. But something about this year’s cadets had cracked him open.
Velrock, seated with arms draped over the back of his chair, gave a low grunt. “I don’t think either of them, Jurpat or Vaeliyan, can beat him. That Soul skill just counters both of them easily. ”
Imujin waved a hand. “I’m not sure. If Vaeliyan can dodge long enough, he might be able to wear him down. Probably not, though. That Soul Skill’s too constant.”
He shifted in his seat.
“But Jurpat? If he gets that howl off? If he shakes Elian just once, really shakes him, he could get in close and end it. It’d have to be quick. No second chances.”
No one responded.
They just looked down at the floating pit. And the two boys who stood looking at one another.
Ruby’s voice cut through the skybox hum.
“Match two: Vaeliyan, the Siren’s Song... versus Jurpat, the Wolf’s Howl.”
The crowd roared, until they didn’t.
Because the boys didn’t move.
Jurpat stood at one end of the floating stone platform. Vaeliyan stood at the other. The pit waited between them, but neither lunged. Neither attack. Neither of them even raised a hand in an angry manner toward each other.
Jurpat called out across the distance. “I wish this was the finals.”
Vaeliyan nodded. “Yeah. Me too. Would’ve been nice. Us at the top together.”
A long pause. Then Vaeliyan raised an eyebrow. “Wanna play Ribbons?”
Jurpat blinked. “Ribbons?”
“I’d rather not kill a friend. Even if it’s not exactly real.”
Jurpat laughed. “You brought the ribbons?”
Vaeliyan held up a hand. Seven cloth strips, fluttering slightly. “Three red. Four yellow. Just like training.”
Jurpat walked across the pit, unhurried, unafraid, and took his half. The two boys began tying them in silence. Four yellow ribbons, one to each limb. Three red, head, neck, heart.
The old rules from training. One yellow lost, that limb’s gone. one reds, and you’re out.
Vaeliyan grinned. “This time, if we lose a yellow, we can just cut the limb off.”
Jurpat laughed. “You’re insane.” Then he shrugged. “But yeah. Makes sense. It’s a sim, after all.”
The crowd started booing, loud, angry, confused.
But the boys didn’t care.
This wasn’t about the crowd. This was about memory. Brotherhood. A game between wolves.
In the skybox, Josaphine squinted. “What are they doing?”
Isol was bent over, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Imujin leaned forward. “They’re doing a training bout. Why? They’re both strong, don’t they want to see who’s stronger?”
Isol wheezed. “They already know who’s stronger. Trained together for months. The outcome’s inevitable.”
Imujin blinked. “Then why vaeliyan not just surrender?”
Josaphine’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not Jurpat, is it?”
Isol nodded. “Correct, my love. Vaeliyan’s been holding back. Most of his real ability hasn’t even shown up yet.”
Velrock frowned. “Then why this? Why play games now?”
"Well, isn’t it obvious" Josaphine answered, voice low. " I always thought Jurpat was the tactician, from the games we played together... but this? This is Vaeliyan’s plan. That’s why he brought those ribbons."
Isol beamed. "Yes, my darling. Vaeliyan is truly not like anything this place has ever seen. Even this little game is part of his plan. He hasn’t even brought out what he bought when we went shopping in Gastlan. I think everyone’s going to be surprised when he finally lets go."
Imujin blinked. “You think this game is part of his strategy?”
“I know it is,” Isol said. “He’s holding back a killer. And when he lets go... Elian doesn’t stand a chance.”
The nobles gasped. Ryan Ryan practically fell forward from his perch.
“Watch,” Isol whispered.
Ryan Ryan pulled up the transaction logs. “He didn’t buy any weapons in Gastlan. Not from my shop.”
“Keep looking, Ryan,” Isol said calmly. “You’ll figure it out.”
A new figure stepped forward. Lord Desmon.
“I have a wager,” he said, smiling. “If your Vaeliyan beats the King’s Will, you get that beach lot you wanted. But if you lose... I want those stairs.”
Josaphine turned, expression sharp. “You want my mother’s stairs? That lot’s not worth half that.”
“Fine,” Desmon said. “The lot and the island cottage.”
She looked to Isol. He nodded once.
“Deal,” she said. “But if he loses... I’m skinning you alive. Twice.”
“It’ll be fine,” Isol said.
Other nobles began murmuring, shouting, placing side bets, not on the current match, but the final one. Not Jurpat vs vaeliyan. Not ribbons.
They bet on Vaeliyan vs the King’s Will.
A fight half of them didn’t even believe would happen.
