The crowd went wild, but not for the reasons one would hope.

Jeers. Boos. Screams of fury. The collective rage of an audience denied their bloodshed. Tickets to see the Dawn Contest in person were not cheap, and these people expected a spectacle. What they did not want was the first match ending in an instant, without so much as a punch being thrown.

Aether or not, Ruth had no doubt that if Dragan was in the crowd itself, he would have been ripped to pieces.

She stared at him, her mouth agape, as he accepted the surrender of his opponent. Him even showing up here had just been another formality, hadn’t it? North had said so himself…

“That's what your pal Dragan's doing. He's determining.”

Dragan hadn’t spent the last two years preparing for the Dawn Contest. He’d spent them winning it.

If the disapproval of the masses bothered Dragan, he didn't show it. His bored gaze just scanned over his surroundings, as if this were some natural formation he was looking at and not a crowd that hated his guts specifically. The slightest smirk tugged the side of his lips.

Besides him, Xander rose to his feet -- placing a hand up on Dragan's shoulder. The Cogitant nodded, and a second later a sudden wind picked up, plucking the pair off the ground and sending them flying up into the sky like twin paper airplanes.

Ruth watched after them, mouth still open, as they became dots that vanished into the night.

Muzazi looked down at the now-empty arena, his eyes widened to their utmost in shock.

“What…?” he whispered.

“It seems we underestimated the extent of Dragan Hadrien's preparations,” Jamilu said, putting his knuckles to his mouth. He was clearly surprised as well, but was doing a much better job at hiding it. The Principality over his head glowed as he searched for information.

As the two of them observed the chaos below, Rufus pushed his way between them, planting his nose against the glass. “Wait, what?” he said, brow furrowed. “What the hell? What happened?”

“Xander Rain surrendered,” Jamilu explained quietly. “Immediately.”

Rufus swung his head around to face him. “Well, why'd he do that? Was he that sure he'd lose?

Jamilu shook his head. “The code of honour the Tree of Might lives by would never allow such a thing. Life through battle. Even if he was certain he'd lose, he'd have no choice but to fight. The only explanation for this is…”

“...he already lost.” Muzazi finished the sentence.

It was the only thing that made sense. The fight between Dragan Hadrien and Xander Rain had already taken place a good while ago, and Hadrien had won. Xander Rain might still act as the First Branch of the Tree of Might, but he took his orders from Hadrien.

This whole thing is a farce.

Muzazi clenched his fist.

After a moment, Jamilu spoke again, some unwelcome realization dawning on his face. “It's worse than that,” he said slowly. “The Crimson Carnival's attack after the opening ceremony.”

Muzazi glanced at him. “What of it?”

“They went after every contestant we had eyes on -- except Xander Rain. At the time, we thought they were perhaps working together… but now…”

Another piece slotted into the loathsome puzzle.

“They're not working together,” Muzazi whispered. “They're both working for Hadrien.”

Rain fell, but Nael Manron paid it no mind. It battered against his skin and soaked his clothes, but it was nothing. He had better things to do than worry about himself.

He glanced up as his client arrived.

“They don't seem too happy with you,” Nael muttered, his dripping fur coat hanging off his slouching frame -- making him look like some kind of diseased animal. “Is that okay?”

As the kid released his grip on Dragan's shoulder, he dropped down to the ground -- landing atop the rooftop of the skyscraper they'd agreed to meet at. That North guy already had an illusion projected in a sphere outside this place. To anyone looking in from the outside, they weren't even here.

“Can't be helped,” Dragan said, adjusting his tie. “They'll come around by the end of the Contest.”

The rain adjusted its flow in mid-air to avoid landing on the Cogitant, instead falling in a curtain around him.

Nael's eyes flicked to the kid -- Zander Rain or whatever his name was. “Surprised you went along with it,” he grumbled. “Would have expected you to stab this guy in the back.”

Zander's face turned red. “If that's what you expected of me, then you understand nothing of the Tree of Might. Lord Hadrien's superiority has already been established. If I were to surpass him with such petty tactics, I would disgrace only myself.”

Hadrien smiled. “There you have it. Besides… if you expected something like that, you really should have warned me.”

Faced with Hadrien's intense, electric-blue gaze, Nael didn't so much as blink.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“You hired me to kill people,” he growled. “And to surrender to you when the time comes. You pay extra if you want advice.”

“How mercenary of you,” Dragan said.

He took a script out of his breast pocket and traced his finger across the screen, transferring the contents to Nael's device. Nael scowled as he fiddled with the cumbersome machine, his eyes scanning the display. A list of names scrolled before him.

“What's this?” he grunted.

As Dragan Hadrien blinked, lightning flashed in the distance far behind him.

“Your job, Mr. Manron,” he said softly. “It's exactly as you said. I pay you to kill people.”

