Chapter 93 - The Primus Zone and an Unlikely Encounter
Jin stepped out of the arena in the early evening, just as the lingering warmth of the afternoon faded.
The sky was washed in a faded crimson, reminiscent of an old CRT screen, and the city skyline—bathed in the same hue—was a chaotic blend of medieval, modern, and futuristic architecture.
As Jin took in the scenery, absorbing as much as his vision allowed, he sniffled slightly and continued walking.
This is a problem.
Somehow, he'd ended up being mistaken as Lokan's successor.
Fine.
That much he could accept.
But why was he getting dragged into their rivalry?
Jin pursed his lips, deep in thought.
Wasn't it Raph who had mentioned that Lokan was once considered the strongest candidate to become the next head of Jahad?
A genius who had participated in the Rotation twice in his youth and even achieved a Repeat win.
He'd heard the unfortunate story—that after Lokan suddenly turned his back on the family, the aging patriarch had been forced to cling to power for several more decades—but he hadn't expected there was more to it.
Who would have known?
That the Sword Saint had been competing with Lokan since his youth.
Training relentlessly in real combat, sharpening his skills, believing that he was finally ready—only to summon Lokan for a duel and find… nothing.
The man had disappeared.
Of his own volition, no less?
Wasn't that the real story behind all of this?
Even after decades had passed, the Sword Saint still carried the unresolved frustration like an unfinished business, now projecting it onto the next generation.
Jin chuckled softly.
They might call it a teacher-student relationship, but in reality, he and Lokan were practically strangers.
Still, he had no intention of clearing up the misunderstanding.
Let them believe what they wanted.
He'd do things his way.
Everyone would just have to work hard in their own right.
If things went well, they might meet in the finals.
That was all Jin thought about as he walked across the sunset-stained streets, hands tucked into his pockets.
With a more relaxed gaze, he began to take in his surroundings.
It was a sight that always felt unfamiliar yet mesmerizing.
The first ten districts of Lost City—established at the city's inception—were known as the Primus Zone.
Simply put, it was the area most renowned for preserving relics of the past.
There were no dizzyingly tall skyscrapers, no overly congested commercial districts, no relentless, looping traffic noise.
It was nothing like the corporate-dominated sectors from the 11th to the 20th districts, nor did it resemble the middle-class residential areas of the 20s and 30s.
Here stood ivy-covered classical buildings,
Marble-columned libraries crowned with domed roofs,
And ancient stone walls that had likely marked someone's height as they grew.
A land of purists who refused to forget the past.
One of the territories of the great Seven Houses.
Jin's gaze shifted toward a particular sight—
At the end of his vision stood the Grand Tournel Cathedral.
With the sunset at its back, the cathedral looked more breathtaking than ever.
Its irregular façade, sculpted with countless intricate carvings and flowing arches, presented a different impression depending on the angle it was viewed from.
As if drawn in by an unseen force, Jin found himself walking toward it.
The preliminary matches had ended only a few hours ago.
Most people, now armed with an entire day's worth of gossip, had long since chosen alcohol and food over sightseeing.
"Excuse me."
Jin murmured a greeting at the quiet entrance, shaking off a sense of unfamiliarity as he stepped inside.
The stillness within was almost sacred.
"…Wow."
Muttering in awe, he took a few steps forward—
"…"
Then suddenly stopped.
Ahead of him, near the altar, someone was kneeling in prayer.
Jin quickly pressed his lips together.
He hadn't expected anyone else to be here.
Carefully suppressing the sound of his footsteps, he started circling around the altar to avoid disturbing the figure.
Clank.
A sharp metallic sound echoed—something had blocked his path.
"…What."
Jin's eyes narrowed.
What now?
Armor?
Before him stood a fully armored figure—draped in a full-plate suit of steel.
An anachronism.
A walking relic.
Jin's brows furrowed.
Could it be… that knight?
The one who had been muttering to himself in front of the King's statue?
But before he could speak—
Whoosh.
A dark blue mist seeped out from the gaps in the knight's helmet, chilling and ominous.
No.
This was someone else.
This wasn't the same knight from before—this was something much more sinister.
Jin changed his question.
