The arena's dust motes danced in the fading light, each a tiny beacon against the deepening shadows. Zack, his stance a taut coil of readiness, held his sword aloft. The blade, a sliver of polished steel, reflected the dying embers of the day, mirroring the tension etched on his young face. Before him stood an old man, a figure that seemed to emanate a quiet warmth, a stark contrast to the lethal weapon pointed to his direction by Zack.
"Jess," the old man began, his voice a gentle murmur against the expectant silence, "you didn't have to go to such lengths. I merely wished to speak. No fighting intended." He punctuated his words with a leisurely sip from a small, worn flask, the liquid within glinting amber in the twilight.
Zack's eyes narrowed, suspicion a cold knot in his gut. He didn't lower his guard. "How did you approach me without my knowledge? That's what I want to know."
The old man's smile widened, a crinkle of wrinkles around his eyes. "Oh, I didn't 'sneak' up on you. I simply approached you normally."
A flicker of disbelief crossed Zack's features. "Normally? Then how did I not sense you? If you're playing games, you've chosen the wrong opponent."
A soft chuckle rumbled in the old man's chest. "Games? No, my boy, you misunderstand. You see, I possess a technique, a way of masking my presence. It's become so ingrained that even I am barely aware of it. you understand. It's more like your perception hasn't registered me yet. My apologies if I caused any alarm." He scratched his cheek, a gesture of genuine, if slightly bewildered, apology.
Zack's brow furrowed, trying to unravel the old man's cryptic words. "So, you're telling me you can turn invisible?"
"No, no, not invisible," the old man corrected, his voice patient. "It's a matter of focus, of mental acuity. I'm there, physically present. But your mind, unless it's fully concentrated on my location, simply filters me out. You saw me back then, when I took a drink laying on the ground. Most others wouldn't have. That suggests a formidable mental fortitude when you're on guard. A quality essential in a true warrior. Which is why I'm asking you to join me." He extended a gnarled hand, his eyes holding a depth that belied his age.
"Join you? For what, exactly?" Zack asked, his suspicion still simmering.
The old man lowered his hand, his expression turning serious. "Everyone despises Dextin, condemns him for his actions. But I believe he's been corrupted, twisted by the Green Katana. I want to save him."
"Do you know Dextin?" Zack's voice was sharp, the name a raw nerve.
The old man's gaze met Zack's, and he saw the flicker of anger that ignited in the young warrior's eyes. He smiled gently. "Who doesn't? He's the reason for this tournament, isn't he?"
Zack's frown deepened. "You know that's not what I meant but I'll rephrase it better, Have you met Dextin?"
A moment of hesitation, a flicker of unspoken history, passed across the old man's face. "I raised him."
The words hung in the air, a shockwave rippling through the arena. Zack, Rider, Aingo, the assembled crowd, even King Neon, were stunned into silence.
The old man's voice, now tinged with a melancholic resonance, filled the void. (Flashback as the old man narrates ) "Dextin was an orphan. I found him, a baby, abandoned and unwanted. I was in my fifties then, and I decided to take him as my own. I raised him, taught him everything he knows. He was a bright, spirited boy. Then, when he was twelve, he ran away with a girl he loved, a girl whose parents wouldn't allow their union. I never saw him again.
"Twenty years passed. Then came the invasion, the village turned into a slave pen. Soldiers everywhere, demanding our servitude. We were told to serve Dextin, to offer a part of ourselves, or face imprisonment. The name, Dextin, triggered a distant memory, but I couldn't believe the boy I raised could be responsible for such cruelty. I volunteered to join, hoping to reach him, to reason with him. The soldiers scoffed, seeing only an old man nearing his end. But an elite soldier reminded them that Dextin's rule was absolute, that anyone who wished to join would be taken to him for approval.
"They bound me and others from my village, dragging us to the palace. Those who refused were thrown into the dungeons. I, and those who feigned compliance, were brought before Dextin. I wasn't there to seek his approval, but to stop him. I believed I could reach him, that my voice, as his father, would make a difference.
"But when I stood before him, Dextin looked at me with disgust. He turned to his elite soldier and said, 'Who brought this filthy old man to my palace? He's of no use to me. Throw him into the dungeons.'
"The words cut deeper than any blade. I couldn't believe he didn't recognize me. I was bewildered by his cruelty. As the soldiers dragged me away, I saw it. The Green Katana, gripped in his hand. Its aura, a malevolent green glow, spoke of a dark influence. I realized then that Dextin was being manipulated, but I was powerless to help."
The old man's voice trailed off, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the past. (Back to the present) "Now, I have another chance. With your help, we can save him. We don't have to fight him."
Zack, his sword now hanging loosely at his side, stared into the old man's eyes, searching for any hint of deception. He saw only sincerity, a deep-seated pain.
From the crowd, Rider whispered to Aingo, "How old is that man, really?" Aingo silenced him with a sharp elbow to the ribs.
The old man waited, his gaze unwavering. Zack looked towards his father in the crowd. A frown of unspoken tension was etched on his father's face. Zack swallowed hard, the weight of his own past pressing down on him.
"I understand your reasons," Zack said, his voice firm, "but I have my own. I can't join you. But if you still wish to duel, I accept your challenge."
The old man scratched his head, a gesture of mild disappointment. "A pity. Well, as I said, I didn't come here to fight. But do me a favor, Jess. Think about my offer. Give me your answer during the tournament."
With a gentle wave, the old man turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Zack alone with his thoughts. The arena, once filled with the tension of potential combat, now echoed with the weight of unspoken history.
Azreal's voice, amplified by the arena's acoustics, cut through the silence. "With that, we are down to eleven contenders. Who will advance as our seven winners and earn their place in the tournament?"
Zack, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as he ignores them, turned and walked away, the old man's words echoing in his ears. The weight of Dextin's past, the old man's plea, and his own unresolved conflicts formed a heavy burden. The tournament, he knew, was about to become far more than a simple contest of skill. It was a battle for the fate of them all.