"Ito from Yonor, hmm..." the officer muttered, scanning the parchment again with a narrowed gaze. "You can't take part in the tournament."
The words hit like a hammer.
"What?" Ito blinked, stunned.
Zayden stepped forward, his voice sharp. "But why can't we take part? We passed the entry test!"
The officer's voice was firm, leaving no room for debate. "Let me be clear," he said, his gaze fixed on Ito and Zayden. "According to tournament regulations, any participant deemed physically or mentally unfit is ineligible to compete. Your hands are severely injured, and allowing you to fight would be a direct violation of our safety protocols. We cannot risk a student's life."
"You don't have to worry about this," Ito said, his voice tense. "They're fine—really, they are."
"No, rules are rules," the officer said, his tone firm. "Come back next year."
Why… why does it always end like this? Ito thought, his fists trembling as he clenched them tightly. I always mess everything up…
The words echoed in his mind, heavy with frustration and quiet despair—an ache that dug more profound than the surface, like a scar he'd carried for far too long.
The three boys Ito had bumped into earlier stood nearby, arms crossed, amusement dancing in their eyes like cats toying with a cornered mouse.
The one with the oversized forehead leaned forward, mock concern in his voice.
"Whoa there, slow down, champ. You planning to trip your way into the tournament? Or is that your secret technique?"
The second scoffed, eyes scanning Ito from head to toe like he was inspecting something beneath his shoes. "Can't believe they let anyone in these days. What's next? Letting stable boys duel with nobles? Oh, wait… they already are."
The third boy gave a dramatic gasp, covering his mouth with theatrical flair."Don't tell me—he actually signed up? Gods help us. We'll need a stretcher just for the embarrassment."
They burst out laughing, loud and obnoxious, drawing a few annoyed glances from other students.
"If you get lost looking for the servants' quarters, just follow the scent of desperation," the big-forehead boy added with a smirk.
"Maybe if you start crying now, they'll give you a mercy ribbon—'Most Courageous Peasant' or something."
Their words struck like poisoned arrows—sharp, petty, and laced with noble-born arrogance.
Sara stepped forward, her gaze icy and unwavering. The boys faltered, taken aback by the silent threat in her stance. With just a glance, they shrank back, fear creeping into their smug expressions.
The boy with the large forehead let out a frustrated "tch," shaking his head. Without another word, the three of them turned and walked off, their laughter lingering in the air like a bad smell.
"Ito… they're not wrong. Your hands are in terrible shape—you shouldn't be taking part like this," Sara said quietly.
"Huh… but—" Ito froze, stunned, his eyes wide in disbelief.
"Sara's right, Ito. You should rest for now," Shion added gently, her brows furrowed with concern.
A hush rippled through the crowd as a towering figure stepped forward, parting the students like waves around a ship. Broad-shouldered and built like a fortress, he moved with quiet authority. Cold blue eyes scanned the scene beneath tousled black hair, settling on Ito and his friends.
"You kids there!" His voice rumbled like distant thunder—firm, but not unkind. "What's going on? Why are you just standing around? Others are waiting too, you know."
"Nothing serious, sir," the registration officer replied. "It's just that this kid's hands are in pretty bad shape, so he's not fit to join the tournament."
Chief Kaito glanced at Ito's hands, his gaze firm."He's right, kid. Let it go—forget the tournament."
A sudden heaviness wrapped around Ito like a tightening chain. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, louder than the murmurs around him. The crowd's chatter dulled into a hum, drowned beneath the echo of Kaito's words.
His hands—bruised and trembling—hung uselessly at his sides. His knees threatened to buckle.
He couldn't look up. The weight of disappointment and helplessness crushed down on him like a stormcloud ready to burst.Everyone around him felt distant, yet their presence pressed in—watching. Judging.His throat closed up. No words came. Just silence. Suffocating.
A storm raged in Ito's chest. His eyes stayed locked on the ground as doubt slithered in.
Maybe they're right… Maybe I really can't do this.
His fists clenched. Pain shot through his wounds—but the pain wasn't what held him back.
Just give up…
Silence.
Then—
No.
A flicker.A crack in the dark.
No...No...No!
His shoulders tensed. Teeth gritted.
If I give up now… then I'm still the same worthless version of myself.All of this—everything I've done—would mean nothing.
His heart pounded with a new rhythm—slow, but rising.The fear hadn't vanished. But something deeper burned behind it.
"Zun."
Ito's head dropped in a heavy bow, the weight of his emotions crashing with it.
"I know you're right, sir," he said, voice trembling. "But… this might be my last chance to stand beside my friends in this tournament.
So please… let me try."
Chief Kaito studied him in silence.
"Sorry, kid—rules are rules," he said, then paused.
His eyes narrowed.
"But if you're really that determined…" his voice dropped, almost like a dare,"Then promise me this—win the tournament."
His gaze sharpened.
"Because if you lose…You and your friends will never be allowed to enter it again."
Ito's eyes widened, wavering between shock and resolve.His fate now hung on a single promise