"…What are you?"
"…"
No response.
Only the sight of an armored hand slowly moving toward the hilt at its waist.
Clank.
As its gauntlet wrapped around the sword's grip—
"Eiron, stop."
A voice called out from behind.
The next moment, approaching footsteps followed, carrying a firm command.
"I said, stop."
The words had an effect.
The knight, seemingly ready to draw his weapon, released his grip and stepped back.
The eerie mist dissipated as well, prompting Jin to lower his guard.
He turned toward the source of the voice.
"You know this guy—wait, huh?"
"My apologies—huh?"
Both Jin and the newcomer simultaneously widened their eyes in surprise, pointing at each other.
"Cecile Florence?"
"Jin Evernight, right?"
Just as she recognized him, he recognized her.
A frail-looking woman with a nervous expression.
Hadn't her face been displayed on the massive tournament scoreboard?
She was Cecile, the representative of House Florence.
"Why is she here?"
As Jin pondered that thought, Cecil spoke first.
"What brings you here…?"
"I just stopped by as a tourist. What about you?"
"I was… praying."
"Ah?"
Only then did Jin realize that the person praying at the altar was Cecile.
Then, gesturing with his thumb toward the spot where the armored figure had vanished, he asked,
"Then, what was that just now?"
"…A spirit I recently made a contract with."
"He was about to draw his sword on me."
At Jin's blunt remark, Cecile's face turned bright red.
"T-That's because Eiron is a bit… No, no. This is all my fault. I… I gave an overly vague command, and he interpreted it too literally… I mean, um, that is—"
Flustered, restless, sweating profusely.
After stumbling over her words for a while, Cecile suddenly bowed deeply.
"I sincerely apologize."
With her hands neatly placed over her stomach and her head bowed so low that the crown of her head was visible, her apology was nothing short of a formal, deep bow.
Jin blinked at the sight.
Of course, an apology was warranted.
It was like a fragile owner failing to control a massive dog—an obvious recipe for trouble.
If things went wrong, innocent bystanders could have gotten hurt.
But what truly enrages people in such cases is the owner's attitude.
The moment they say, "My dog doesn't bite," they lose all credibility and respect.
In that sense, Cecile was at least being responsible.
She was still bowing, after all.
"I'm sorry. I truly am."
"Uh… First, calm down…"
Jin somehow managed to straighten her up and said,
"If you're sorry, just don't let it happen again. But if it does, I won't be so forgiving. So, don't summon him until you can handle him. Okay?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Cecile nodded, and Jin shrugged indifferently.
Silence naturally followed.
To be fair, they were practically strangers.
What was there to talk about?
The thin layer of familiarity built through screens didn't count for much in real life.
Just as Jin was about to quietly leave—
"Aren't you nervous?"
The question, asked at a perfect moment, made him stop in his tracks.
"Hm? About what?"
"You're going up against Kendrick. Aren't you nervous?"
"…"
Jin blinked.
Where did that come from?
Perhaps reading the confusion in his gaze, Cecile hurriedly added with animated gestures,
"K-Kendrick is incredible. He excels at everything, learns quickly, and is recognized both within and outside his family. He's just like Ryucard. Always ahead, so far that I don't even dare to catch up…"
She trailed off before suddenly gasping, as if realizing her mistake.
Then, she tightly shut her eyes in regret.
Jin, however, didn't dwell on it and simply answered,
"Well, I thought it'd be fun, but I wouldn't say I'm nervous… Why? Do you think I should be?"
Cecile struggled to respond.
Another silence threatened to settle between them, but Jin spoke again before the moment turned awkward.
"Well, if I think about the thousands of eyes watching, I guess that's nerve-wracking. But I doubt I'll have the luxury to care. Like you said, the Thunder King isn't some pushover. If I'm not careful, I might get knocked out in the Round of 16. That'd be a disaster."
Jin smirked, imagining the swordmaster's reaction if his so-called rival's disciple got eliminated that early.
Then he shrugged.
Not his problem.
Casually, he asked, "Are you really nervous?"
Cecile only responded with a quiet smile.
Jin didn't press for an answer.
Instead, he simply extended his hand, palm open.
