Chapter 209 - Fulkar Libarn

"Amazing! Yet another student of the Practor Family has taken the stage, surprising us all!" the ref announced. The enthusiastic man was beaming as he turned and swung his arm toward the humble swordmaster in the crowd. "Patriarch Hurman, or perhaps Master Jonon, might you have any insight as to who this mysterious man is?"

Eating up the drama, the common people were anxious to hear the patriarch's response. But they were again disappointed when Hurman barely shook his head.

Jonon also shook his head, stating, "I don't recognize her precise style from among any of my students. And apart from Young Master Trenk, my father hasn't accepted any pupils since my school days."

While some members of the Practor Family were startled by that statement, mainly Pauller, Leon, and Johan, the rest of the crowd was left with their thoughts unanswered.

"But you can verify that he indeed wields your family's sword style?"

"That I can guarantee, despite not knowing how he came to learn it…" sighed Jonon. "Apart from the slight chance of him being Lyle's former student, I can't think of any cause for his skills…"

"Oh?! He may be the pupil of the former sword genius, Master Lyle?!" the announcer shouted his misleading question across the stands. "In time, we'll see for ourselves how strong he is and how capable his teachings of the Practor style has become!"

The masked man, however, had already stepped off the stage after offering Jezza one last bow.

Seeking something to say and something to justify her loss, Jezza blurted out, "H-how dare you be so cruel with a woman?!"

As the s.e.xist slander began, the man was unfazed entirely. He merely found his old seat and plopped down to witness the rest of the matches in silence. There was nothing that Jezza could say or do to get the man to properly react or show emotion, whether in battle or not.

With the next battle already being called up, some in the audience still hadn't gotten over the masked man's swordsmanship. 

"What do you think, Trenk? How would you grade them, compared to what he taught you?"

Trenk was playing back his memories of the fight that began minutes ago. Thoughtfully, Trenk mentioned, "I'd say they've done well to begin incorporating their own style while not straying from the Practor Family's core teachings. He's more skilled than he shows. I'd guess he's someone worthy of boasting, should he drop the silent persona."

"Interesting…" Tranton looked across the arena, eyeing the aging swordmaster and the Libarn Guild beside him. "If only we were closer and could talk in private… Would you be willing to bet on that man?"

"Against most opponents, I likely would," agreed Trenk.

Tranton kept that in the back of his mind as he returned to spectating the remaining fights. There was still two left worth his attention, and from then on each fight should only get more interesting.

"Mertin, do you know… Even with his strange hair?" Reginol sighed as he looked to his newest full-time bodyguard, who was already shaking his head. But Reginol did spot the uncommon expression riddling Hurman's face and grinned. "What's that old head thinking about?"

"Hmmm… No?" Hurman mumbled softly to himself, not answering anyone's questions or thoughts directly. This continued well into the next few fights as Hurman occasionally stole glances at the various people around him, with Leon gaining the most looks. The awkward tension rippling across Leon's eyes and face were what attracted Hurman the most, until Hurman eventually closed his eyes and sighed. "I see…"

"What?" Jonon asked, noting the end of his father's deep thinking.

"Nothing. Let's keep watching."

"... Alright." Jonon eventually agreed to drop the subject with Libarn nearby but he understood one thing. His father had reached some sort of conclusion despite his silence, something Reginol, Graent, and Keldon had guessed as well.

More matches continued with more low or middle seeds claiming a win over each other or no-name entrants. Either way, they were the matches the fewest people cared to get invested in.

"But the excitement isn't over yet… It's only just begun!" riled the announcer. "Only two matches remain of the first round and both are sure to be worth our time. Next, we have the eleventh seed, Harter Eaton, heir of the Eaton Family against our fourth seed, Fulkar Libarn, the third son of the prominent Libarn Guildmaster! Who will prove themselves in the end? The heir of a newly risen noble family? Or the child of one of our city's most powerful cultivators? It's time we find out!"

Both contestants were already on the stage, eyeing each other with proud gazes.

"I'll honor my family and prove our worth," claimed the lengthy Harter, looking down his his shorter opponent. "I acknowledge that you're strong, but that works out best for me as I need a strong opponent to prove myself as stronger."

"How about you put your money where your mouth is?" Fulkar replied with a raised eyebrow. "Oh wait… Your family has none. Perhaps I can convince my father to lend you some--"

"Just take out your sword and fight me head-on. All of your money is worthless to you right now, unable to help you."

"Ready?"

"Yes!" Harter shouted.

"Not quite…" Sighing, Fulkar surprised everyone, not taking a fighting stance and instead pointed up to the balcony. "As you can see, my father and brothers aren't here. That's because you're not worth their time, which is better used earning more money than you and your family can fathom. I'd say you're worthless to me but that how the first step of every staircase feels to us overachievers, I suppose…"

Harter inhaled sharply but failed to stare holes through Fulkar's thick skin.

"Alright, I guess I'm as ready as necessary…"

Seeing Fulkar leaning to one leg with his arms crossed, the announcer grinned. "Master Fulkar, we--"

"Just start the match. I don't want to waste another second," complained Fulkar, causing Harter's and the audience's blood to boil hotter.

"BEGIN!"