The lanterns' flicker danced across the worn cobblestones of Alton's ancient market street. Merchants' cries rose in a cacophony of desperation, mingling with the buyers' haggles and shoves. The tang of brass, oil, and sweat choked the air. Yet above this clamor floated one question on every tongue:
Who will win Duke Aldern Alton's grand tournament?
Among the sea of eager faces stood Rayon Altiron, motionless at the market's edge. His sharp features betrayed nothing; a still pool of calculation lay behind his eyes. Children jostled around him, adults brushed past, but none could read the storm of thought cloaked in his silence.
To him, the tournament was not glory—it was noise. He had once dueled for applause, long ago, only to watch his blade leave his opponent crippled… and his own name tangled in whispers. He'd vowed never again to dance for those who merely watched.
Two of Rayon's oldest companions pressed near.
Bilden Craven, broad‑shouldered and ever ready to charge first and ask later, gave him an enthusiastic clap on the back. "Rayon," he said, voice booming over the din, "if anyone can conquer this field, it's you! You'll shatter every record."
Rayon inclined his head once. "I see no honor in a spectacle meant for spectators."
Bilden stiffened. "They'll brand you a traitor if you don't step in!"
Talia Rosen stepped forward, her polished Defender Tag armor gleaming in the gaslight. Her voice, clipped and precise, carried a subtle tremor. "I—I've staked my honor on your victory."
A faint crease formed at Rayon's brow. Gold melted through hands like sand; slaves were tools that could neither learn nor think. And honor, he had learned, was often just another leash.
His reply emerged quietly, each syllable deliberate:"Tools do not strengthen my resolve. And gold… I forge my own worth."
A hush fell. Even the hawkers paused mid‑shout, struck by the cool certainty in his words. Then, with the deliberate grace of a blade drawn from its sheath, Rayon added:
"I will not partake in this farce."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Bilden's jaw slackened. Talia looked as though she'd been struck. Rayon turned and began to walk away, each step measured, as though he tread upon air rather than stone.
Yet unseen, hidden-in-plain-sight, mechanical eyes captured every detail. In a dimly lit vault beneath the ducal palace, a secret order monitored streams of data: the silence in Rayon's gait, the curve of steel in his resolve, the absence of a flicker in his gaze.
A voice, cloaked in shadows and authority, whispered to the order's director:"He's not just a Level 10 prodigy… he's a predator in plain sight. Mark him."
Rayon passed under a tangle of banners proclaiming Alton's legacy, the weight of centuries on their embroidered threads. To the world, he was the genius the Duke lauded; to those watchers, he was a living weapon—a weapon that refused the stage.
In the city's underbelly, rumors began to twist through taverns and back alleys:
"Did you see him? He turned down the tournament.""Has he lost his mind, or does he hide something darker?""Either Alton's lost its greatest fighter… or the real game starts now."
Rayon's path led him away from the throng, down a narrow lane where lamplight wavered. His mind, however, raced faster than any blade could strike. He had no interest in glorious displays—his ambition lay elsewhere, beyond the shallow adulation of crowds. He yearned to be the mover, never the pawn.
A single raven's caw echoed off a wall, and rays of moonlight found his calm face. In that moment, the world above and the secret conclaves below glimpsed the same truth:
Rayon Altiron was not to be trifled with.
Behind closed doors, plans were already laid. Alliances would form. Bets would shift. Every power player in the duchy would bend an ear to learn more about this quiet assassin.
Meanwhile, Rayon had already chosen his first move. He slipped a folded map from his sleeve—guard rotations along the west watchtower. At dawn, a courier carrying the key to the royal registry would pass through Gate 7.
And Rayon would be waiting.