If anything, Dragan Hadrien suddenly leaving the Arena of the Absolute only made the crowd more incensed. The shouting and screaming overpowered all else. Anyone could tell that a riot was imminent.

The only thing that calmed the crowd, if only for a moment, was the voice of Brett del Boros ringing out again.

“Come on, now! Come on, now, folks! That first one might have been a dud, but the night is far from over! We've got round two ready and waiting to go, for the true true beginning of the Dawn Contest!”

There were a few scattered cheers.

“That's right!” Brett roared, quickly picking up steam. “It's time for the moment you've all been waiting for! Chicken Punk versus Paradise Charon!”

The cheering increased in fervor, just enough so that it wasn't sad. Then del Boros’ aid leaned into his ear. There was an awkward cough down the microphone.

“Um. I've just been informed that Chicken Punk has surrendered.”

The crowd exploded.

“It’s bright,” Mereloco grunted as he walked through the hallway, ignoring the gaggles of reporters on both sides.

Their camera flashes were irritating, but not as much as the situation itself. He had been roused from his sleep to come to the Arena a night early -- apparently, there had been some issue with the matches. Cowards surrendering or something like that. Now he would face his first adversary early to make up the time.

“Remember the information packet,” the handler woman said, walking alongside him hurriedly, her heels clicking on the floor. “Tealin Jade is a dangerous man -- he has some means of interfering with Aether.”

He wasn’t so simple that he needed to be reminded of such things. Mereloco had not devoted thoughts to any sorts of counter-strategies or the like. He would face this enemy, he would win, or he would die. Agonizing over it beforehand would have no benefit.

The two of them stopped before the door to the entrance tunnel. It slid open, revealing the darkness -- with but a distant light beyond. Mereloco’s tired eyes squinted at the brightness.

“I hope you wake in a kinder world than this.”

Mereloco gritted his teeth. The words of fools, haunting him at the hour of battle. Nobody was immune to such sentimentality.

“Best of luck,” the woman said. “Halcyon Interstellar has the utmost faith in you.”

He glanced at her. “If you had the utmost faith in me,” he grunted. “I wouldn’t need your luck, would I?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “You’re not usually so talkative.”

He left.

As he walked down the entrance tunnel, the roar of the crowd becoming louder and louder, he cracked his neck. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but feel sweat on his palms. How long had this been his desire? To prove his strength and become Supreme? Only a machine would feel nothing finally coming so close to it.

Watch, Damon. Watch this, you fool.

“Okay, okay! This time for sure!”

Brett del Boros’ voice sounded out through the arena, his sweat-covered face on all the screens. If one looked closely, they might have noticed that his pupils seemed a tad darker than before -- but nobody was in the mood to look very closely. They were far too occupied with their outrage.

“In this corner…” Brett pushed on undeterred. “We have the man from the past, the right hand of the Mad Supreme… Mereloco!”

Mereloco emerged from the tunnel, scowling as the light fell upon him once again, and came to a halt. As he crossed his arms, his face was stone.

“In the other… the many-eyed Man of Flowers, the gamer from the pits of hell -- Tealin Jade!”

Mereloco's opponent came out as well. His blue skin shone in the light as he stretched his four muscular arms, an easy smile on his face. The many eyes covering his muscles flicked in various individual directions, taking in every detail of his surroundings.

“And now, without further ado… the Dawn Contest will truly truly truly… begin!”

When Tealin Jade opened his mouth instead of charging forward, no doubt the crowd thought they were about to witness the third surrender in a row. Some even began to shout their fury in advance. But the words he spoke, amplified through the arena, were perhaps even more confusing.

“Let's make a game of this,” he said, his voice resonant. “The first one to touch the other loses. Oui?”

Mereloco, his face unamused, said only one word in response.

“Unchained.”

He vanished in an instant, incoherent gravity pulling him forward at breakneck speeds -- and in that same instant, he smashed his fist into Tealin’s jaw. The sound of the impact echoed throughout the stadium. No doubt some of the onlookers thought that, even if this wasn't a surrender, the match had ended in an instant anyway. That was surely a killing blow.

But kill the blow did not.

As the fist pressed against his cheek, Tealin just grinned down at Mereloco, a sinister gleam in his eye. He licked his jet-black lips with a vivid red tongue.

“You lose,” he giggled.

Mereloco pulled himself back with gravity, predicting the counter, but it was too late. Flowers began to sprout from his arm, breaking through the skin, their colorful petals stained by blood from birth. As he landed a short distance away, the damaged limb already concealed entirely beneath the newborn foliage, Tealin stepped forward to pursue him.

“Next game,” he declared, throwing his four arms wide. “The next one to take a breath loses. The game begins…” All four hands snapped their fingers. “...now.”

Mereloco did not take a breath, but he did grin.

It seemed this match had started to interest him.