The Black Fang Trials had no room for hesitation.
You win, or you leave in pieces.
Caelan Vaal had won once. Now he had to do it again. And again. And again.
Five fights. Five different bastards standing between him and the finals.
He wasn’t here to prove himself. He wasn’t here for glory.
He was here to survive.
<hr>
<h2>First Match – The Butcher’s Son</h2>
Opponent: Oris Helbrant
House: Helbrant – Noble family known for raising executioners and torturers.
Rank: C-Class – Wielded a two-handed cleaver the size of a man’s torso.
Oris smiled as he walked in. “You’re that gutter boy, huh? You got lucky last round.”
Caelan didn’t answer.
The moment the bell rang, Oris lunged.
A mountain of muscle, bringing down his cleaver like a guillotine.
Caelan sidestepped.
The impact cracked the stone where he’d been standing.
Oris yanked the weapon up, grinning. “Fast, huh?”
Caelan moved in.
Two steps.
A feint left—then right.
Sword lashed out—cutting deep into Oris’ ribs.
The noble howled, but Caelan was already gone.
Another step.
Another cut.
Fast. Precise. Ruthless.
By the time Oris realized he was bleeding from five different wounds, it was too late.
Caelan knocked his cleaver aside. Stepped in.
A single brutal punch to the throat.
Oris dropped.
The match was over before the first drop of blood even hit the sand.
<hr>
<h2>Second Match – The Red Fencer</h2>
Opponent: Siran Velrose
House: Velrose – Lesser noble house famous for duelists.
Rank: High C-Class – Wielded a rapier with explosive runes.
Siran didn’t waste time talking.
The second the bell rang, his blade was already flashing forward.
Fast.
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Faster than Caelan had ever fought before.
One thrust nearly took out his eye. Another grazed his ribs.
Siran moved like a phantom, his strikes coming faster than human reflexes should allow.
And when Caelan finally blocked, the rapier’s rune detonated—sending him skidding backward, blood dripping from his arms.
The crowd cheered.
“He’s finished.”
“Too slow for a Velrose.”
Siran smiled, flicking blood from his blade. “You’re not bad for a mongrel.”
Caelan exhaled.
Then charged.
The next thrust came—faster than before.
But this time, he didn’t block.
He leaned in.
Let the blade pierce his side.
And with the rapier lodged in his ribs—he grabbed Siran by the throat.
Squeezed.
Siran panicked, trying to twist the blade, but Caelan’s grip only tightened.
A headbutt.
A second.
The noble’s nose shattered.
Then Caelan pulled the blade out of his own body and drove his knee into Siran’s gut.
The fencer collapsed, gasping for air.
Caelan stood over him, bleeding, breath steady.
“You yield?”
Siran spat blood. Then nodded.
Caelan walked off without another word.
<hr>
<h2>Third Match – The Bloodhound</h2>
Opponent: Dairon Keste
House: Keste – Ruthless noble house known for using “Blood Hounds,” warriors who enhance their senses through alchemical injections.
Rank: B-Class – Wielded twin hunting daggers, fought like a beast.
Dairon smelled him before the match started.
“Ahh… fresh wounds,” he muttered, licking his lips. “You’re already half dead.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Caelan’s ribs burned from the last fight.
His vision blurred every few seconds.
But there was no time to rest.
The moment the bell rang, Dairon vanished.
No footsteps. No sound.
Then—
Pain.
A dagger slammed into his shoulder from behind.
Caelan spun, swinging, but hit nothing.
Another cut.
This time across his thigh.
Then a whisper near his ear—
“You’re prey.”
Caelan’s heartbeat slowed.
He shut his eyes.
Focused.
Listened.
Step.
Step.
Now.
He turned before the next strike came.
Sword flashed—
And Dairon’s hand flew off in a spray of blood.
The noble screamed, stumbling back, his severed fingers twitching in the sand.
Caelan didn’t hesitate.
One strike.
A clean cut across the chest.
Dairon fell.
Didn’t get back up.
<hr>
<h2>Semifinal Match – The Golden Prodigy</h2>
Opponent: Theron Raelis
House: Raelis – One of the most powerful noble families.
Rank: High B-Class – Wielded a golden spear with wind magic.
Theron wasn’t like the others.
He didn’t sneer. Didn’t mock.
He just looked at Caelan and nodded.
“You’re strong,” he said.
Caelan said nothing.
The bell rang—
Theron moved like a storm.
Speartip flashing.
Wind magic swirling, turning his thrusts into lightning-fast javelins of death.
Caelan dodged. Barely.
Blocked. Barely.
Too strong. Too fast. Too skilled.
Theron fought like a real warrior.
And Caelan—
He fought like a dog.
<hr>
The first exchange lasted only ten seconds.
Caelan already had four new wounds.
Theron had none.
Then the spear came again.
A thrust toward his stomach.
Caelan sidestepped, twisted his body—
And for the first time in the whole tournament, he grabbed the weapon.
Theron’s eyes widened.
Caelan yanked the spear, pulling himself forward—
And headbutted the noble so hard his helmet cracked.
The spear fell from Theron’s hands.
Caelan picked it up.
Snapped it in half.
Theron swayed.
Caelan slammed his fist into the noble’s jaw.
Theron collapsed.
The match was over.
<hr>
<h2>Finals Await</h2>
Caelan stood alone in the ring.
Blood soaked his shirt.
Some his own. Some not.
The crowd had gone silent.
No one called him a street rat anymore.
No one sneered.
They just watched.
Watched as the nameless bastard from below reached the final stage.
And from the noble’s private seats—
Lucan Dras Varro leaned forward.
Smiling.
“Now let’s see if you survive the last fight, little wolf.”