Because first... Vaeliyan had to beat Jurpat in this silly little game they were playing.
And then, he had to defy the King's Will.
A monumental task, based on what they had seen so far.
The match began with a single clap, Ruby’s hands ringing out against the stunned hush.
“Well… they’re actually doing it.”
At first, it looked ridiculous. Vaeliyan and Jurpat darted in and out of each other's space with jerky lunges, sudden flails, and long leaping bounds. There were no lances, no bonds, no Soul Skills. Just two elite cadets playing a game from childhood, with seven ribbons each.
Three red. Four yellow. One red taken, and the match was over. Any red was a kill shot. The yellows were for slowing.
The crowd didn’t know whether to laugh or boo. Some did both.
One noble leaned in and scoffed, “Is this really what we’re watching?”
But they kept watching.
The first few exchanges were careful. Focused. Just two fighters testing each other, gauging movement and breath. Jurpat lunged with open fingers, aiming for a low flick at a yellow. Vaeliyan danced just out of reach. In return, Vaeliyan swept forward in a half-step feint that grazed the ribbon tied at Jurpat’s waist. Not close enough to take it, but close enough to say I could have.
The floating stone beneath them tilted slightly under their weight. Jurpat shifted mid-step, and Vaeliyan redirected sideways, avoiding collision with a slip-slide step. Both landed clean.
They weren’t sloppy. They were calculating.
This was a duel disguised as play.
Ruby muttered too low for her recorder drones, “If this is just some stupid kids' game, I'm going to be pissed. This better get good fast.”
Then it did.
Jurpat lunged lazily at Vaeliyan’s shoulder. Vaeliyan ducked, spinning. A yellow fluttered under Jurpat’s fingers but held. Too close. Vaeliyan circled faster. Jurpat tracked him. Their laughter sharpened.
Another dodge. Then another. Elbow slips, knee fakes, wrist flicks that missed by inches.
Then snap.
Vaeliyan darted in, twisted around Jurpat’s guard, and flicked a yellow off his leg in a blur.
“First strike! Siren’s Song lands one!” Ruby called, her voice catching with real thrill. “Yellow down on the Wolf!”
Jurpat didn’t pause. He laughed, hopped once, and used the motion to pivot into a low sweep. Vaeliyan launched up, flipping over it. Their timing was almost too perfect.
Another exchange. Jurpat grabbed Vaeliyan’s wrist, spun him, and yanked a yellow from his shoulder.
“Wolf returns fire!”
The crowd began to respond. Soft cheers. Surprised laughter. Amusement turning to awe.
This wasn’t a joke. It was fun, yes, but every dodge skimmed the line of death. Every twist was executed with millimeter precision.
They were escalating.
Another yellow, this one from Jurpat’s bicep, ripped clean off. Vaeliyan flipped onto one hand. Jurpat used the angle to snatch a bicep-tied yellow ribbon from Vaeliyan mid-spin.
“We’re down to two yellows each!” Ruby shouted.
Their limbs were ‘gone,’ by the game’s rules. They adapted.
One-legged vaults. Armless somersaults. Jurpat rolled with one leg and one hand. Vaeliyan clawed with his teeth and shoulder. They ducked, swept, grappled, and launched themselves off the arena’s edge only to rebound from the walls with raw momentum.
Ruby was standing now. “This is stupid. This is reckless. This is BRILLIANT!”
Then, the tension broke.
Jurpat dove too wide. Vaeliyan spun, launching forward in a twisting lunge with both arms already marked as gone. He snapped his neck sideways mid-air and sank his teeth into the red ribbon tied at Jurpat’s throat. The momentum carried him past in a tumbling roll, the ribbon torn clean by force and jaw alone. It fluttered free in his teeth.
Everyone froze.
Then chaos.
Ruby screamed. “He bit it off! HE BIT IT OFF! The Siren’s Song takes it! The match is OVER! That mouth isn't just for singing, darlings!”
The crowd erupted.
Jurpat fell back, panting, laughing. “You bit it off.”
Vaeliyan grinned, ribbons clenched in his teeth, bleeding from a hundred fake injuries. “That was fun.”
Ruby clapped her hands above her head. “No weapons. No bonds. No skills. But all the Soul, with just a bit of madness, and a game taken way too far.”
The crowd couldn’t stop screaming.
Vaeliyan had won.
And now they believed he might win again.
"The final match will be between Elian Sarn, The King’s Will, and Vaeliyan Verdance, The Siren's Song," Ruby declared, and the crowd erupted once again.
