Oath of the King-Chapter 51 - 50: Into the Roar

The next three weeks passed in a blur of blood, sweat, and sore limbs.

Every day began the same — the clang of metal in the sparring hall, the grunts of half-trained brutes breaking themselves on the dummies, and in the center of it all, Alden, doing the same thing over and over. But this time, smart.

Leonhardt stood to the side like a tired ghost, arms crossed, one eyebrow forever raised.

"Pivot your left heel when you throw that punch," he said for the fifth time.

"I did."

"You didn't. Your hip locked. You're gonna tear something. Again."

Alden growled under his breath but adjusted. Thud. Thud. Crack.

"Better," Leonhardt said, tossing him a towel. "See? Less rage, more form. Your body lasts longer."

"Didn't know you were a combat specialist."

"I'm not. I just know how to keep idiots like you alive."

It became a rhythm. Leonhardt would correct. Alden would resist. Then obey. They bickered more than they talked, but between the sarcasm and insults, something was shifting.

Respect.

Even trust.

Leonhardt rarely trained himself. He claimed his ribs still hurt from Alden's accidental near-death elbow. He wore bandages on his arms and chest, wrapped tight, convincing enough to ward off questions.

But Alden was growing suspicious.

One evening, as they rested under a cracked window while others cleared out, Alden said it.

"You should be resting." ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Leonhardt didn't flinch. He peeled an apple with a small knife, eyes focused on the fruit.

"I'm stronger than you think."

Alden narrowed his eyes. "You got one-punched into oblivion."

Leonhardt chuckled. "And yet I'm here. Talking. Teaching you."

He didn't say more. And Alden didn't ask.

But somewhere, deep in the night, Leonhardt sat alone at the washroom basin. He looked at his reflection, eyes tired.

He raised a hand, faint light glowing between his fingers.

"Just enough," he whispered. "Not to heal myself... but to help them. I need to be watching. From behind."

He pressed his palm to his side, and the ache faded. Only his crew knew. Only they ever would.

The twentieth day came too fast.

A horn sounded from the upper levels. Guards lined the halls, shouting instructions.

All contestants — now barely three hundred — gathered at the grand stairway that spiraled upward into the very heart of the Colosseum.

They ascended slowly. No one spoke. The sound of boots on stone echoed like a funeral march.

Leonhardt walked behind Althea and Alden, hands in his pockets.

Althea glanced back. "You ready to get knocked out again, princess?"

Leonhardt smirked. "I've been practicing my fainting technique. Graceful this time."

Alden snorted. "Just don't land on me again."

At the top of the stairs, light burst into their faces. The sun, high and unmerciful, blazed over the vast arena.

Thousands of citizens cheered from the stone bleachers, the nobles of Lionfelt watching from gilded balconies. Banners flew. Trumpets roared.

The three stood at the edge, waiting.

Leonhardt turned to them. His voice, for once, was quiet.

"No matter what happens next... don't hold back. But don't break. Not yet."

Althea nodded. Alden looked at him, something unreadable in his eyes.

"You too. Don't faint too early."

Leonhardt laughed and stepped into the center, arms raised as if greeting the chaos.

A silver-haired announcer took to the central platform, voice booming through enchanted runes on every wall.

"Welcome, warriors! Today marks the Second Trial of the Phoenix Tournament!"

Cheers erupted.

"You've proven your spirit against pressure. Now you shall prove it in the fires of chaos!"

A ripple of tension went through the crowd.

The announcer raised a hand.

"A battle royale! Three hundred will enter. Only fifty will stand!"

The ground trembled.

From the royal stands, a figure in white stepped forward — her face veiled, her arms covered in gold-threaded cloth. The Saintess.

She lifted both hands, chanting in a tongue none understood. Her voice, pure and cold, echoed like wind through dead leaves.

Golden runes floated from her mouth.

They twisted midair, danced in spirals, and then shot like arrows into the arena floor.

The runes met at the center.

A light exploded upward — gold, bright, holy.

When it faded, a swirling portal had formed. A massive gate of light and stone.

The announcer stepped back, hand over his heart.

"Beyond this gate lies your next battlefield — a sealed realm of forest and ruin. Survive. Fight. Impress the divine."

The portal pulsed once. Then again.

The contestants looked at one another.

Alden felt his heartbeat rise.

Leonhardt clapped him on the back. "Try not to die too fast. I've still got money riding on you."

Althea cracked her knuckles. "If you lose to some muscle-headed noble, I'll drag your corpse back and kill you again."

They walked side by side.

And one by one, the contestants stepped into the portal.

The light swallowed them whole.

The wilderness waited.

And the Phoenix watched.

As Alden entered, he felt the air shift.

Trees stretched high above, dense and wild. The air smelled of pine and moss, the sky hidden by green canopies.

Birds chirped. Wind rustled leaves. And somewhere distant, a roar.

He looked around. Dozens had already scattered into the woods, some forming groups, others sprinting alone.

No rules. No borders. Just survive.

He touched the necklace around his neck — the token from his village. Then his hand went to the bandages on his side.

He wasn't sure how he was alive.

But he would make sure he stayed that way.

Somewhere, in the same forest, a girl with sharp eyes and hidden ears moved like shadow between the trees.

She felt the earth. Counted footsteps. Watched.

And waited.

The fire had only just begun.