The silence in the waiting chamber felt heavier than any arena. The air was cool, the walls bare—stone soaked with old sweat and blood. Darius sat on a bench near the far end, elbows on his knees, eyes half-lidded . Red wasn't with him—no animals allowed near the tournament grounds during the critical rounds—but Darius felt the weight of his absence in his chest.
He was the first to arrive.
About thirty minutes passed before the heavy wooden door creaked again.
Another figure stepped in, lean but tall. His black hair fell loosely to his shoulders, slicked back behind his ears. He had a sharp face—not cruel, but distant and cold.
Darius recognised him instantly.
Argos of House Agiada.
The boy who hadn't fought in the first round—not because he couldn't, but because no one had dared approach him. A shadow of quiet dominance surrounded him. He moved with the lazy efficiency of someone who didn't need to prove anything. His eyes, however, scanned the room like a wolf measuring his next opponent.
They didn't exchange a word.
Argos sat down across the room and rested his forearms on his thighs, mirroring Darius's posture without realising it.
As time passed the third match began.
Cleon rolled his shoulders, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as he walked into the amphitheatre. The morning sun had risen high enough to cast long shadows over the circular arena, and the silence of the audience's absence made every footstep echo louder.
Across from him stood a familiar figure.
Markos Europontides.
Older by a year. Lean, wiry. A face that still looked like a boy's, but with eyes that flicked downward whenever Cleon's met his.
"It's been a long time," Markos said quietly. His voice lacked strength. "I didn't expect to face you like this."
Cleon tilted his head slightly. "Years, I suppose."
Markos gave a weak smile. "You were always ahead and still are."
Cleon's tone remained even, almost detached. "That may be, but this isn't a reunion."
He stepped forward once, just enough to close the space between them.
"Good luck," he said, almost as an afterthought.
Then came the whistle.
Markos didn't move.
He didn't raise his shield.
He didn't even blink.
Cleon's body reacted as it always had—fluid and sharp. The spear left his fingers with perfect form, flying toward its target with lethal accuracy.
Right between the eyes.
But it never landed.
A blur of crimson intercepted the strike mid-air—clack!
The crowd, what little there was, gasped.
Ephor Dion stood there, cloak still fluttering from the speed of his motion, holding the deflected spear in his bare hand. The shaft trembled slightly from the force it had carried.
He didn't look angry.
He looked... tired.
So this is what happens when you pit family against hierarchy, he thought.
The Europontidai.
Their obsession with bloodlines and order went beyond discipline. Within their ranks, a cadet of lesser status would rather die than raise a blade against a potential heir. It was drilled into them like a creed. And Cleon… Cleon was one of the chosen.
Dion turned, his voice firm and loud enough to echo.
"Cleon Europontides wins."
He glanced toward the entrance.
"Escort him to the holding chamber. Next match."
As guards moved in, Markos stood where he was, still unmoved. Still breathing.
But defeated.
Not by strength.
By design.
The door creaked again, and a moment later, Cleon stepped inside, breathing lightly,
Darius raised an eyebrow. "You're exceptionally fine."
Cleon chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Haha. One throw was all it took."
He sat down beside Darius on the long stone bench, stretching out his legs and exhaling deeply. Ajax hadn't arrived yet, but the room felt warmer with Cleon's presence.
Darius nodded toward him. "So, how did it go?"
Cleon didn't flinch. "It was a close fight but I surprised him when I threw my spear at his face. It was meant to kill him but Dion intervened. He caught it mid-air like it was nothing".
Darius blinked. "You mean... he caught it?"
"Yes he did, I just saw a blur and the next moment he was right in front of me."
Darius leaned back, processing the words slowly. That level of speed… that precision. It made no sense. He was fast and he had seen the fastest man alive in the Olympics, but to outrun a spear in mid-flight?
"I thought he was just here to watch," Darius murmured.