Cecile, caught off guard, instinctively met his hand with hers.
Jin grinned.
"If you're nervous, just do your best anyway. That's what I'm going to do. See you around."
With that, he turned and walked away without hesitation.
Cecil, watching him go, eventually looked down at her own palm.
"…"
She clenched it tightly.
Then, turning back toward the altar, she clasped her hands together and prayed.
"…I'm sorry, sister."
No one heard her hushed whisper.
***
The gap between the preliminaries and the main tournament was a generous week.
But from the Round of 16 onward, the matches followed a grueling schedule, with only three days between each bout.
Ideally, the competitors should have been given more rest.
But what could they do?
If they accommodated everyone's needs, the festival would drag on endlessly.
That's why people talked about "bracket luck."
A fortunate draw meant having enough time to recover between rounds, while an unlucky one could mean facing a weaker opponent but losing anyway due to lingering injuries.
In that regard, Anna had a good start.
Her opponent was Timothy Hunt.
Judging by his performance in the battle royale, he was at the lower end of the top tier.
A fighter who had confronted his limits head-on.
He had spent his days tirelessly striking out, reaching for the sky he once thought was an unbreakable ceiling.
Most people would collapse before such an overwhelming barrier.
But some refused to give up.
Timothy was one of those people.
"I'm Timothy Hunt."
"I'm Anna Solard."
After a brief exchange of introductions, the horn signaling the start of the main tournament echoed through the arena.
Contrary to expectations of an easy victory for Anna, the match was fiercely contested.
At least, on the surface.
Timothy, wielding multiple floating weapons, fought desperately until his mana ran completely dry.
But in the end, he never reached her.
Before the White flame, that sacred heat, every technique he unleashed was reduced to nothing but ashes.
There was no need for a finishing blow.
The match ended the moment Anna extended her hand toward Timothy, who, having lost all his weapons, was completely exhausted.
Surprisingly, his expression as he was helped to his feet was not one of despair.
"Th-Thank you."
Even as he gasped for air, his flushed face bore the look of a castaway who had found the faintest glimmer of hope.
This was one of the reasons why participants strove so desperately to advance to the main tournament.
Fighting against representatives of noble houses—who were already on another level—was a chance to realize something greater.
Of course, not everyone had such noble aspirations. Many simply came to raise their own value and fame.
"You did well."
Anna gave a small nod, and the announcer's voice echoed through the stadium, calling her name loud enough to shake the walls.
"The winner! Anna Solard—!"
The next match, like Katrina Marzie's, featured a contestant rather than a family representative.
Compared to Anna's bout, it ended embarrassingly fast.
The defeated contestant gritted his teeth, frustrated at walking away empty-handed.
Meanwhile, the audience buzzed with excitement over the naturally formed quarterfinals matchup in Group 1: Anna versus Katrina.
A battle of fire and ice—an eternal spectacle that had fascinated people across all ages and lands.
The scoreboard displayed the historical win rate between House Solard and House Margier in past tournaments, rounded to 52% in Solard's favor.
"Well, well. Now that's a pride fight if I've ever seen one," Jin muttered with a scoff as he stretched in preparation for his own match.
"Are you ready?"
A tournament official's voice reached him, and Jin responded with a refreshing smile and a nod.
"Then you'll enter in five seconds."
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
As the countdown ended, Jin appeared on the vast battlefield, stepping lightly onto the arena.
Almost simultaneously, Kendrick arrived.
A mere ten paces apart—yet to them, it was a meaningless distance.
Jin spoke first.
"Let's have a good fight."
Kendrick's response came swiftly.
"Give it your all. Only then might Grandfather change his mind."
"We're the ones fighting. Why do you keep dragging the old man into this? Shouldn't he be retiring by now? Just tell him to hand over his seat already."
"It's not that simple…! No, forget it. Why am I even talking to you? Enough chatter—come at me."
"Gladly."
At that moment, destructive lightning erupted from both their bodies.
Acknowledging each other's strength, they started at full power.
Crackle!
As the intense light dominated the space, some spectators instinctively squeezed their eyes shut.
BOOM—!!
With a deafening thunderclap, two bolts of lightning clashed in perfect unison.