Chapter 308: Unacceptable
Bodies moved; metal met metal; Sparks flared to life, skills bursting in light and color.
Amid it all, Adyr waited and watched, observing and calculating the field with a serene face, like a commander surveying a front line.
As time passed, the 498 Practitioners fell in rapid waves; the count thinned fastest wherever the Umbraen team fought and died, their corpses and blood strewn across the marble.
At last, roughly an hour after Kharom’s death, the battlefield began to settle, the final 200 only moments from being set.
Adyr studied those still standing; counts and profiles mapped themselves in his mind.
The Umbraens, who had entered the battle royale with the highest numbers, were nowhere to be seen now; every last one lay as a corpse, given no chance to surrender for their lives.
At the top by headcount stood the Lunari with 32 remaining, most of their losses coming in their initial clash with the Gorathim.
The Gorathim had bled heavily as well, yet they held 2nd with 28 still in the ranks.
After those 2 top races, the list dropped sharply through the mid and low races; the 3rd place held only 18 Practitioners.
The Aqualeth sat 5th with 11 remaining—they had lost 5 during the team fights and 4 in the battle royale—while the Houndkin, who had left a strong impression on Adyr and held his interest, were 6th with 10.
The most striking detail was this: every one of the top 200 was a Rank 2 Practitioner. All Rank 1s had either died or surrendered and fled the arena.
"What a wonderful show that was." The goatman Caprion hopped into the center of the arena, hooves slapping the blood-striped white marble as he applauded.
"It is good to see the Outer Region still holds so many of the new generation, with determination and success burning within them."
To him, the bloodshed served as proof of hard virtues rather than simple carnage or blind greed.
"First of all, let me congratulate you all on the success of writing your names into the top 200." Caprion placed a hand to his chest and dipped his goat head. In his black-and-white, tuxedo-like suit, he offered the Rank 2 Practitioners a respect that seemed beyond their station. Then he lifted his head and turned to the stands.
"Now that the tournament has ended and the 200 candidates are chosen, those races and kingdoms who have lost all their candidates—and thus their right to enter the Legacy Domain—may leave."
Silence fell around the arena. Some races left at once, grim carved into their faces, steps heavy, and heads lowered. Others stood rooted where they were, agitation crawling under their skin, the weight of defeat lodged in their chests like stone.
Losing the tournament and so many of their new generation had already been hard to accept. Being told to leave without even getting to see the Rank 5 Adept, the Venerable Wanderer Merchant, stung all the more.
Among them, Sevrak looked the most agitated of all. He had lost his talented Practitioners, his grandson, and—most of all—his pride and image.
"Sir Caprion..." Sevrak forced his anger down and tried to speak with respect. "I request an audience with the Venerable Wanderer Merchant."
No one was surprised by the request. As the strongest in the Outer Region, Sevrak perhaps alone held the standing to ask such a thing, even among other Titled Practitioners.
It was known he had already visited the Wanderer Merchant yesterday; many believed he was the one who convinced the Rank 5 Adept to adopt the 5-man team-fight concept. If his request is accepted now, this would be his second private meeting.
While people wondered what Sevrak would ask, nerves tightening at whatever the tyrant might be planning, the answer came.
Fortunate for most, unfortunate for Sevrak, Caprion shook his head. "Sorry, Dragon Rider Sevrak. I am afraid my master has no time for a meeting at the moment. Perhaps try later, when the matters at hand are settled."
Caprion’s tone was respectful, and he even offered a path forward, but the rejection was what mattered.
It mattered especially because Sevrak wished to speak about the Legacy Domain. If everything concluded and the event ended, what would be the point of meeting after? What he wanted now was to see if there was still a chance to send someone else into the Legacy Domain as the Umbraen representative.
"Sir Caprion, with all due respect, I cannot accept an outcome like this. I sit at the pinnacle of this region, and my race stands at the forefront among all. To be denied a chance to participate in an event of this weight should not be brushed aside; in my view, it must be sat down and discussed with open minds." Sevrak tried to reason it through, refusing the verdict, and he did not look like a man who would accept it anytime soon.
"Accept my apologies, Dragon Rider Sevrak, but rules are rules. If we changed them whenever we were asked, what would be the point of setting them in the first place?" Caprion’s eyes remained calm, his back straight.
"Is it not power that writes the rules? At least allow me to speak with the Revered Wanderer Merchant." Sevrak did not step back. His anger seeped into his voice and into the set of his shoulders.
Beneath him, the Black Dragon stirred, agitated by its master’s restrained fury; its claws bit into the dry earth, and a low growl rose from its throat.
Caprion’s brows drew together, his long goatee trembling.
He was about to answer when he suddenly stopped; the frown eased, his eyes widened, and he turned toward the entrance of the great white tent. He bowed at the waist, then went to his knees, showing a reverence that eclipsed anything he had displayed so far.
"This hill bows to the mountain. I greet the Venerable Wanderer Merchant."
At his words and bow, every eye turned to the tent’s wide entrance. A small figure moved slowly toward the light, giving all a clear view of what true grandeur meant.
A goatman took shape against the sun: fur black as a starless night, eyes yellow and bright. A spotless white robe hung from his slightly hunched frame, age written in the set of his shoulders. Each step of his hooved feet was nearly soundless, yet the air seemed to register the weight of his passage as he made his way onto the marble.
"We greet the Revered Wanderer Merchant."
As one, the races went to their knees the instant the figure revealed himself. Even the Sparks—Black Dragon included—shed their arrogance at once. A subtle pressure moved through the air; instinct took over, and they lowered their heads as if offering a primal respect they could not refuse.
Heads stayed bowed; only his footfalls counted the seconds. When the Wanderer Merchant reached the exact center of the marble, he parted his lips, thin, sharp teeth catching the light. "Caprion, thank you for your service. I will take it from here."
Caprion vanished in that moment—body, suit, and all—leaving only a single jet-black hair drifting in the air. It floated down and settled on a pool of blood.