Amos stood over Bryanard's unmoving body, chest heaving with short, ragged breaths. His arms trembled from the effort of swinging the war hammer, his vision blurred from sweat and dust.
"I did it…?" he muttered, voice hoarse with disbelief. For a moment, he expected the knight to rise again—grunting, laughing, swinging.
But Bryanard didn't move.
"I won!?" Amos yelled, louder this time, the realization hitting him all at once. He raised the heavy war hammer high above his head, staggering slightly under its weight—but grinning wide.
"I fucking won!"
The crowd erupted. Quincy's voice rang out through the arena like a trumpet of glory:"Everyone, it looks like the handsome Sir Amos Sears—the Gambler—has won over the Warhammer!"
The roar of the crowd nearly bowled him over. The sound pulsed in his chest, louder than the ringing in his ears. Amos chuckled, half in exhaustion, half in joy. With a flick of his boots, his steam-revolvers popped up from the dirt and landed cleanly in his holsters with a click. He slung his duster coat over one shoulder, plucked his hat off a nearby rock, and set it back on with a tug of the brim. One hand spun the war hammer in slow, satisfied circles.
Then Quincy descended, wings spread wide, her face alight with admiration.
"Just wow. You put on such an exquisite show. You were… amazing." Her voice softened with genuine awe as she landed in front of him.
Amos tipped his hat with a smirk, eyes gleaming.
"How could I not, for the beauty that runs this place?"
Quincy's cheeks flushed pink as she let out a small, breathless giggle. "Oh goddess—leave that kind of talk for later, charmer. For now—how do you feel?"
Amos brushed dust from his coat with the casual air of a man who'd just wrestled death and won.
"Ma always told me I'd make it big," he said, eyes scanning the arena. "Guess I never realized how big she meant." He grinned wide. "I feel great. I just beat a legend. And I ain't stoppin'. I'm heading straight for the top."
He turned toward the tall, reinforced window of the fighters' waiting room—where the other competitors no doubt watched in shock—and pointed straight at them.
"I'm comin' for all of you next!" he shouted, laughing loud and proud as the cheers of the crowd rose again around him.
— — —
"So… is he gonna be alright?" Bryanard asked, arms crossed as he stood at the foot of the medical bed. Amos lay across it, snoring lightly, a dopey grin stretched across his bruised face.
"Don't worry," the medic replied, gently checking Amos's vitals. "He's just unconscious. Nothing serious. You can stop worrying."
Bryanard let out a heavy breath, nodding with relief.
"Thank goddess… I was worried I might've done some real damage with that cave-in."
His thoughts drifted back to the final moments of the fight—not the version Amos was dreaming about, but what really happened.
Amos had been mid-swing, that damned war hammer poised above his head, seconds from caving in Bryanard's chestplate. With no time to dodge, Bryanard had slammed his boot into the ground, channeling thunder magic through his limbs. Mana surged through his body—third stage enhancement magic strengthening his entire body—just as he triggered the spell.
A controlled quake.
The floor gave out beneath them.
Quartz pillars shattered. The cave ceiling cracked. And the entire arena groaned as a localized collapse tore through the rock. A gamble—but it paid off. Amos was knocked cold in the chaos. Bryanard, braced and fortified by his mana, endured the cave-in and clawed his way out of the rubble.
"Wow, wow, wow! What a finish to the match! We have our winner, everyone! The Warhammer has snuffed out the Gambler's final bet!" Bryanard remembered Quincy saying after he emerged from the ground victorious, with the crowd—especially the soldiers—cheering loud enough to shake the walls.
"You can head to the fighters' waiting room now—he'll be fine," the medic said, snapping Bryanard out of his thoughts.
The old knight gave a grateful nod. "Thank you for confirming his condition," he replied, tone courteous and composed, like any knight worth his title would.
He turned and strode from the infirmary with steady, purposeful steps. His armor clinked softly with each movement, a rhythm worn smooth by decades of use. He passed through the stone corridor, the cheers from the arena now a distant echo, and pushed open the heavy doors to the fighters' waiting room.
No fanfare greeted him. No cheers. No applause. Just the low hum of conversation and the faint view of the arena through the window.
"You doing okay, Sir Knight?" Roland called from where he carefully leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Bryanard shrugged, the movement subtle beneath his armor. "No real injuries. I'm fine."
He glanced around the room, head tilting slightly. "Calvinel and Hittag already gone?"
Xain, arms folded beside the window, gave a short nod. "Yeah. Their waiting in their positions for the next match."
From the side, Annabel approached, her expression a mix of curiosity and calm respect. "That was some impressive magic," she said, gesturing lightly. "I'm guessing you're self-taught?"
Bryanard offered a quiet nod. "Mostly, yes. I trained alone with my thunder affinity—but enhancement was taught to me by a trainer when I started out as a knight," he said simply, offering no more than needed.
He stepped past her, moving to the window. Folding his arms over his chest, he joined the others in silence, eyes fixed on the arena beyond.
There was no celebration. No admiration. No awe.
And the reason for that was simple.
Not a single person in that room had believed the Gambler would win. (Poor guy.)