Cleon gave him a sideways glance. "He's an Ephor. In Sparta, that means more than just a seat in a hall. Anyone carrying that title has earned it—through war, through blood, and through skill. Most of them are stronger than the instructors and smarter, they would never allow for an elite candidate to be killed here, this feels more like a test of loyalty."
Darius didn't respond right away.
He was thinking.
Arkantos had once spoken of stages, of warriors evolving beyond human limits. He'd seen what Stage Two could look like. He'd imagined what Stage Three might be.
But now...
If someone could move like Dion had just moved—if that kind of speed, awareness, and control were possible—it meant the stages weren't just about strength. It wasn't only about muscles or instinct.
Could it affect reflexes?
Perception?
Intelligence?
Maybe there was more to it than he'd thought.
Maybe the path of the warrior didn't end at the body.
He stared down at his hands, curling them slowly into fists.
There was still so much he didn't understand.
Across the room, Argos of House Agiada studied him quietly.
Then, without looking up, he spoke.
"You won't get there just by wanting it."
Both Darius and Cleon turned toward him.
Argos didn't blink. "You're thinking about power. The kind only few can reach. But don't confuse desire with destiny."
He stood, walking toward them in measured steps.
"Time isn't enough. Training isn't enough. Some men can train for decades and never break through. Some are born to touch it… and some aren't."
He paused.
"We're the best this generation has to offer, and even among us, most will never reach it."
Then his eyes locked on Darius.
"But maybe... one of us will."
He didn't wait for a reply.
He returned to his corner of the room, silent once more.
Darius watched him for a long moment.
Then glanced down at his fists again.
"We'll see."
One by one, the rest of the victors arrived.
First came Pollon's twin, Lysandros, his stride brisk, jaw clenched. His expression shifted the moment he entered and saw Darius.
Then came Boros, the blacksmith's son from Therai. His shoulder was bleeding through a torn tunic, and he held a wooden practice shield shattered in half, almost like a trophy. He said nothing, merely dropped onto a bench with a grunt and let the silence speak for him.
Next was Naraka, quiet as a shadow, robes dusty but neat, a faint bruise under one eye. He greeted no one, simply took a seat in the far corner, folded his arms, and closed his eyes as if the tournament were a classroom and he was preparing for an exam.
After him entered Acastus, heir of House Europontides. His armour was untouched, but his smirk betrayed arrogance more than ease. He glanced briefly at Cleon and raised an eyebrow—no words, just a faint glimmer of recognition that felt more like a challenge than a greeting.
The last was Therion, the swordsman from the ancient House Hyllidai. He walked with a calm grace, his blade sheathed across his back despite the match being over. His hands bore faint cuts, and a smear of blood darkened one sleeve, but his expression was blank—watchful. Like a wolf surrounded by sheep.
For a moment, there was only silence between them all.
Until Lysandros stepped forward.
His eyes burned as they locked onto Darius.
"You."
Darius stood up slowly. He didn't reach for his weapon, but his stance shifted ever so slightly—ready.
Lysandros clenched his fists. "What did you do to my brother?"
"I spared him," Darius said, voice flat.
Lysandros took another step. "If you are here it means he was defeated under your hands, how much you harmed him, I will make you pay for it in full".
"I didn't kill him," Darius replied, evenly. "You should be happy enough with that."
"TIf you are a fucking peasant you should have offered your neck to him, as it is your honour to help someone of our family," Lysandros snapped.
His tone remained calm, but his eyes didn't waver. "If we meet again… you'll see exactly what I did to your brother."
Lysandros didn't blink.
Neither did Darius.
Then a voice shattered the tension.
"CADETS!" Drakos's voice echoed down the hallway, sharp and commanding. "Back to the arena. Now!"
The tension broke like glass under a boot.
Darius stepped back. Lysandros turned with a last glare.
The eight young warriors followed the call of their commander—some walking, some limping, but all with the same fire burning behind their eyes.
The Round of Sixteen had ended.
Only eight remained.