Chapter 330
The matches continued.
One by one, names were called, and one by one, participants took to the stage.
Sometimes, it was a commoner versus a commoner—awkward, scrappy fights that lacked flair but were fueled by desperation. Other times, it was a noble versus a commoner—uneven battles that often ended in under ten seconds.
But never… not once… did two nobles step onto the stage to face each other.
At first, it was hard to notice. The matches came quickly, and the crowd was too focused on the brutality or drama of each fight to keep track of the broader pattern. But Michael wasn’t most people.
He watched everything.
And after ten, then twenty matches, the realization crept in and rooted itself in his mind.
No noble had fought another noble.
None had even been called against each other.
Across from him, Renn gritted his teeth and muttered beneath his breath. “Bullshit.”
Michael turned slightly.
“Dirty play,” Renn added, voice just loud enough for Michael to hear. “They’re rigging it.”
Michael didn’t answer, though he agreed.
The matchups might have looked random, but they weren’t.
No algorithm, no chance-based system would avoid putting two nobles against each other for this long unless it was designed that way.
And no one said a thing.
Not the participants.
Not the audience.
Not the officials.
Because this was the capital. The Lionheart Kingdom. And in this world, fairness was often just a pretty word used to sell the illusion of opportunity.
Sometimes, you had to swallow injustice like a bitter pill and move on.
That’s what everyone else did.
Michael, however, watched with clear eyes.
He didn’t get angry. Didn’t frown. He simply observed.
If this trial was designed to trim the numbers, then why did it favor only one side?
Why go through the charade of including everyone—commoners, outlanders, wandering swords—if the outcome was meant to revolve around the nobles?
The Duke—or whoever sat behind the curtain—didn’t create this competition to reward potential.
The ones with name. With legacy. With controlled power.
This was their target.
If that was the case… then Michael understood.
It was ugly. But it made sense.
Still, one question lingered in his mind like a shadow.
If they already had their favorites… why allow everyone to compete?
Was it to keep up appearances? To let the nobles shine by comparison?
Or maybe… maybe they were looking for someone rare.
Someone who didn’t just meet the bar, but shattered it.
Michael leaned back slightly, eyes distant.
He didn’t mind the politics. He didn’t mind the bias. Not really.
All he needed was to advance.
But a different concern lingered at the edge of his thoughts.
He knew he was strong.
Strong enough to win. Strong enough to stand above many of these so-called “chosen heirs.”
But strength wasn’t always protection.
Sometimes, strength made you a threat.
And threats… were eliminated.
Michael’s fingers curled slightly in his lap.
He wasn’t afraid of facing someone strong.
He was just wary.
What would they do then?
Make up a rule? Accuse him of cheating?
He wouldn’t be surprised.
So, as the trial continued and the next names were called, Michael didn’t relax.
He only prepared himself mentally.
From another point of view, what was happening was… expected.
Injustice always hit hardest when it looked like it was trying to be fair.
But from where Michael sat, surrounded by sweat-drenched commoners and posturing nobles, the imbalance didn’t feel like some grand conspiracy anymore—it just felt inevitable.
Not right.
But inevitable.
He watched the matches with a clarity most lacked. And through that lens, the truth became difficult to ignore.
Most of the commoners wouldn’t have made it far anyway.
Their footwork was too rigid. Their grips too uncertain. Their movements screamed hesitation, fear, and in some cases—raw inexperience. Whether they were forced out by biased pairings or beaten by their own limits, the outcome would’ve been the same.
Failure.
Harsh?
Yes.
Michael could see what others might not admit: most of these people were outmatched. If they weren’t eliminated now, they would’ve been crushed later—and on a much grander stage.
He recalled the whispers he’d heard in the city before the trial began.
The final stage of the Duke’s competition would be public.
Not just in a closed arena.
Public.
Open.
Watched by thousands—maybe even tens of thousands.
A stage like that… wasn’t meant for people who didn’t even have the basics down.
It wasn’t for commoners still swinging chipped iron or scraping by on borrowed footwork.
Only those who qualified—who truly qualified—would get to stand under the eyes of the public, under the weight of noble judgment, and still have the strength to raise their heads.
And unfortunately?
At least eighty percent of the commoners here wouldn’t even make it to that stage.
They weren’t ready.
They didn’t have the skill. The composure. The foundation.
Some might have heart, sure. But heart alone wouldn’t keep you from being humiliated.
Michael watched a match where a thin, wiry commoner lasted nearly two minutes before being knocked clean out of the ring by a noble boy who didn’t even draw his weapon.
The crowd was silent after the fall.
No cheers. No pity.
Just silence.
And then the red-robed assistant walked forward and took the boy’s number tag without a word.
Michael exhaled slowly.
From the outside, this competition looked like a path for the common man.
But from where he sat, it looked more like a filter.
A wall dressed up as a door.
Renn leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the stage.
“You know…” he began slowly, voice low, “I didn’t notice it yesterday. But now that everyone’s fighting one-on-one… it’s clearer.”
Michael glanced at him but didn’t interrupt.
“People were hiding things,” Renn continued. “Their skills. Their movements. Their real strength. Yesterday, most just held back—kept to the group, didn’t stand out too much.”
Michael gave a slight nod. That was true.
“But now?” Renn exhaled softly. “Now it’s obvious.”
He gestured faintly toward the arena. A new match had just ended—another commoner falling to a noble in less than thirty seconds.
“It’s not the kind of strength that makes you hold your breath. Not awe. Just the absence of it,” Renn said, brows furrowed. “You can’t fake combat skill. Not for long. And these people… they never had it to begin with.”